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NHL's self-inflicted wounds are sickening
posted by GJ on February 1, 2005 @ 8:14AM
Written by Kurt Jessen of Delmar NY:
Note: turns out, this is on the Albany Times-Union's web site. I only posted it here because I wanted to share it--you can get the official version from here.
The NHL as we know it quietly passed away Friday night. No one noticed, and no one seemed to care.
Sure, some of us knew she was sick. A lot of us knew she was really sick. We knew our game was in trouble, but we were sure that somehow, it would all turn out OK. Someone in the NHL or the NHLPA would see that was a problem, and would get to work on it long before the ambulance arrived to take away the body.
We cheered for Ray Borque in 2001, as he finally got to hoist the Cup, the crowning achievement in the career of one of the greatest blue-liners ever to play the game. And we pretended there wasn't a problem. Little did we know, this was to be the last of the Stanley Cup Finals between big-money teams.
We tried to ignore it in 2002, as the we pulled for the upstart Hurricanes to bring down the Detroit juggernaught. All that talent. All that skill. All that money. Not to worry. There were still two more seasons before the warranty expired. Surely, someone was working on it by now.
In 2003, the Cinderella Ducks tried to pull off another upset. Another battle between high-priced talent and just plain talent. We knew now it was time to go to work. In between the trades, the drafts and the search for new rules, we knew the must be working on a new agreement. There was only one more year to go, and so much to fix.
But we hoped.
The 2004 finals brought together a pair of sub-$40-million teams, and capped one of the most exciting playoffs in recent memory.
Tampa 2, Calgary 1. That score is still posted on any number of web sites. Why? Because it was the last hockey game played in the NHL.
When the final buzzer sounded on that first Monday night in June, we knew that unless the players and the owners got together over the summer and got to work, there may not be hockey in October. We knew they knew. They knew we cared. And we feared they didn't.
And we hoped.
We waited and watched, as the draft came and went without a new proposal. We listened interminably to the sound of silence, as July became August, and August gave way to September. We watched, sure that the negotiations would now begin in earnest, with the end date weeks away.
And we hoped.
When the chains went on in the middle of September, and we were told the lockout had officially begun, we knew now the negotiations had to start. We were sure they would. No one could fathom a season without hockey.
While we watched and waited, the leaves changed, the wind quickened, and opening day came and went. No pucks were dropped, no penalties were called, and no goals were scored.
And we hoped, though in the U.S., half of us had no idea there was no hockey and more than half of the others didn't care.
Those of us who care watched and waited, knowing that 10 years earlier, they still played. Sure, it was only 48 games. That's more than half a season. The Cup made its way, first around the rink, and then around the world. So we waited. We knew there was time. Someone would find a way.
And we hoped.
Facing off in center ice, the owners and the players. On the owners' bench, we have businessmen. Billionaires. Gentlemen who, with some notable exceptions in Pittsburgh and Phoenix, have made money by being smart businessmen. Maybe not all hockey men, but men who thought it might be a good investment. A way to make more money, but maybe not much more to them than that. Maybe they cared about the game. Maybe they cared about the money. But surely they cared enough about one of those things to fix it.
On the players' bench, we have hockey players. Millionaires. Not all of them, but certainly more than a few. Certainly more than live in my neighborhood. Or my city. Men who made their millions by the sheer virtue of just a few things. They could skate a step faster, shoot a bit faster, turn a little quicker and pass more accurately than the thousands of kids across Canada and the northern U.S. who spent their childhoods skating on ponds and lakes in a hundred no-name burgs across the continent. Just a bit better than the children of parents who schlepped their kids to rinks at the crack of dawn so they could play. Surely these men, men who had loved the game their whole lives, they would find a way to fix it.
Or so we hoped.
They forgot why they play, and why we watch.
Here's the bottom line: It's time to stop hoping and start acting. Fix it. You broke it. And don't come back in two weeks with an offer of a 14-game season with 16 teams to go to a full playoff schedule. If that's the best you can do, just draw straws, shortest one gets the Cup.
Tampa Bay 2, Calgary 1. It mocks me from my Palm Pilot every morning.
Mr. Goodenow, Mr. Bettman, there is an old adage: "When you're finished, quit."
You are.
Please do.
The NHL slipped into a coma and died at 10:15 p.m. Jan. 28, after being removed from life support two hours earlier. There will be a funeral at an undisclosed date and time.
The league had no further comment.
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