Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: The Commies are Coming

Ladies and gentlemen of the blog universe, I’m pleased to announce that I’ll finally be resuming the project that I started about analyzing the original Miracle on Ice movie, which I began approximately a century ago. For those of you (like me) who might have forgotten that this undertaking even existed back in the distant past when dinosaurs were still roaming the planet, I’m delighted to not-so-subtly remind you that I left off right before the pre-Olympic game against the Soviets at Madison Square Garden.

This segment begins with the famous skyline of New York City, which is always kind of depressing for me to see because it reminds me of how that classic image was forever marred by homicidal terrorists (who are my generation’s version of Communists, basically). Then the camera zooms in on Madison Square Garden’s billboard, which proclaims in neon lights that there’s the USA v.s. USSR hockey preview at 7:30 PM.

Along the sidewalk, there is a group of angry folk who apparently have nothing better to do with their wretched existences than wave around signs blaring messages about how Russia should leave Afghanistan alone.

Obviously, these politically charged people harbor under the delusion that guys like Valeria Kharmalov were calling the shots for Soviet policy. That’s about as hysterical as in the modern age when hockey fans and people in general actually cared about Pavel Datsyuk’s and Alex Ovechkin’s opinions about gay propaganda policies in Sochi. They’re athletes, not politicians, people. I don’t want to listen to them talk about matters of state; I just want to watch them dangle goalies out of jockstraps and score a million goals. Politics are boring. That’s why I never want to listen to an interview where Crosby discusses his feelings about abortion or Stamkos outlines his views on the madhouse that is the Middle East.

In short, I just wish the sign-waving idiots outside Madison Square Garden would concuss themselves with their placards and leave the rest of us normal people who don’t give a hoot about politics alone. Then the world would be a better place.

A dude I believe is Kaminsky and another agent exit a taxi, observing, “Would you look at this? Sometimes it isn’t a sport or a business. It’s an international incident.”

It’s good to see that one of the characters in the movie shares my jaded perspective on politics and all those who march around waving signs with personal political views outside entertainment venues. This is why you’re better off going to the Prudential Center to watch the Devils than to Madison Square Garden to watch the Rangers. Not only is the arena better, but there are a lot less idiots waving political signs out front. Heck, I’ve never seen an idiot waving a political sign outside the front of the Prudential Center, so there you go.

Moving along with the show (such as it is), the other agent asks, “What would you give to be part of our team tonight? To be out on the ice when the Russians skate out?”

Since the Red Army and US Olympic team match-up was billed as a David-Goliath game, I think that’s kind of like asking a resident of Boston back in the 1770’s what he would have given to be in the line of fire during the Boston Massacure. I mean the answer is clearly:

The other guy, plainly lying through his teeth, answers “a lot, a lot.” As Kaminsky and his companion begin to make their way through the sign-waving nuts, a third agent (the one whom I noticed earlier resembles an Oompa Loompa) hops out of a taxi, hollering Kaminsky’s name to get his attention.

The Oompa Loompa man after dashing up to his fellow agents inquires how their boys are doing and is told that they are doing just fine. I guess “fine” is at the extreme low end of the emotional spectrum now.

Ramping his obnoxious powers up to maximum, the Oompa Loompa man comments, “Well, I guess this is what Brooks was gambling on.” When one of his agent companions correctly points out that this isn’t Lake Placid, the undeterred Oompa Loompa man continues with pure pompousness, “The teams are the same, George. What do you say we meet afterwards? Loser buys the drinks.”

This is an example of the sort of unfair spots gambling that I just can’t condone, since it’s simply unjust to have the person who is totally depressed after seeing his team lose buy the drinks. It should be the person whose team won who funds the drinking, so that everyone feels like a winner, and the poor soul who just had to watch their team stink can take a sip and proclaim:

The Oompa Loompa cackles to himself like the Wicked Witch of the West before the scene mercifully changes to the US Olympic team streaming onto the ice as the announcer declares, “The US Olympic team coming out onto the ice at Madison Square Garden for a very important game tonight against the USSR, the final match-up before next week’s Olympics begins at Lake Placid, and this is for the most part a team of college kids against a team that demolished NHL All-Stars a year ago this week at the Garden.” Well, at the time of the Lake Placid Olympics Slava Fetisov was only like twenty-two and the average age for the US Olympic team was twenty-two so that makes this match-up totally even, right? I mean:

The announcer explains that there will be an opening face-off at center ice between Neal Broten and Valeri Kharmalov. Since in real life it was actually Mark Johnson who took the opening face-off against Kharmalov, I can’t help but wonder why the director felt it was necessary to needlessly alter this detail to make this movie just a little less historically accurate. Whatever. It gives me an excuse to say hello to Neal.

Neal manages to win the face-off and the US carries the puck into the Soviet zone, and what follows is just a bunch of slow skating and excruciatingly bad passing by the actors that makes me want to gouge my eyes out. Watching these actors play hockey looks like what I imagine a herd of Bambis would resemble if forced to skate and pass a puck around for the first time. (For the record, doing this to deer is not recommended, since it probably constitutes animal cruelty.) This movie must have been on such a shoe-string budget that they couldn’t afford to hire actors who had ever even seen a person skate.

The US team turns the puck over to the Soviets, and then the audience has to endure the torture that is watching the actors in this film butcher the artistic and skilled hockey that the Red Army team was renowned for, which makes me feel sick to my stomach, so:

To try to convey why I’m so nauseous, I’ll just explain that Pavel Datsyuk, who is basically pure poetry in motion when he plays hockey, is probably the contemporary Russian who best depicts the traditional Soviet style of play. Lots of slick passing. Smooth skating. Lovely stick handling around entire NHL teams. An uncanny ability to predict what will happen next in a game. An understanding of how to navigate his own zone. So basically by turning Kharmalov into Bambi on skates, what the director did was even worse than having Pavel Datsyuk, the man who splits defenses like this:

played in a movie by this dude who can’t even play keep-away with Datsyuk:

because at least that guy played college hockey. So, yeah, next time Valeri Kharmalov appears in a film can we not insult his memory by having some Pee Wee play him? Thanks.

The actor playing Valeri Kharmalov manages to bumble his way through a series of passes that results in a goal where Guttenberg makes a pathetic save attempt that resembles an interpretive chicken dance. It’s like he was thinking:

Over at the bench, Herb paces and is probably internally screaming:

The camera then flashes to the scoreboard, which kind of looks like it was constructed with cardboard by a bunch of third graders for a book report project, so viewers have visual confirmation that the Soviets are indeed up 1-0.

After the US team finally regains control of the puck, they have a breakaway attempt, which Tretiak deflects with a kick save that looks like he’s either fall-down drunk or else has simply never blocked a hockey puck before. Clearly the director just drugged and dragged in some random guy of the street to play Tretiak, Hall of Fame goaltender. Having seen this sad sequence of Hollywood hockey ineptitude, I can only mutter:

There is more bungling with the puck, mainly by the actors playing the Soviets, and then Guttenberg makes a pathetic lunge to try to stop the puck before it finds the back of his net, giving the Soviets a two goal lead. Guttenberg in goal is like:

More insult to the game of hockey follows, interspersed with Herb barking at his players from the bench to “watch the gaps; watch the gaps,” and then Krutov manages to score basically from the blue line. Since his team is making zero effort on offense or defense, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jim Craig was mentally checking out of this game, remarking mentally:

Following the camera flashing to the cardboard scoreboard to beat into the audience’s collective brains that the Soviets are up 3-0, the commentator states some gibberish about the US needing to prevent this game from becoming a rout. What a fool. If a hockey game is 3-0 and the first period is nowhere close to over, it’s already a rout. That was true even during the ‘80s when scoring was ridiculously inflated compared to the modern era where players are supposed to at least look like they’re trying to be defensively responsible rather than just play fire wagon hockey.

Predictably, the Soviets score another goal, and, forgetting that as captain he should probably pretend to be at least a little bit supportive of his teammate, Rizzo, as the crowd breaks into boos, skates up to Jim and asks in the breathless tone of a sugar-high toddler, “Man, did you see that goal?” Watching this unfold, I wonder for the millionth time:

Given that Rizzo has been doing a disappearing act all night, Jim would probably be one-hundred percent justified punching him square in the jaw, or else trolling him next time he made a save by exclaiming:

Electing to be a bit more subtle, Jim replies witheringly, “Yeah, I was there. Remember?” You tell him, Jimmy. That’s the spirit. Teach your captain some manners.

Totally not picking up how rude he is being, Rizzo punches Jimmy in the shoulder, responding, “I’m sorry, Jimmy, but class is class.” Basically, Rizzo is saying:

Only he is completely wrong, since he just showed all the social grace of a bull raging around a china shop.

Over at the bench, Herb calls out a line change, and the Coneheads climb onto the ice. Then Herb demands if Rizzo has gotten all the Russian autographs that he wanted. Rizzo, continuing to be an idiot, wants to know if Herb is talking to him. Herb confirms that he is indeed talking to Mike, the team captain. Perhaps concussion tests should be run on Rizzo. He seems a bit mentally impaired right now.

The pathetic excuse of a hockey game carries on, and when the guy who plays Neal makes a terrible drop pass, there is a comically slow breakaway by the Soviets, who unsurprisingly score high on Craig’s glove side. This game for the US team is the equivalent of this:

There is more booing by the crowd and flashing to the cardboard cutout scoreboard, and then Rizzo, the stupid captain, manages to score, so the tally is slightly less lopsided. Maybe if he had bothered to show up earlier in the game it wouldn’t have been such a rout, but he was probably too busy practicing insults he could hurl at his goalie to show up to the game on time.

Any momentum the US might have gained by Rizzo’s goal is squashed when the Soviets tally again. Then the game goes from bad to worse when Jack O’Callahan, after hitting a Soviet player against the boards, is rammed from behind by another Soviet player, and crumbles to the ice. There is a dramatic swell of music as he is carried from the ice, and readers will just have to wait until next time to hear what damage has been wrought on poor OC.

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Looking for Lake Placid

After bidding a sad adieu to Les Auge (whose humorous presence will be missed in this film), the action moves to the team bus traveling down a mostly deserted, dark highway at night. The camera pans in on Coach Patrick and Herb snoozing in the front row, and it’s good to see Herb doing something as normal and non-confrontational as sleeping. Perhaps it will lower his blood pressure.

As the bus moves along, Pav’s guitar strums the tune to Simon and Garfunkel’s classic tune about the New Jersey turnpike and its endless bumper-to-bumper traffic jams, and he sings us “America” in a melancholic voice:

Once Pav finishes his singing, Jim notes to Rizzo, who is sitting next to him, “I’m just looking for one small town in America, Lake Placid.” That must have been harder to do before the days of Google Maps, so that’s quite a quest.

Rizzo responds playfully, “Lake Placid? I’ve never heard of it. Don’t worry, Jimmy. If it’s got less than ten thousand people, Brooks has got it on the schedule.”

The guy behind Jim whose face I can’t read well in the dark bus (so I don’t know who he is, basically), comments, “I personally don’t think the place exists. Probably just Brooks’ way of getting a hockey team together.” I think he should adjust his tin foil hat because the conspiracy theory reception isn’t too good, but he’d probably just assure me:

The person behind Rizzo puts in, “You know what I think? We all died and went to hockey players’ hell.” Nah, hockey players’ hell wasn’t invented until John Tortorella (who really should have an award for the biggest coaching meltdown given in his honor, or, really, disgrace each year) began his NHL coaching career. For proof of what I mean, check out this charming video of Tortorella roasting his players alive:

Remember that’s what Tortorella does in front of rolling cameras. He’s probably even more of a Grade A jerk in private, but moving along from Tortorella’s Broadway productions because he’s now been fired by two different NHL franchises in two consecutive seasons which makes him not particularly relevant to the hockey world anymore (thank you, hockey gods), let’s get back to our 1980 adventure.

Some teammate from the front of the bus, shouts over his shoulder, “Hey, will you guys shut up? Some civilized people up front want to get some sleep.” Come on, man. A team bus is meant to be loud, so that tells the audience:

At this point, Jim decides to open up and start relating his whole life story to Pav, saying, “You know, when I was a kid, I never slept. Not a lot. Used to get up at four o’clock in the morning to play hockey. My mother would be in the kitchen fixing breakfast. She was healthy then. Anyway, I used to play with the older guys on the pond. My kid brother plays there now. The older guys had cars, so I’d slip downstairs and stay near the heater to keep warm and close to the door so I could hear the horn of the car. It really felt good being the youngest allowed to play.” This is cute, because I know that Jim liked to slip his mother notes in the morning and stuff.

Pav points out, “Except they made you play in net.” Ha. That’s funny because my brother is a goalie, but I’ve always said that the only reason he became one was for the masks. Goalies get to customize their masks, which I suspect is one of those bones the hockey community threw them because otherwise no one would be willing to take that awful job. (If you’re the goalie, you can make thirty saves and still get booed for the one you miss, and also you wear so much protective equipment that if you want to hug a teammate you risk suffocating him; goalie fights are like two men attempting to dance with beach balls glued all over their bodies). Basically, the thing is, if you weren’t a very odd person before you became a goalie, you would be after a few seasons of it, and it shows. Some of those goalie masks look like creations serial killers would make out of their victims (looking at you, Carey Price). Some look like the ultimate foray into geekdom (Kari Lehtonen! Peter Budaj!). I love that every goalie’s psyche is right out there on display. (And, in the case of the one that looks like brains: way to take that literally.) Gives you something to analyze during breaks in the action.

“Nah,” Jim answers. “That was just when I was in high school. They supplied the goalie’s equipment. Besides, my mother figured that goal was the safest place.” That’s odd. I thought Jimmy was pretty much always a goaltender even when he played pond hockey as a kid, because I remember him saying somewhere that he wanted to play but didn’t understand all the rules, so being a goalie was simple since all he had to do was keep the puck out of the net. I’m going to trust my memory more than this film. In short, movie:

Speaking of playing with older guys, Bah remarks, “When I was a freshman I played for Duluth against the ’76 squad. Man, I thought those guys were ten feet tall.”

“Hey, Bah,” Buzz teases, “tell them how you scored the winning goal against us in overtime.” That sounds like a cool moment. Was it as awesome as TJ Oshie’s shootout goal against Russia?

“Yeah, hare-brain,” retorts Bah, “for the four-hundred and seventy-fifth time.” Everyone laughs uproariously, as Bah continues, “Migraine headache number two.”

“What’s number one?” shouts somebody from the front of the bus (and the poor lighting in this scene is driving me nuts, because it makes it even harder to identify characters who all look the same).

Being all sociable for once, Jimmy jokes, “ ‘Where’s Brooks? O’Callahan’s looking for him.’” That’s actually pretty funny, because it gives me a mental image of OC going after Herb like Roy going after Perry in this hilarious gif:

Now I just wish the movie would show Herb and O’Callahan at each other’s throats. That would be better than ten million renditions of Herb giving Rizzo and Jimmy a hard time. Oh, well, we can’t have everything we want in life, so moving along with the film, Rizzo decides to end the fun by warning, “Hey, you guys better take it easy. He’ll hear you. Let’s get some sleep.” Then Rizzo curls up in his chair like a total baby, and the bus rolls along.

Not actually going to sleep, Rizzo tells Jimmy in a quiet voice, “Hey, Jimmy. All that stuff is behind you now. Got to think to the future.” Okay, Rizzo, I realize you were just trying to be sympathetic there, but you sound like a total moron, since that’s not how the stages of grief work. The stages of grief are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, and freaking denial and anger again. Okay, I invented the last bit to make a point, but hear me out. Grief is a process. You don’t get over losing your mother the same way you move beyond losing a sock (never a whole pair, of course) in the washing machine unless you are a sociopath.

“Future?” Jim asks. “Actually, I was thinking about my ma. I guess there’s a connection somewhere.” Of course there is. The connection is in Lake Placid, the place where we’re all looking for…

 

Breaking down a Miracle Movie: Captain and Cut

As those saints among you who have been loyally following my blog now, we last left off with Herb essentially declaring that he would go down with the sinking Olympic team ship. Since that’s been decided, we, of course, need to appoint a captain to steer this sinking ship into an iceberg and to not abandon ship when it does, so stay tuned to see who is the recipient of this honor.

To begin this exciting part of the movie, the boys are in their locker room, and Dave Christian is distributing pieces of paper to everyone so that the team can elect their Olympic captain. Not at all concerned with voter anonymity, the camera zooms in on Bill Baker’s paper, so we can read Rizzo’s name on it.

When questioned about his vote by a peeping teammate (whose face I can’t recognize), Bill explains that a reliable source told him that Herb hates Rizzo the most. The audience can only infer that Bill is apparently so juvenile he believes that the player whom the coach despises the most should automatically be the captain just because it will infuriate the coach the most, which is about as good an argument for Communism as any, since regular people are obviously mentally unequipped to make prudent decisions when determining their own leaders. Also, the audience is free to suspect that Herb (who actually wanted Rizzo to be captain) planted that source just to manipulate Bill’s brain. Careful, Bill, because:

Being all skeptical, Rob asks, “More than O’Callahan?” Now in real life, this line would make sense, because Herb liked to rip into Jack O’Callahan just to make a point to the entire team, rendering it conceivable that the team as a whole might conclude that Herb wasn’t particularly fond of OC, and, by all accounts, Jack and Robbie enjoyed taunting one another, but in the movie world this line is just incongruous with what’s actually been shown thus far.

As of yet, Herb has only directed specific tirades to Rizzo and Jim Craig, as the script writers went to great pains to establish in the previous two sections, so if teammates were to conclude that Herb had any extreme rancor toward certain players, based on what the movie has shown, they would have to believe that Herb hated Rizzo or Jimmy the most. If the movie wants us to believe that Herb seems to hate OC, show him ripping into OC the way he does Rizzo or Jimmy. Don’t just have this awkwardly thrown in line of dialogue about it when the comment is at total odds with everything the dialogue and action has demonstrated in the last couple of scenes. I want to like this line since it is spoken by Robbie about OC, but because of how the rest of the script leading up to it is written, I instead have to ask the script writers for the umpteenth time:

The camera pans across the room to focus on Pav just in time for the audience to hear him ask Buzz, who is sitting next to him on the bench, whether Buzz wants his vote. Buzz chuckles and answers, “Hey, look, I can’t tell you how to vote, but I’m voting for Rizzie.” This is also a sort of weird reply, since I doubt players would have been allowed to vote for themselves, as that would result in a fiasco where everybody voted for himself and there would still be no captain. However, it does establish that people are voting for Rizzo as more than just a joke, which I guess is respectful of his leadership abilities at least. I’m glad that it was only some of the team that apparently voted for Rizzo for the lolz of seeing him clash with Herb. That makes this whole captaincy thing feel much more official.

Moving across the locker room again, Jim is telling the guy sitting next to him to give him a look at his ballot. This dialogue sounds like we’re in a third grade classroom voting for class president, honestly. In keeping with this childish vein, the dude next to Jim retorts, “Hey, I don’t see you flashing your ballot around.”

Smiling slightly, Jim persists, “Come on.” Surrendering, the guy opens the ballot, and Jim reads Rizzo’s name in an incredulous tone. Then when the guy next to him demands to see his ballot, Jim reveals with a grin that he voted for Rizzo as well. What a clever and unpredictable joke brought to us courtesy of the scriptwriters. Jeez, no wonder USA Hockey appoints captains and associate captains for Olympic teams now rather than letting players vote. It spares us scenes like this imagined satirical one from the 2014 squad:

Dan Bylsma: Welcome to Sochi, gentlemen. USA Hockey asks me to remind you all not to flush the toilet paper down the toilets, as it might make the pipes explode, and to reiterate that the yellow stuff coming out of the sinks isn’t Gatorade, so drink the Dasani we’ve provided instead of anything spewing out of the faucet. We don’t want any illnesses because then I might have to remove Faulk from the storage closet I’ve locked him in for the duration of the tournament. Now, we’ve got to elect ourselves a captain who, of course, will be better than whiny old Sidney Crosby, so please write somebody’s name who isn’t your own on the paper I’ve just passed out.

Zach Parise (in an undertone to Ryan Suter): I’m voting for you, buddy, because we’re bros from our days with the National Development Team.

Ryan Suter: Me too. Well, I’m not voting for me. I’m voting for you, but, other than that, we’re twins.

Ryan McDonagh to Derek Stepan: Hey, Step, who’s got your vote?

Derek Stepan: Probably Marty St. Louis. You can’t go too wrong with a veteran player like him, right?

Ryan McDonagh: Isn’t he on the Canadian team?

Derek Stepan: Duh. Do you even read the news, Mac Truck? It was this huge scandal when Yzerman left him off the Canadian roster for the second time in eight years, and he wasn’t appeased by being the injury replacement for Stamkos, so he’s been demanding a trade to the Rangers, which is why he’s a candidate for the Rangers’ captaincy once Callahan’s been traded for trying to earn more money than he’s worth.

Ryan Callahan: What’s this about earning more money than I’m worth? Do we get paid for this Olympic gig?

Zach Parise: Only if we get sponsors like Chobani. Speaking of Chobani, can you believe it isn’t served in the Olympic dining halls? How am I going to get my calcium if not from a morning dose of my favorite brand of Greek yogurt? Oh, and I’m a totally uninspired hockey player unless I get my daily value of calcium, so this is a serious concern.

Ryan McDonagh to Derek Stepan: I wasn’t talking about the Rangers. I was talking about the US Olympic team we’re on right now.

Derek Stepan: Oh, yeah. My bad. I guess I’ll vote for you since we played college together at the University of Wisconsin and everything.

Ryan McDonagh: I’ll return the favor by voting for you. Badgers forever!

Cam Fowler: Coach, am I allowed to vote for Captain Crunch? Sugary cereals are my favorite.

Dan Bylsma: Um, out of curiosity, Cam, how old are you, anyway?

Cam Fowler: Twenty-two, which means I’m the perfect age for a second childhood that I should enjoy because the next thing I have to look forward to is a midlife crisis that probably won’t happen until I’m forty and retired from pro hockey.

Dan Bylsma (massaging his temples): No, you can’t vote for Captain Crunch because he’s not on this team.

Cam Fowler (pouting): You didn’t say we had to vote for someone on the team. You just said that we couldn’t vote for ourselves. It’s not fair to change the rules midway through an election even if we are in Russia.

Dan Bylsma: Fine. You can vote for Captain Crunch, but nobody else will, so it doesn’t even matter.

Patrick Kane: You know who else no one will vote for because he doesn’t matter? Jonathan Toews. He’s the worst captain ever, and nobody likes him. I hope the media reports that I said that, because that will really steam him, and an angry Toews is an entertaining, for-once-not-boring Toews.

Dustin Brown: Can I knock out Toews’ kneecaps? That would be really entertaining.

Ryan McDonagh: Oh, shut up. Everyone respects Toews, and nobody respects you. I’d call you a cheapshot artist but that’s more of a compliment than you deserve, so I’ll just say you’re a dirty hockey player, and I’m having a mounting urge to crosscheck you.

Dan Bylsma: Knock it off, you two. We’re all on the same team here. Save it for the Stanley Cup Finals.

Ryan McDonagh: Does that mean that Pittsburg is planning another embarrassing playoff exit to a lower seed?

Dan Bylsma: We don’t even need to plan them. Embarrassing playoff exits just happen to Penguins naturally.

Justin Faulk (entering from the storage closet): Can I vote for team captain?

Dan Bylsma: God, Justin, don’t startle me like that! My ticker can’t handle it. Anyway, what are you doing out of that closet?

Justin Faulk: I was kicked out by the janitors. They want to convert it to a bathroom by installing five toilets and no partitions.

Dan Bylsma: That’s disgusting. Everyone, make a mental note not to use that room. Well, Justin, you can’t vote, since you aren’t really on the team in my opinion, but you can collect the ballots. (Once the ballots have been assembled.) Um, T.J., not to sound accusatory, but what demon possessed you to write your name ten times?

T.J. Oshie: Sorry, Coach. Just practicing my autograph.

Dan Bylsma: Very smart, since that’s the only form of writing hockey players need to know to make it big in the NHL. Don’t worry. We’ll just use your ballot as the line-up for when we get into a shootout with Russia or something.

T.J. Oshie: Good joke, but I’m not dumb enough to fall for it, because you can’t use the same person over and over in a shootout.

Dan Bylsma: Not in the NHL, but in international hockey you can, and the Olympics is international hockey. I can use you ten times in a row in a shootout if I want to…

T.J. Oshie: Okay, now you’re taking this joke a little too far.

Dan Bylsma: You say that now, but wait until you see how much farther I can carry it on the largest stage.

So, anyway, thank God we were spared the sight of that on the NHL network, but we’ll have to go back to the Miracle on Ice film now that bit of comedy has passed, so we’re returning to the locker room, where Jim is asking Rizzo who he voted for captain. In response, Rizzo lifts his paper to show Buzz Schneider’s name. Perhaps Rizzo and Buzz are developing a bromance. I hope that Les Auge doesn’t get too jealous, since that would just be uncomfortable and sad.

Upon reading Buzz’s name, Jim wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes. I guess he expected Rizzo to be a big enough egotist to vote for himself or something.

The scene shifts to Rizzo sitting on a sofa, talking into a phone, saying in his half of the conversation, “Kevin! Yeah, it’s me—Mike. I’m all right. How are you doing? Good. Look, is my dad there? Oh, no, no, that’s okay. Uh, listen. When he comes in, just tell him I was elected captain. Yeah. No, that doesn’t mean Brooks still can’t cut me. Look, all right, Kevin, do me another favor. Call Ma and tell her and the rest of the family, will you? And tell her to let Donna know, too. She wasn’t home, either. Yeah, that’s very funny. Okay. Good to talk to you. All right.” After that, he hangs up the phone without saying good-bye, because he is a male, after all, and everyone knows that all men are socially incompetent on the telephone. It’s like a law of nature, and I’m not sexist; I’m right.

This movie has an obsession with revealing important tidbits through one-sided phone conversations, so to outline the salient points viewers are supposed to glean from this conversation, we learn the following from this telephone exchange: Rizzo has been elected captain of the Olympic team, Herb can still cut him so that tension remains, and Donna is still an essentially useless character for Rizzo to have a romance with that the film insists on inserting in unnecessary ways, since if she wasn’t home, it’s not critical to reference her.

Getting past my annoyance with the waste of film time that Donna represents, it’s time for the US Olympic team to play an exhibition game against the Adirondack Red Wings, which, as the name implies, is the minor league affiliate of the Detroit Red Wings. As a franchise, the Red Wings are, of course, renowned for their excellent drafting, but none of that vaunted prowess is on display in this movie, since all the Adirondack Red Wings play hockey as if they have never picked up a stick or tied skates before. On the plus side, the Detroit Red Wings are famous for being patient with their prospects, which is fortunate since these minor leaguers seem likely to make an NHL impact around Armageddon.

The announcer talks about how the game is still scoreless between the Adirondack Red Wings and the US Olympic team, and how Les Auge is drifting back in his own zone to collect the puck, moving at a speed slower than paint dries, because everyone in this movie skates like they are cutting through molasses rather than ice. Needless to say, I’m doing this as I watch:

Auditioning for the role of Captain Obvious, the announcer remarks on how the Olympians aren’t looking sharp in the game as they dump the puck into the Adirondack end of the rink, where the Adirondack defense manages to collect the puck in the clumsiest possible way and pass it to their center, but Les Auge intercepts the puck and gives it to Neal Broten.

On the bench, Herb yells at his team, “Watch the other side!” That seems a rather ambitious request to make of the Olympians. Based on the way the actors play them, it would be too much to ask for them to skate and locate the puck at the same time, nonetheless keep track of the opposition while performing the aforesaid tasks.

The announcer explains for the slower members of the audience that Herb isn’t at all happy with his squad’s performance as the Adirondack forwards advance with the puck again, and Les Auge, in his bid for MVP, manages to look like a flat-footed moose hit by a tranquilizer gun when he smashes into the boards and fails to hamper the opposing team’s advance.

Given front row access to the US Olympic team’s net, the Adirondack forward pots a goal, and Les Auge should be proud, since he just achieved the feat of making the terrible skating of the Adirondack forward seem magnificent, but then again, everyone on the ice is so bad at skating that they make Corey Perry (he who spends half of every NHL game toppling into the other team’s goalie and falling to his knees in odd poses) look like Scott Niedermayer (who flew across the ice like Jesus walked on water). For those of you who benefit from visual aids, that means this goal:

Looks like this one:

That’s saying something about how awful the caliber of competition in this game is, since I’ve always insisted that:

Regretfully putting aside the topic of how smooth Niedermayer’s skating was and how criminally underrated he sometimes is by people who cannot appreciate gifts from the hockey gods, we’ll resume our analysis of the game between the US Olympic team and the Adirondack Red Wings. Anyway, the Adirondack forward celebrates as if he just netted the Stanley Cup winner, and Steve Guttenberg, who was once again caught at the totally wrong goalpost, is probably thinking:

Back on the bench, Herb barks at Pav to get his line out there, instructing them to skate, play their game, and get back the point by scoring.

Seriously, based on the skill level of these actors, that’s akin to ordering a blind man to paint a landscape or a deaf man to compose a concerto mimicking the sounds of chirping birds.

Les Auge, who is still on the ice in a shift that must have lasted three minutes when the average shift should be about thirty to ninety seconds, is whistled for tripping and sent to the penalty box for two minutes.

At the bench, Herb probably wants to do this:

Since he’s a professional, though, he settles for snapping, “What did I say to Les Auge? Skate! Forget surgery with your stick! Please.” Just because Herb is showing wonderful signs of growth in the manners department by remembering to say please, his team should give him positive reinforcement by offering the thumbs-up and chanting as one:

The announcer comments about how the Red Wings are on the attack, which isn’t exactly surprising, as they are on the power play, and that’s what they should be doing, but they don’t actually manage to score with the man advantage, because the final buzzer sounds with the tally 1-0 in favor of the Adirondack Red Wings. Still, I imagine the Adirondack coaches will be drawing diagrams on their blackboards to illustrate:

In the locker room after the game, Les Auge is cupping his chin in despair, and I think he’s not the only one doing so. I bet the coaching staff of both teams are considering the benefits of arson in blowing up their teams or at least hosting a gigantic fire sale. In fact, after this game, the conversation among the Red Wing executives as overheard by a fly on the wall probably sounded something like this:

First Red Wing Big Wig: So, do you want the good news or the bad news first?

Second Red Wing Big Shot: Give me the good news first. I’m still finishing my caviar and champagne, so I don’t want to throw up.

First Red Wing Big Wig: The good news is that our minor leaguers won against the US Olympians.

Second Red Wing Big Shot: I’m done, and what could possibly be bad when we won?

First Red Wing Big Wig: Our prospect team is in shambles. Gordie Howe would weep if he saw it, and you know how tough he is.

Second Red Wing Big Shot: We can’t go peeing on Gordie’s Hall of Fame legacy. What are we going to do to bring some respectability back to our franchise after tonight’s shameful victory?

First Red Wing Big Wig: I was thinking we should tank for draft picks so we can acquire some actual prospects, because that Stevie Yzerman kid looks vaguely promising. Maybe he can lead us through the desert of playoff failure to the oasis of drinking from the Stanley Cup.

Second Red Wing Big Shot: Sure, and while we’re dreaming, why don’t we also bring in Scotty Bowman and about five Red Army players to help us win the greatest trophy in all sports?

While the Red Wings were hatching their top-secret plan for bringing the Stanley Cup back to Detroit around 1997 (since Detroit always takes the long view), Herb was probably in the hallway calling Murray Williamson, who coached many of the National teams Herb played on and also coached the 1972 Olympic squad that Herb wasn’t on which brought back the silver medal. Bugging their connection, we’d probably hear something like this:

Herb: Murray? Is that you?

Murray: If I say it isn’t, will you hang up and stop bothering me?

Herb: That’s like the king of all stupid questions. When have I ever stopped bothering anyone?

Murray: When you’ve gotten something that you wanted. As soon as you get whatever you’re demanding, you stop bothering your victim.

Herb: Clever of you to notice. You’ll be overjoyed to hear that it’s you I want something from this time around.

Murray: Of course you do. Former players never contact old coaches unless they want something. What do you want from me? A glowing letter of recommendation for a job application?

Herb: Don’t be dumb. I’ve already got a job coaching the ’80 Olympic team. That’s what I’m calling about. I want you to send me a list of all the players from the ’72 squad that have retained their amateur status, because after tonight’s slaughter by the Adirondack Red Wings, my team needs a massive infusion of new blood if you catch my drift.

Murray: Wake up and smell the coffee, Herb. Everyone on that team is either retired from hockey or playing professionally. You’re going to have to forge your own Olympic destiny with your own college boy brats.

Herb: Didn’t you have a sixteen-year-old on your team? Isn’t he still eligible?

Murray: The sixteen-year-old was Mark Howe, and he’s playing in the NHL as a defenseman, telling me that he’s going to be a Hall of Famer and that I played him in the wrong position as a forward. The cheek of some people. If I had a penny for every time I heard something like that from a player, I’d have a mansion on Maui.

Herb: The measurement of how much I don’t care is in the purely theoretical number range, Murray. If you can’t help me, I’m going to hang up now, because I’ve got players to bully in the locker room.

Entering the Olympic team’s locker room, Herb harangues his team: “You guys are playing worse and worse every day. In fact, right now you’re playing as though it’s the middle of next month.”

It’s a slightly modified Brooksism. Excellent. Moving on with his lecture, Herb marches up to Jim and jabs a finger at his goalie’s chest, declaring, “Craig, don’t think your place is guaranteed on this Olympic squad.”

Increasing his volume as he yells at the only other player that he talks to on a routine basis, Herb growls, “Rizzie, skate harder! Oh, and another thing, Mike, control your linemates’ play, because if you can’t, let me know right now before we make the final cuts.” While it’s neat to see a winger rather than a center expected to lead a line for once, everything else about this piece of dialogue makes me cringe, because how does nobody else on the team notice that Herb only talks to Jim and Rizzo, which probably means he’s making a scapegoat of them at least half the time.

Pacing around the locker room, Herb continues, “All right, Patrick will give you travel details, and, Lester, see me after you get dressed.” Eek. Herb is actually addressing someone besides Jim or Rizzo. I have a bad feeling about this…

Seriously, this means that Les Auge is about to get the ax, and I’m devastated because his bromance with Rizzo was sweet (better than the actual romance between Donna and Rizzo, to be honest) and he was one of my favorite characters. What a pity. I’m going to need a moment to dry my eyes with a Kleenex, so:

Staring after Herb as he leaves, Les looks so much like a kicked puppy that my heart breaks into a million pieces. Then, he acts like a martyr, commenting to Mike that it’s going to be all right because it’s all for the best. I half expect him to expound upon how life is a box of chocolates:

Mercifully, we are spared seeing the actual cut (in a case where the script writers are content to do a bit of implication for once rather than a ton of hitting over the head with the obvious), and the scene shifts to Les returning to an emptied locker room in his suit. Realizing Rizzo is waiting for him on a bench, Les crosses the locker room and remarks, “Thanks for waiting.”

Standing up, Rizzo comments in a rather choked voice, “Hey, I, uh, I packed your stuff up for you.”

Gesturing at the bag, Les replies woodenly, “Yeah, thanks.”

“I’m real sorry, Les,” Rizzo adds.

Being all stoic, Les responds, “It was going to happen sooner or later. I meant what I said that night. You got to get it where you can find it, and if there’s nothing for me here, I’d rather find out now.”

Getting angry, Rizzo says, “Come on now, Les. Would you get off it? You’ve got a great future in this game. You’re a player.”

This is breaking my heart, because it turned out that Les Auge was basically a career minor leaguer who only played six NHL games, but at least that makes him more successful than Hugh Jessiman. Still, it’s hard for me to be comforted by even Hugh Jessiman bust jokes, since Les is great, and I want him to succeed in hockey. Les:

That denial is what is causing me so much angst, but Les is more of a realist than I am, because he observes, “But not in the ’80 Olympics. Win.”

With that last command, Les leaves the locker room and walks out onto the ice, where he fires a puck into the net and raises his stick in a lackluster gesture of jubilation. Les is very wise here, since in life you always have to look on the bright side.

On that bittersweet note, Les exits the rink and the film, so we’ll bid adieu to one another until it’s time for me to analyze the next installment.

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: The Stars versus the Olympians

After the confrontation in the creepy hallway, it’s time for the game between the North Stars and the US Olympians. The game coverage begins with an annoying announcer’s voice providing the commentary: “From the Metropolitan Sports Center in Bloomington, Minnesota, home of the Minnesota North Stars, it’s the North Stars of the National Hockey League against US Olympic team.” What a pompous guy, referring to the National Hockey League instead of just calling it the NHL like virtually everyone else on the planet. I already dislike this announcer even more than Pierre McGuire, which is saying something since the following meme depicts my relationship with Pierre McGuire’s NHL commentary quite succinctly:

Getting past my detest-at-first-hearing feelings for the commentator of this Stars and US Olympic team game, it’s time for us to listen in as the US team completes a warm-up skate. As they circle the arena, Buzz asks Les Auge, “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Shrugging repeatedly, Les Auge replies, “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t feel ready, you know.” What a weird answer. If you don’t feel ready, then you know exactly how you feel, so don’t start off by saying that you don’t have a clue what emotions you are experiencing, because it makes you sound like this:

“Yeah, I do,” Rizzo answers, “but for me, it’s now or never, you know?” I feel like “you know” has been really overused in this conversation by now, you know? I think we should disembowel the scriptwriters, you know, for making us listen to this drivel, you know. You know, someone should have explained to them that an excessive amount of “you know” doesn’t add veracity to dialogue; what it contributes is aggravation that will heighten a lot of viewers’ blood pressure.

Shifting away from the warm-ups, the camera pans over the crowd, and then we are informed by the pompous announcer, “Ready for the opening faceoff now between Johnson and Bernard. ”

Bernard opens the game’s trash talk with this charming comment, “Keep your head up, Johnson. It’s gonna be a long night for everyone. Tonight you play hard ball.” I guess this rather lame attempt at an intimidation tactic is Bernard’s way of warning Mark that he’s supposedly going to spend the night celebrating like this if he wins a faceoff:

Mark wins the faceoff but he shouldn’t bother rejoicing, since, as soon as he passes the puck to Robbie, Robbie coughs up the puck almost immediately because maintaining puck possession or even going with a dump-and-chase style is so passé. Way to set a strong tone like a first line winger should, Robbie.

As the action lumbers along, it becomes increasingly clear that the actors who play the Olympians (and the North Stars) entire hockey experience is limited to once having participated in a round of Nok Hockey at the pool. None of these guys can skate or pass, nonetheless skate and pass at the same time, so watching this part of the movie is just brutal to anyone who has ever seen a hockey game or even just imagined what one might be like to witness. It’s only a short but excruciating time before the US Olympic team’s terrible technique results in a breakaway opportunity for the North Stars because nobody on the US squad can figure out how to give or receive a pass and certainly nobody thought to hang back on defense:

Steve Guttenberg, who is ridiculously uncoordinated in this segment of the film, reaches for the totally wrong part of the net in a sad stab at a glove save, and, of course, the North Stars score, leading me to believe that the block of wood in Nok Hockey is a better goaltender than Steve Guttenberg, so pick that slab of wood for your fantasy hockey team before Steve Guttenberg.

On the bench, Herb tries to steady the crew by shouting, “All right. Pavelich, Schneider, Harrington.” As the Coneheads climb over the bench for a line change, Herb is probably asking himself:

The commentator babbles on about how this game is, “A tough initiation for the US Olympic team after coming back from a ten game tour of Europe. That have to accustomize themselves to a physical, North American style.” That’s kind of an odd statement to make. The players on the US Olympic team would have been raised with the more physical North American style. Being that they aren’t goldfish, I think they’d be fine transitioning back to the North American style after only a few weeks of playing the European version because they have things called long term memory and muscle memory.

At this point, we have an awkward blend of actual footage of the North Stars and Olympic team game and shots of Karl Malden on the bench. It all just comes across as very clunky. The real footage destroys any suspension of disbelief that might still exist in the audience by reminding us that Karl Malden isn’t really Herb Brooks and the actors bumbling around on ice aren’t really the Miracle boys. What should have been done was either using all fake footage or relying entirely on the real footage of the game for this part of the movie, because this mixing-and-matching effect isn’t working.

This montage reaches a climax when Christian gets into a fight and then everyone else on the team piles into the fray in a bench-clearing brawl since if you can’t beat them on the scoreboard you might as well beat them with your fists. Apparently having sustained permanent brain damage from his stint in the NHL, Patrick asks what this is and is informed by Herb that it’s a “crowd pleaser.”

Then we’re back in the locker room, where Herb addresses his team, remarking, “Sometimes a good kick in the butt is good for a top athlete. It helps them grow, build a team. I can’t say that you played well out there tonight. The score could have been worse. It could have been worse than four goals to two, but you’ve got to give your all all the time. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. And we’ve still got to get down to twenty players before we face the Russians, and they’re hungry but really hungry. I keep telling you over and over and over, if you want to do your best, depend on each other, all of you, especially Craig and Eruzione.”

In other words, Herb is asking his team (especially Craig and Eruzione, since that’s the movie’s new clever inside joke that makes me want to trample over plants):

“If you want to be your best,” Herb bellows, “then skate together as a team and not for yourselves.”

The guy sitting next to Rizzo whose name and number I can’t read whispers to Mike, “I think he hates you.”

Mike mutters back, “I get the feeling.” Obviously, the boys think that Herb sits around, jabbing fingers at the roster and exclaiming:

“Quiet, Mike,” Herb orders, remembering to actually follow the rules of his name scheme.

Mike says, “Yes, sir.” Then he asks the person next to him, “Did he call me ‘Mike’?”

Well, what this script lacks in the subtlety department, it makes up for in sheer stupidity by thinking that everyone in the audience is as dumb as the scriptwriters, because the terrible joke refuses to die a natural death, as Herb states, “Yes, Mike. You heard right.” I’d threaten to kill a plant for every time this dead horse of a joke gets revived for another flogging, but I don’t want to destroy the Amazon, so I’ll try to control my burning rage.

Continuing to roam around the locker room, Herb rants on, “Tonight you had a chance to skate against the pros. Ask yourselves if you were ready for them, and then stop to think how tough the pros found the Russians. If you don’t respect them, you can’t respect yourselves. Practice tomorrow morning ten o’clock.”

With that, Herb leaves the locker room and steps out into the corridor, where Patty greets him, commenting, “You look pleased.”

“I am,” Herb declares as dramatic music throbs in the background as it must for every important piece of dialogue in this film. “Tonight they became a team.”

Wrapping her elbow in Herb’s, Patty inquires, “Does that mean you’ll win?”

Shaking his head, Herb, ever the downer, responds, “Not necessarily, but if we lose, we’re going to do it together.” In other words, Herb is saying:

There can’t be a much nobler team sentiment than that, so on that note, we’ll end this discussion until next time.

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: No Interviews but Whining out the Wazoo

We’re back in Minnesota and driving past a billboard that announces the North Stars will be facing off against our beloved USA Olympic squad on September 29^th. I can hardly wait, so I hope the movie speeds things along for us.

As they drive along in their station wagon, Herb tells Patty why he can’t make it to some social dinner because he has to run another practice before the next game, which apparently will take up one whole evening, and he has to check the equipment, which he claims will also take up an entire evening. Flipping through Patty’s planner, Herb asks if they can re-arrange the dinner for next Tuesday instead. Presumably, next week Herb will schedule a tooth removal appointment to get out of whatever event Patty is organizing, and the team will wonder why Herb can’t schedule a practice in the morning like a normal coach so they can have a night life.

Patty looks upset, and perhaps for once picking up on a human emotion in this film, Herb comments that it’s good to be home. Unappeased, Patty remarks that she hadn’t noticed he was home. This is the mandatory moaning about marriage scene, obviously. Patty, dear, I’ve got one question for you:

Trying again to stop an argument before it can start, Herb explains, “I didn’t figure it would take that much time. Would you believe I thought I would be with you more?”

“Sure,” Patty responds. “At least I believe you believed it, but I’m a realist, Herb. That’s probably why our marriage lasted.” Ouch. Herb needs to do a better job with the damage control if he doesn’t want to spend the next two weeks of evenings that he isn’t coaching practice and checking equipment sleeping on the sofa, since Patty is emitting almost all the signs of an angry woman right now.

Herb’s whole face crumbles like a condemned building, and it’s kind of sad, as he presses, “Is it that bad?”

Finally relenting, Patty shakes her head and answers, as she leans forward to cradle his neck, “No. Even if it was, it’d still be worth it.”

Deciding to turn the scene into a total mush-fest, Herb states, “Pat, there is one problem. I’m beginning to think we have a real chance of winning.” Given how much of a prophet of Olympic doom Herb has been to everyone about the odds of his team not being utterly outclassed in Lake Placid, you’ll have to forgive me when I say:

Seriously, until Herb ceases his habit of complaining to those nearest and dearest to him about everything pertaining to coaching this destined-for-failure Olympic team, I’m not going to believe that he thinks his team has a snowball’s chance in Hades of winning an Olympic medal.

Patty, fortunately for Herb, is more encouraging than I am, so she replies, “It wouldn’t surprise me.” Then Herb and Patty exchange a nice kiss on the lips, and it would probably be much cuter if Karl Malden had any good looks whatsoever.

Before things heat up too much between Patty and Herb, the scene transitions to the locker room, where the Olympic team is preparing for the game against the North Stars. Dave Christian is being interviewed by a reporter who is prodding about whether he feels any extra pressure because his dad and uncle were on the 1960 squad that won gold in Squaw Valley. Why is he asking this?

Humoring (or perhaps trolling) the reporter, Dave offers the following quote with maximum irony: “Okay. It has been my dream since I was a little boy to play on the Olympic team, ever since I was on bob-skates on the local pond. This is a final chapter in a long quest, and I know that with hard work, competitive edge, and good old American spirit, we can out-do even the gold-medal team of ’60.” Well, honestly, the triumph of hard work, competitive edge, and good old American spirit might be the whole theme of this movie, so it’s a relief that it doesn’t take itself too seriously with its joke of a script and terrible acting, though, maybe if it had taken itself a bit more seriously, the acting and scriptwriting would be better. That’s a debate for the comment section, though, so have at it there.

Realizing that he’s being a sarcastic jerk to someone who can ruin him in print, Dave claps the reporter on the arm and apologizes, “Oh, I’m sorry. Why don’t you try one of the other guys?” Jeez, Dave, way to throw your teammates under the media van. I’m sure they’ll love having a microphone shoved under their mouth as much as you did.

Before the reporter can badger some other unlucky player, Herb barges into the locker room ready to rip into anyone he can sink his teeth into, and I’ve found the perfect theme song the team should play every time he enters:

True to form, Herb snaps, “I have strict rules. No reporters in the locker room without my permission.” Looking at Coach Patrick as if Patrick is somehow to blame for the reporter breaking the rules, he adds, “I thought I made that clear.”

Striding toward the door with no shortage of swagger, the reporter remarks that he’s got what he wanted. That will probably just spill kerosene on top of Herb’s bonfire.

Determined to make things go from bad to worse, the reporter shoves his microphone under Herb’s nose and points out that he could use a quote from the coach to go with his story. Herb just glares at the reporter as if he wants to do this to the guy before the story can be published:

Deciding that getting a concussion isn’t worth it, the reporter takes his leave, and, as Coach Patrick shuts the door, Herb demands, “What the hell was he doing here?”

Being the total wimp he is, Coach Patrick pleas, “I can’t be everywhere at once. Look at it this way, Herb. The only place guys like that don’t bug you is in Russia.” Yes, in Soviet Russia, you bug reporter. Ha ha. In all seriousness, though, Patrick, just tell Herb that if he has a rule he needs to be the one to enforce it if he wants any respect from his players or the media. Don’t be such a carpet to walk all over, Patrick. It’s driving me bananas.

Here, Coach Patrick makes the mistake of laughing at his own (not particularly funny) joke in a desperate bid to reduce the tension that ultimately backfires when Herb glares daggers at him before barking at the locker room, “Get this, and get it straight. This is a team. There are no stars, no special people, and the media hype isn’t going to create one, so they’ll be no interviews. I repeat: no interviews! Next one will cost you a fine or worse.”

Now, at first hearing, this may sound like a tyrannical measure, but I’m willing to give Herb the benefit of the doubt here, since, although hockey is a sport that requires players to wear suits to meet with the media after the game, most of the interviewees have the grace and eloquence of a rhino smashing through a ballet. This is not necessarily their fault, because here’s the thing I want everybody to understand about hockey: this is a sport that mostly dudes (and also ladies, but the ladies cannot play professionally or with contact, sadly) from colder places such as Canada, Russia, Sweden, Finland, the icebox parts of the USA, and Hoth get very obsessed with. So obsessed, in fact, that they often leave home at a relatively young age and enter a kind of icehouse world of hugging and intense warrior bonds. Basically, they spend eight months a year away from their families, bonding with other dudes, so they’re about as conversationally adept as Forrest Gump when he informs President Kennedy that he has to visit the facilities:

This heavy schedule leaves them no time to develop social skills, normal relationships with human beings who aren’t their teammates, and in extreme cases like Sidney Crosby, personalities. It also leaves them with no time to develop an adult sense of style. They generally seem to keep dressing exactly the way they did when they were fourteen, and if you look around your average middle school or high school, you will get a sense of why that is a bad idea. If I got to enact a rule in hockey tomorrow – okay, I’d make every single head contact illegal for real-but if I got to make a second one, it would involve gel rationing. Basically, everything you did after you turned fourteen, these guys missed because they had a game, and that’s why even articulate, relatively mature hockey players like Zach Parise show up to interviews during the Stanley Cup Finals carrying a baby cup instead of a Dasani or a Gatorade bottle stolen off the bench:

That meme just sums up every possible reason why Herb would not want his players doing interviews, because it just ends in awkwardness and embarrassment for everyone involved.

Bah doesn’t see the benevolence inherent in the dictatorship, so he mutters to Pav, “Hasn’t he ever heard of freedom of the press?” Hmm…my geek may be showing here, but isn’t freedom of the press only about a person’s right to write and publish whatever they want so long as it isn’t libel, and not about everybody’s ability to be interviewed whenever they choose? If you want to insist on your right to give an interview, I’d argue more from the grounds of free speech than freedom of the press, but that’s just me. It doesn’t really matter, since both are covered in the Bill of Rights, which most hockey players from the USA probably haven’t read, bless their souls.

Herb marches over to Bah and observes with a quiet menace, “I heard that, Harrington.” Maybe next time Bah should wait until Herb leaves the locker room to provide a whispered commentary. To nobody’s surprise, Herb then proceeds to flip out just as Bruce Boudreau did when he was coaching the Capitals and dropped about twenty f-bombs in the course of five seconds:

Stalking around the locker room like a prowling carnivore, Herb snarls, “Maybe you guys have forgotten, tonight we play the NHL, and they’re not impressed with your 8-2 record in Europe. If this was Russia, all you guys would be shipped to the Trans-Siberian All-Stars.” Ah, well, at least they made the All-Stars even if it is in Siberia #US Olympic Team Positives.

Jabbing a finger at Jimmy, Herb decides to make things extra personal, ordering, “Craig, get your act together. If you’re going to play hockey, play hockey. Forget the personal stuff. You can’t serve two masters.” So, hockey should be God, Herb? Got it. I’m waiting for the impending lightning bolt strike.

Tapping Rizzo’s pad, Herb goes off on another tirade, saying that if Rizzo wants to spend the rest of his life playing in the minors, he should keep playing as he is.

Then, Herb exits the locker room, leaving everyone feeling like the victims of this prank:

Reacting much like the last guy in that video, Rizzo storms into the hallway after Herb, shouting, “Hey, Herb!”

As he pivots to confront Rizzo, Herb asks, “Why aren’t you on the ice? Figure you don’t need it?” Maybe because you just finished speaking twenty seconds ago, Herb, and if Rizzo’s supposed to be on the ice, why aren’t you behind the bench? This is yet another piece of dialogue that makes no sense when thought about for more than two seconds, because there are limits in the in the official NHL rule book regulating how long players can spend on the ice warming up before a game.

Rizzo, replies, “How much practice I gotta do, that’s your decision, but how you tell me is something else.” Thank God someone on this team is actually trying to set limits with Herb. Patrick, please take notes on how this works, so you don’t get run over at least once every scene in which you make an appearance.

Herb, in his role as Master of the Cliché, retorts, “If you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen.”

Rizzo counters, “Regular heat’s okay, Herb, but you’re on my back and Craig’s, too. We’re scapegoats.”

“So?” Herb answers with increasing mania in every sentence. “You guys are sitting around dreaming about the pros. Well, in a few hours, you’re going to get a chance to play them. You’re going to get a chance to show your stuff, and you’re all going to do lousy unless you play together as a team. They’re going to come out hitting, and you guys aren’t ready for them.”

Calming down a fraction, Herb continues, “Look, someone’s got to take the heat. I told you before, if I kept you it would be for the good of the team. Now you’ve got broad shoulders. I want to make a deal with you. If I use your first name, the heat is on you. If I use your second name, you’re the scapegoat. I’m using you to get to the whole team.”

The dialogue is of dubious quality as always, but I enjoy the second part of Herb’s comment, anyway, because I know that Herb had an arrangement with Rizzo and OC that if he used their surnames, he was using them to make a point to the team, and if he employed their first names, he was actually addressing them. It’s a neat concept that I’m glad the movie touches on even if the execution is as always somewhat lacking in the subtlety department.

His face contorting into something that might be an attempt at a wink (but looks more like a grimace) Herb instructs Rizzo to pass that message along to Craig, too. I guess Herb’s already breaking his own rules about when to use the last names. As Willy Wonka would phrase it, you lose, Herb.

When Herb walks away, Rizzo calls after him, “Hey, Herb. Which one is supposed to tell him, Mike or Rizzie? And who do you want me to tell it to, Craig or Jimmy?”

Herb gives a slight smile and walks away, which I assume means that the movie is establishing this as a lame little continuing joke. Please prove me wrong, movie.

Dramatic music swells in the background, and all I can think is that when whining becomes an Olympic sport, this team will definitely win gold. Until next time without the complaining of the participants of the movie assaulting your eardrums at every moment, I’ll leave you to ponder:

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: A Musical and Pictorial Odyssey through Europe

Now that Herb’s rattled a can under important people’s noses to fundraise pennies for his boys, the scene shifts to an airport. Inside one of the planes, Coach Patrick is shouting at the team to settle down because he wants to take a headcount, just as if this were an elementary school field trip.

After boarding the plane and flirting with a stewardess, OC (whose arrival proves that Coach Patrick should have waited until the final boarding call to begin his headcount) calls out to Coach Patrick that there’s a reporter outside wanting to interview Jimmy.

Leaning over Rizzo’s seat, Coach Patrick asks if Mike’s heard from Jimmy and Rizzo replies that he hasn’t, but he supposes that Jimmy’s going to show. This is a really weird conversation, to be honest. Shouldn’t Coach Patrick, who presumably booked the plane tickets, have the best idea of who is coming on the trip? Why would you buy planes tickets without being certain of how many people are going, and how do you, if you are in a position of authority on a journey, board a plane without a complete tally of how many members are in your group? Also, why even attempt a headcount if you aren’t sure how many heads you are supposed to be counting? Is it just to soothe pre-flight nerves or something? At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if this travel scenario ended as well as wrong way one during the cross-country trip in Dumb and Dumber did:

Craning his head to address OC, Coach Patrick instructs OC to just tell the reporter that Herb doesn’t allow interviews. This is a good piece of characterization since Herb’s hostile attitude toward interaction with the media was very reminiscent of Tortorella:

Showing how different plane security was back then, OC just gets off the plane to pass this message along to the reporter, whereas now he wouldn’t be allowed to just turn around and get off the plane, and the reporter wouldn’t have been allowed near the runway without a boarding pass.

A moment later, Jim bounds onto the plane and is greeted with a lot of playful swats from his teammates because:

As he takes his seat, Jim comments, “You guys aren’t going to the hotspots of Europe without me.” Then there is a lot of laughter and corny (and rather inaudible) joking about this statement. After that, while dramatic music swells in the background, the plane takes off, and the team has officially embarked on their European adventure.

The next scene takes place in Amsterdam (which is in the Netherlands for all of those who failed Geography 101), as the boys exit a hotel and board a bus. Still chomping on his ever-present wad of gum, OC saunters up to Pav and announces, “Hey, I’ll do you a favor, I’ll sit with you even though you are from Minneapolis.” I hope Pav responds like that soldier in the Monty Python French Taunter scene, which in my opinion is one of the pinnacles of British comedy:

Pav’s response is almost as epic. He scoots over to steal the seat OC was about to slip into, and when OC appears baffled by this slight, the guy sitting behind Pav (whom I believe is Bah, but can’t be sure since half the characters in this film all look the same and should be forced to wear their numbers and uniforms all the time so they can be distinguished from one another even if that is the dystopian plot of a thousand futuristic novels) taps Pav on the shoulder and informs OC, “What the troubadour is trying to say is he’s not from Minneapolis.”

Spreading his hands, OC says, “Okay, I’m sorry, all right?” After a moment’s hesitation, Pav relents and moves over so OC can join him. Lounging in his chair, OC asks Pav, “So, where’d you say you guys were from—the Iron Range? It’s the same thing as Minneapolis, isn’t it?” Yes, OC, a place with the term Range in it is obviously near the Twin Cities. At this point, I can just see OC thinking this on the bus ride through Europe:

“Sure,” Pav scoffs, not tolerating OC’s Boston ignorance and arrogance, “like South Boston is the same thing as Beacon Hill. You guys are really dumb about the rest of the country, you know that? We’re just as poor as you or Craig, so why don’t you just lay off the upside-down snobbery, huh?” Rock on, Pav. You tell him.

OC exchanges a glance with Rizzo, who is sitting across the aisle from him, and then Coach Patrick climbs into the bus, calling, “Okay, it’s going to be about ten hours before we get there.” When the bus fills with groans, he raises his voice even further: “Listen up, listen up, everybody is responsible for their own equipment just like here. Okay?”

There is a chorus of acknowledgement, and then Rizzo wants to know, “Hey, Patty, do we have to keep on our suit coats and ties or what?”

Coach Patrick tells the guys to get comfortable, and as everybody loosens their ties, he demands cheerfully, “Where’s my seat?”

Some banter ensues, and then OC stands up, telling Coach Patrick that he can take his seat if he doesn’t mind sitting in the kiddie section. Then Rizzo rises and takes OC’s seat, saying, “Take mine, Patty. I got it warm for you.” It’s like musical chairs or a Chinese fire drill.

As he slides into Rizzo’s empty seat, Coach Patrick opines, “You guys never let up, do you?”

Rizzo looks at Pav and remarks, “I guess we’re all a little homesick, huh?” Pav gives a small smile, and then Herb enters the bus, and the atmosphere drops to sub zero temperatures as the bus drives off.

Plucking away at his guitar, Pav serenades us with “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” since this is a family friendly film, after all, Just kidding. He really offers a rendition of Simon and Garfunkel’s “America.”

As Pav sings that tune, a montage of various moments from the team’s games in Europe flash across the screen, so I recommend that you hum the tune to yourself as I take you on a meme journey of the European games.

Les Auge gets smashed into the boards and is probably thinking:

Pav gets in a scuffle along the boards to show us all the definition of hockey:

Broten (whose last name is spelled correctly on his jersey) scores a goal, and it’s so awesome:

Christian has a goal, too:

Ramsey uses his backside to send an opponent into a somersault:

Then we’re back on a plane for the flight back home for America, as the whirlwind tour of Europe is done. As Ken returns to his seat, a stewardess asks for his autograph, which he gives to her. There’s whistling and college boy teasing, and then when Ken sits down, Jim asks why the married guys get all the attention. I’m sure their wives would also be interested in that answer. Maybe this isn’t such a family friendly film, after all.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ken answers. “She’ll get to you. They’re all big hockey fans in her country. She wants all the autographs.”

Leaning forward from the row behind Ken, Bill chimes in, “It’s about time we got a little respect.”

“Oh yeah?” Ken replies. “Well, according to her, there’s no way we’re going to beat the Russians.”

Rob, who is sitting next to Ken, shakes his head dismissively, and comments in a very smug tone, “Oh, that comes from living too close to the Soviets. It’s called geopolitical absorption.” Now, that may sound confusing, folks, but just remember, Rob’s only using sophisticated words to dress up a basic fact that everyone except evil egomaniacs like Napoleon and Hitler learned in European history, and those who don’t learn in boring class discover in a very painful practice:

“Geopolitical absorption, Robbie?” echoes OC, and this whole conversation is so hilarious, because these two are bantering about Cold War global politics, which is totally true to both their characters. “That’s the poet in you right?”

“Wrong,” Rob sasses back. “Political Science 401. It’s a fancy word that means being scared of the guy who lives next store.”

“Yeah, well, wait until we get to Lake Placid,” scoffs OC. “We’ll see who absorbs who.” This is all starting to sound very Freudian, but really this geopolitical debate was very amusing in an extremely intellectual way like the constitutional peasant scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail although the script and the acting are obviously inferior by light-years but why quibble over minor details.

There are a lot of grins to go around at this remark, and then Rizzo states as the stewardess starts collecting everyone’s signatures, “What I wouldn’t give to beat them. It sure would make up for a lot.”

As Rizzo gives his autograph to the stewardess, Bill addresses her thus: “Excuse me. I have it on good authority that you want details on our secret plan to beat the Russians.”

“Secret?” repeats the stewardess, following the traditional airline approach of being as rude as possible to the customer. “What is this secret plan? I saw your game last night. You’ll never beat the Soviet Union. Never.”

The secret plan, as devised by Herb, silly stewardess, is to lull the Soviet Union into a false sense of superiority by putting on poor performances like the one in Madison Square Garden before the Olympics, and then just dominating in the medal round.

There’s an awkward silence, and then OC declares, “We’ll see about that.” Then the scene ends by panning out to a shot of the plane soaring through the clouds, and on that note I’ll leave all my lovely readers to fly about their lovely business until the next installment. I hope everyone enjoyed their musical and pictorial trip through Europe. Please take all your belongings out of the overhead compartment before departing the cyberplane.

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Money Talks

This next segment begins with a high level of excitement as Patrick pounds away on a typewriter. Now for those of you who don’t know what a typewriter is, it’s one of those ancient pieces of technology that people used to write things in type on before personal computers and laptops were invented. These devices were annoying (my parents say) because they did not connect to the Internet, you couldn’t delete stuff, and the Cut/Copy/Paste function did not exist. We should all feel very sorry for Patrick having to endure these technological Dark Ages, but at least he has lived long enough to experience the wonder that is the iPhone.

Having addressed the mystery of what a typewriter is, we can go back to wondering what Patrick is typing up on this antiquated contraption. Fortunately, the movie does not keep us in suspense for long because this isn’t a horror film. Almost immediately, the camera zooms in on the paper, and, as dramatic music swells in the background, we see that it is a list of the boys who survived the first cuts.

Then the scene shifts to a hallway in which the list of players is affixed to a bulletin board, and we can read the names of the boys in question. The list is organized alphabetically, which is perfectly fine, but it has Neal Broten’s name spelled wrong, which is not. There it is at the third slot, staring us insolently in the face, Neil Broten instead of Neal Broten. In other words, Patrick messed up twenty-five percent of Neal’s first name, or else just assumed that Neal’s parents couldn’t spell and took it upon himself to rectify their errors. This is one of the more hilarious hockey identity mistakes I’ve seen in awhile. It’s almost as good as the time Bobby Clarke forgot Claude Giroux’s name on draft day or the time the wrong Sedin twin was sent to the penalty box. Almost but not quite, so get your act together, Patrick. I mean, you had one job to do, and you messed it up. Think, McFly, think.

All right, I’ve made enough of a mockery of pathetic Patrick by now. I actually don’t think it’s Patrick that’s the real idiot here, but rather the scriptwriters because I highly doubt this is some form of subtle characterization. I think the scriptwriters aren’t even aware that Neal’s name is spelled wrong, which, of course, is their prerogative. After all, it wasn’t like he was going to be an NHL All-Star, be the first American to have a hundred point season, get his number retired by an NHL franchise, or be the first American to score a Stanley Cup winning goal. Okay, I’m going to take a deep breath, calm down, and repeat, “Personal US Hockey Hall of Fame” to myself ten times, although it’s not as if Neal isn’t in the real one. Twice: with the 1980 Olympic team and by himself. All right. I’m over this snub now, because hockey hindsight is a beautiful thing that makes people like these scriptwriters look like morons all the time.

Getting past the insult of nobody knowing how to spell Neal’s name, the real drama in this scene begins when Paradis realizes his name isn’t on the list and confronts Patrick, channeling Victor Meldrew and saying, “Hey, Patrick. I don’t believe it. I mean, I just don’t believe it.”

Trying to be firm and sympathetic at the same time, Patrick replies, “Paradis, we warned you; you just weren’t putting out. I’m sorry.” That’s an actual piece of dialogue. I’m not making this up, even though it sounds like a bad break-up line that a coach should never in a million years be caught saying to a player for fear of sexual harassment charges.

At this point, Paradis completely loses his composure, ranting, “Don’t be. You’re just wasting your time. I mean, the Russians are going to beat you so bad!” His shouting prompts several of the boys in the hallway reading the list to turn around and stare at him. Poor Paradis. I’m sure he just needs a hug from a Tickle Me Emo.

The scene shifts to Rizzo talking to his girlfriend on a payphone, saying, “Donna, I swear I’m terrific… No, I haven’t seen the list yet.”

Rizzo’s romantic moment is interrupted by Les Auge bursting in, hollering about how they both made the team.

In a manifestation of their rapidly developing hockey bromance, Rizzo drops the phone and charges over to hug Les, who babbles something about the font size their names are written in, acting like an excitable toddler on sugar high.

While Les and Rizzo are embracing, a stream of boys races into the hallway and begins clutching at the payphone, since apparently everybody wants to be the first one to tell everyone they know that they made the team. There was definitely a much higher risk of trampling during the days before cell phones.

Rizzo rushes toward the phone, but by the time he grabs it, his call to Donna has already been disconnected, and he has to beg a dime of a teammate.

The scene shifts to a dorm room where Rizzo and some other guys are packing. Walking out of the room with a duffel bag in hand, Les taps Rizzo on the arm, commenting, “Come on, Rizzo. Let’s go.”

Rizzo responds that he’ll see Les outside, and then Dave Christian remarks as Les leaves, “I still can’t believe this is happening. I think my family has been waiting for this since I was born.” What’s this? Is this a subtle reference to the fact that Dave’s dad and uncle were members of the 1960 team that won gold in Squaw Valley? I think it is. I’m such a happy panda right now. Nobody touch me. The feelings are too electric.

“Yeah,” Jim answers from his perch in the corner. “My father’s going to be real happy.”

At this point, Thompson enters and interrupts the powwow by declaring, “Well, at least I don’t have to put up with you any more, Craig.” Thanks for sharing that classy sentiment, Thompson. Please let the door slam on your finger when you leave.

Standing up, Jim demands, “Thompson, got anything else to say?” No, Jim. Don’t feed the troll. Ignore him, and maybe he’ll retreat back under the Bridge of Death from whence he came.

For once not being a jerk just in time for his departure so we have to feel a tiny bit sorry about him leaving, Thompson replies as he shakes hands with Jim, “Yeah. Good luck to you. Good luck to all you guys. I wish to hell I was gonna be with you.” On that final note, he turns around and exits the room, and this is probably the last time we’ll ever see him, so take out your Kleenex if you need them.

After some melancholy music plays in the background, the scene switches to a bank in Boston, where Jim walks into an office, saying, “Dad?”

Looking up from his paperwork and holding onto his glasses, the banker (who is not Jim’s dad), answers, “Hi, Jimmy.”

His dad’s welcome is less warm, asking, “Jimmy, what are you doing here?”

Jim responds that he was told his dad is taking out a loan, and his dad attempts to assure him that “it’s nothing big” and just to tide them over. Unconvinced by this, Jim counters that he can’t let his dad do that, and his father insists that it’s none of his business. Jim wants to know if his father is taking out a loan so he can play in the Olympics, and his dad answers while the banker looks on with wide eyes, “Look, it’s what you want. It’s what the family wants for you.”

“The family can’t afford it,” Jim argues.

Lifting a hand, Jim’s dad replies, “That’s between your mom and me.”

Jim points out, “You can’t speak for Ma.”

Standing up, his dad says, “Yes, I can. She was there when you dreamed it, she was there when we planned it, and she’ll be there when it’s done.” Then he shakes the banker’s hand, thanks him, and leaves the office.

As soon as his dad is out of earshot, Jim states, “I can’t let him do this.”

The banker shrugs, and asks, “What can you do?”

Jim wants to know if he can use the banker’s phone and is told there is a payphone in the lobby. While Jim moves toward the payphones, the camera zooms in on the banker’s bewildered face.

The scene shifts to Herb’s kitchen, where he is working late at night on line combinations for his Olympic team using the photos, when the telephone rings. Picking it up, he snaps, “Yeah? What’d he say? Well, it’s a pity! It’s a damn pity! Bye!”

As Herb hangs up the phone in his typical terrible temper, Patty appears in the doorway, and Herb greets her with a terse, “Phone wake you up? I’m sorry.”

Patting Herb’s shoulders as she crosses the kitchen to take a seat, Patty assures him that it’s okay and remarks that it’s after two o’clock.

Herb relates that he’s “never given up hope” in his life, a statement that is at blatant odds with the pessimism he’s displayed in every scene that he’s shown up in to date. The Herb of this film is clearly in denial. Being his usual miserable self, Herb continues to vent about how all the problems facing him are just too depressing because he doesn’t know who he is still going to have around in February, so he just keeps wishing that the Olympics were over.

When Patty inquires what happened, Herb informs her, “That was a lawyer on the phone. Craig’s family is stretched for money. He wants to turn pro. He feels that’s his only choice.”

Sipping her coffee, Patty asks, “Can I tell you what I think?”

Waving his hand at her, Herb growls, “Go ahead! Shoot! Tell me.”

“Stop worrying about next year,” Patty suggests, all earnestness and passion. “Make a team out of these kids. Take it moment to moment. Craig can’t be the first boy in Olympic history to face money troubles. There are solutions.”

Not wanting to listen to the voice of reason, Herb scoffs, “Oh, it’s that simple, huh?”

“Yes, if you’re determined,” Patty insists before throwing down the gauntlet. “If not, quit.”

“Quit?” Herb rumbles. “Well, at least you’ve given me my alternatives, haven’t you? Quit!”

Turning to address her husband one final time as she exits the kitchen, Patty adds seductively, “The third choice is to come to bed now that I’m awake.”

Showing that testosterone levels are indeed lowered in men of a certain age, Herb stares after her for a moment and then resumes toying around with line combinations. Patty is a lovely, kind, and intelligent woman who deserves better treatment than this, so Herb has earned all the boos in the world here.

Next scene, Herb is sitting in front of a desk, making a case to a suited man busy studying a pamphlet. Herb contends, “You see, the Russians make all their players army officers, while we in turn, we…” Trailing off, he makes a hand gesture indicating nothing.

Yes, Herb, state-sponsored athletic systems are always wonderful institutions. That’s why KGB guards monitored the Soviet teams to ensure none of them defected. That’s why players like the Stastny brothers and Fedorov risked their lives and futures to flee to the Western world and the NHL. That’s why Fetisov and Larionov fought tooth and nail for the freedom to leave the Soviet team and play in the NHL at the twilight of their careers. You might want to come up with a better argument than that, Herb, since America isn’t a Communist country.

“Yes, yes, yes,” answers the man behind the desk in the typical tone of someone trying to brush somebody else off, “this isn’t quite my department, but I’ll see what our Mr. Sears says. He’s in advertising and publicity. Corporate.”

See, Herb, America is a capitalist country, so we have departments for advertizing and publicity. If you want to fundraise for your team, you should look into advertizing deals. Perhaps your team can be featured on a Wheaties box or something.

In another office, Herb explains, “Craig will be living with the team’s doctor, so he won’t be paying any rent, but without corporate help we can’t compete. Like the ad says, America doesn’t send athletes to the Olympics, Americans do.”

Once again, Herb, who finally seems to be learning what it means to live in a capitalist society, is shunted to another department after being told by Mr. Sears that this is more a matter for Anderson, the Vice President of Community Relations, to handle.

The scene shifts to Anderson’s office, where, rifling through photos of the boys, Anderson asks, “Are you sure these players will make the team? It’s never easy to dismiss personnel, but sometimes…”

“The 1960 squad—the one that actually went on to win gold—I was the last man cut from that team,” Herb responds. “They didn’t handle it to well. Now, if these players weren’t sure bets, I’d let them know right now. I wouldn’t be running around looking for a sponsor for them.”

Cracking a smile, Anderson comments that the president of his division was a varsity player at Duluth, so they should all sit down to have lunch together. This is how things get done in a capitalist country, Herb. You network over lunch based on common connections in the hope of getting someone richer than you to fund your project. It’s sickening, but at least you don’t have to spend all day waiting for handouts in the Toilet Tissue line as you would in a Communist country. Misery is always relative, and on that note, I’ll leave you to stew in the relative injustices of Communism and capitalism until the next installment…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Beers and Brawls

After Herb and Patrick’s heated discussion about agents, the scene transitions back to the arena, where Patrick is putting the boys through a skating drill that involves him blowing a whistle every couple of seconds at which point the guys performing the drill come to a hockey stop.

Since a hockey stop is one of the first things a player should learn, I find it vaguely amusing that any significant Olympic training is devoted to honing what should be an automatic reaction by now. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t laugh, because the Florida Panthers have been known to have more men on the ice than on the bench as a hilarious result of a routine line change, so perhaps Herb is prudent to return to the basics, and not assume that his players were ever taught the fundamentals of hockey. Just because you have skill doesn’t mean you were educated in technique, after all.

Watching the hockey stop drill from his perch on the bleachers, Herb shakes his head and makes notes on a clipboard. Then the scene shifts to his office, where he is seen removing pictures from the wall and tucking them in an envelope containing photos of the guys to be cut.

After that, we’re in a bar, and a tender is placing a drink in front of Jim Craig. I think Steve Guttenberg actually looks better in the dim light. I guess for Steve Guttenberg moonlight is becoming, and total darkness even more, but I digress. Let’s focus on the fact that some curly-haired girl is with Thompson but obviously bored because he’s ignoring her, so she saunters over to Jim, giving a radiant smile, as she says, “Hi.”

Jim glances over his shoulder to check that she’s talking to him, and then answers with a grin, “Hi.”

Leaning closer to Jim, the girl asks, “You a hockey player?”

Jim replies that he’s a goalie, and then the girl jumps to the question that really interests her, wanting to know, “You alone?”

His mouth twisting, Jim responds, “Well, if you don’t count the twenty-odd hockey players roaming around this place, yeah, I guess you could say I’m alone.”

The girl and Jim share a laugh at that, but I’m not really amused. Jim Craig actually had a fiancée during this time, so unless their engagement involves some wacky beliefs about only women needing to keep their virtue or a provision about one night stands with strangers just met in bars being completely acceptable, I cannot approve of what’s going on here.

Thompson, who is also not a fan of the road this conversation is speeding down, steps out of the shadows and demands, “Hey, Craig, shouldn’t you be in bed?” Jeez, Thompson, beds might not be the best objects to bring up when your girlfriend is hitting on another guy, but the jealous male is clearly not a rational creature, so I will give a partial pass.

When Jim responds with a half smile that it’s a thought, Thompson continues in an even more belligerent tone, “Well, uh, Mary’s my friend.” What a nice depiction of female empowerment by the script writers: having the girl be argued over by two hormonal guys like the last cookie in the jar would be quarreled over by Kindergartners. Maybe the boys can reach an agreement to share her or something, since what she wants doesn’t factor into this territorial squabble at all.

Pointing between Mary and Thompson, Jim seems to have an epiphany, saying, “Oh, oh.” Then he drops the gauntlet with, “Well, any friend of yours, Thompson, is a friend of mine.”

This just doesn’t feel like Jim at all, honestly. I have trouble imagining him as the kind of guy who would want a one night stand with a random girl he met at a bar, and I don’t think that he’d wish to meddle into other people’s relationships like this. He seems like the type to seek out deep connections, so this whole conflict just is wildly inconsistent with his character, as far as I’m concerned.

Thompson, drawing on a retort common among elementary students, snaps, “Get lost, Craig.”

Raising his eyebrows suggestively at Mary, Jim asks, “Shall we?”

Obviously on the verge of losing whatever reign he was keeping on his temper, Thompson snarls, “Move it, or I’ll move you.”

This is a textbook example of a menacing threat, so Jim can only respond with a classic insult: “Thompson, you’re such a jerk.”

Deciding to make this whole situation even more childish, Thompson hurls a drink in Jim’s face, and Jim bolts to his feet to take a swing at Thompson. A brawl ensues, but we don’t get to see any more of it, since the scene switches to Herb’s office for about the umpteenth time in this film.

Herb begins haranguing the boys about the fight: “Let me tell you guys something. I think it’s time for a pep talk. All this stuff that you guys are up to is—no, forget it. You guys are already acting like big time. I know. Some of you have big time lawyers, and some have big time offers, so I guess a college coach’s pep talks won’t work. “

Oh, so now you understand about agents and contracts, eh, Herb? Do you have selective memory loss or something?

Rizzo pipes up, “Mr. Brooks, I think this is all just a misunderstanding.”

Respect and rationality don’t have any effect on Herb, who growls, “Mr. Brooks is my father’s name. I’m Herb.” Ha. I actually like that line, because I remember reading an article where Rizzo described how when he first introduced himself to Herb, calling Herb “Mr. Brooks,” he got basically the same answer. Something is somewhat accurate in this film. I feel like doing cartwheels.

Put in his place, Rizzo replies, “Yes, sir.”

Getting up to put marks under pictures of Jim and Thompson, Herb threatens, “One more X, and you boys are going right back where you came from. I could lose a lot of good players that way maybe.”

Basically, Herb is disciplining these boys like an elementary school teacher would, warning that if you get two marks next to your name you don’t get to go to recess, which, in this case is the Olympics. This is a reasonable course of action, since everyone knows that the average hockey player has a maturity level of a six-year-old. I mean, otherwise stoic Rangers like Ryan McDonagh get excited to add a piece to the Stanley Cup puzzle in the locker room and don a weird hat probably coated with Leetch’s sweat and Messier’s lice because it marks them as their team’s MVP for the game. In a nutshell, coaching hockey players is like running a daycare center with toddlers who cuss a lot.

Going on with his admonishment, Herb states, “But you’re already making a name for yourselves that will keep you out of pro hockey forever. Understand me and understand me good, nobody is indispensable. Nobody. I want a winning team, but more than that, I want a team that I can be proud of. I want men on that team that have character. I would rather cut you all, and be embarrassed, and be shipped down to my old job than to win with a bunch of kids who would dishonor me and themselves. Nothing is worth that. Now get out.”

For the most part, that rings true to Herb’s philosophy, so hurrah for a speech that actually makes sense in this film. May it not be the last.

After the boys make their awkward departure, Patrick comes in, shuts the door, and points out, “Herb, some of them are barely old enough to vote. They’re just kids.” Come on, Patrick. Don’t be a softie. Everyone should be perfect by age twenty-two if not sooner.

Herb, demonstrating a remarkable ability to read the minds of strangers on the other side of the globe, counters sharply, “That’s exactly what the Russians think about them, so that’s one surprise we can give them. Show them some kids with character. Might take the edge off losing.”

Ugh, this movie drives me crazy. Why does that last sentence have to exist? Is it really necessary to ruin a good bit of characterization with a complete sabotage of it in the next sentence? It makes perfect sense that Herb would want to surprise the Russians with how his boys could play with the discipline of men, but it makes no sense to me at all that Herb would already be bowing his head and envisioning utter defeat. It’s been his dream since the Sixties when he first saw the Russians play at World Championships to come up with a team that could match their speed and cycling plays, so he isn’t going to give up about a week into the process after all these years of working to earn a chance to coach an Olympic team.

At this rate, I expect that, instead of the stirring speech he delivered in the locker room before the game against the Soviets, the film version of Herb will just declare: “Well, guys, we can count this game as lost without even playing it, but if we keep the score close, we should be able to beat out the Finns for bronze on point differential. Go for the bronze, because that’s really the best America could ever hope for, but if we don’t get the bronze, at least we made it to the medal round, which is more than anyone could expect from a bunch of idiotic college kids.”

I’ll leave you all to stew in that sacrilege until next time…

 

 

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Not-So Secret Agents

Last installment, we were left wondering whether certain guys—namely Johnson and Paradis—were, to paraphrase Herb’s terminology, tough enough to stand up. Now we’re ready to begin to find out, because the boys are engaged in a speed skating drill around the rink that involves Herb barking out the seconds and the verbal equivalent of a whip’s encouragement.

Patrick, in his role as the blind optimist on this coaching staff, remarks that they’re fast, and Herb, as the Debbie Downer who is never satisfied, counters crisply that they aren’t fast enough. At the moment, I’m left with the general impression that even a blazing comet wouldn’t be fast enough to please Herb, but maybe a European would, since he shouts at the boys, “You guys think you can beat the Europeans skating that way? Let’s go! Hit your spots!”

Talking to Patrick again, Herb instructs his assistant coach to tell Paradis to put his heart into training because he’s shirking. All the evidence thus far points to Paradis being about as able to stand up under the barrage of Herb’s training as a Dixie Cup can the wheels of a Chevrolet Suburban.

Throwing his hand in the air, Patrick protests, “Come on, Herb. He’s one of the best skaters out there.” Ah, yes, but can he beat the Europeans skating like that? We’re not going to find out unless he puts his heart into it.

Expressing this sentiment, Herb retorts, “But he’s not giving us one-hundred percent. You tell him I want no loafers on the forward line.”

As Herb is shouting more of his unique brand of encouragement at his charges, a short man in a suit who has the unfortunate distinction of having a hair malfunction—at least, I hope it’s a hair malfunction and not an intentional style– that makes him resemble nothing more than an Oompa Loompa enters the arena.

Leaning against the edge of the rink, the newcomer offers a wave, an odd lingering glance, and a perky, “Hello, Herb. If you’ve got time later, I’d like to talk to you about one of my clients, Grazier.” Homoeroticism yay! If I were Herb, based on the scary sidelong glances this man was casting over me, I’d be filing a restraining order instead of taking the risk of talking to him alone, since he makes the Stalker Song ring in my ears like alarm bells.

Seriously, how did Grazier’s parents decide this walking sexual harassment case waiting to happen was a wise choice to represent and presumably at times be alone with their child? Now I can imagine why Grazier busted. He had this creep as his agent. Most likely, he’s in a padded room somewhere, a quivering mess as he tearfully uses a rag doll to show the therapist all the places where the scary man touched him. That being said, I sincerely apologize for poking fun at Grazier when he was sitting next to OC on the plane, because I didn’t know the deep, dark pain he was living with after the abuse he suffered from his agent.

When Herb just stares in revulsion at this borderline pedophile, Patrick supplies, coming to the rescue in his alternate persona of Captain Obvious, “It’s Grazier’s lawyer.”

Instead of calling the police to escort the unwelcome agent from the premises, Herb demonstrates a notable disregard for Patrick safety, ordering him to get Grazier’s lawyer out of here. Being the prototypical gullible second-in-command, Patrick does this, and I’m burning incense in gratitude that he didn’t end up dead and bleeding in an alley somewhere.

The scene finally shifts from the creepy agent back to Herb’s office, where he removes Grazier’s picture from the wall, tearing it and venting to Patrick, “It’s a waste, a total waste. The only reason he came to camp was to make the pros think he didn’t need them.” That’s weird, since I didn’t see any pro scouts lurking around the rink. They must have concealed themselves behind the bleachers really well.

Shaking his head and gazing downward, Patrick says in an almost whine, “I’m sorry, Herb. It’s just one guy. I can’t be everywhere.”

Unrelenting as granite, Herb counters, “Well, you’ve got to be. Patrick, you’re my eyes and ears with this bunch. I thought we had a deal with the lawyers. Who’s next?”

Instead of pulling out an answer from a fortune cookie, Patrick responds, “Herb, most of what the guys tell me—well, it’s like over beer—in confidence.” Here Patrick sounds like he’s a busybody at a neighborhood block party pretending to be reluctant to share a supposed friend’s secret when really he would take the utmost joy in it and only requires the slightest prodding to spill out everything he knows and suspects. Of course, I don’t believe that Patrick means to be devious here, so I won’t blame him for that. I will fault him for being a stupid coward, though, and let me expound upon why.

Patrick is an idiot to bring up the aspect of confidentiality, as it lets Herb know that he and some of the boys have something to hide, and it must be pretty terrible if it can’t be shared without scandal. If you have a secret that you want to keep, the first step is not posting up a gigantic billboard declaring that you have one, Patrick. Apart from the fact that Patrick is a total moron, we also learn that he is not a vertebrae, after all, since he has no backbone and will be telling Herb everything he knows as soon as Herb glares at him.

Then again, the boys who confide in Patrick are partly to blame for Herb uncovering their secrets. I mean, what sort of fool entrusts any important, confidential information to this film’s version of Craig Patrick? Merciful Lord, you’d be smarter to confide your secret to your worst enemy, because at least when your foe came forward with your dreadful secret, everybody would consider the source and probably decide it was a vicious falsehood. However, when someone who seemingly has your trust reveals a confidential story about you, everyone is going to believe it, even though that person has just proved himself a liar. That Sociology 101 lecture is done now, so we can progress with the rest of the scene.

Perhaps Herb is as disgusted with Patrick’s flakiness as I am, because he scoffs, “Really? Well, you’d better get it through your head that you’re part of management now. I’m not asking you to be a spy. I’m asking you to do your job as my assistant, and if this bunch is going to disappear on me, let me know, so that I can quit before I get fired.”

Not to be a Negative Nancy about this whole script, but that bit of dialogue would have been a million times better without that final clause. First of all, I doubt that Herb would be in jeopardy of getting fired just because some boys that could have been on the team chose to go pro. Since the pros were where all the money was, it would be hard for any coach to convince all the top talents to remain amateur for the Olympics. It’s the same sort of reason why NCAA coaches today aren’t routinely fired just because some of their best players move onto the greener pastures of the NHL. USA Hockey would know that and not create a revolving door of coaching staff unless they felt that something else was seriously lacking in Herb’s coaching.

Apart from the whole idea of Herb being fired because some guys deciding to go pro being rather far-fetched, it’s not consistent with Herb’s character to have him be such a defeatist. He’s the type of guy who is going to fight tooth-and-nail to make this team successful, and he’s not going to quit at basically the first sign of adversity. Anyway, it would be totally hypocritical of him to demand unconditional commitment to the team from the boys when he’s prepared to abandon ship over any imagined leak. Ugh. What a way to butcher Herb’s character.

Deciding to betray every confidence he’s ever received from anyone on the team in one fell swoop, Patrick rifles through a list of the boys’ names and announces, “Morrow’s firm, but that might change. He’s getting married in two weeks.”

Herb’s murderous look conveys how much he hates weddings and all the cake that comes along with them.

Patrick continues, “The Eastern guys. They’re all borderline, especially Craig. He’s hard-pressed financially.”

Leaning forward to check a list on his desk, Herb says, “Well, if he’s going pro, he’s going to the Atlanta Flames. They own him. Is he talking to them? Phoning?” How is Patrick supposed to know that? Is he supposed to have wire-tapped Jim’s phone or just eavesdropped on line for the pay phone?

Patrick answers that Jim hasn’t been contacting the Atlanta Flames, but “that doesn’t mean anything” because “he’s represented by lawyers.”

Herb demands, “By who—Kaminsky?”

When Patrick replies by Bob Murray, Herb snarls as if Patrick invented the concept of athletes being represented by agents, “Same thing, damn it. They work together, Patrick. I thought they promised to keep these kids amateur.”

Trying to placate the angry Herb before he orders a human sacrifice, Patrick says, “So far so good. They’re telling the guys to stick with it—to see the team you come up with.” When it comes down to it, that’s really the best a team’s management can expect from agents. An agent’s primary responsibility is to represent his client’s interests, not a team’s. That’s what they’re hired to do, and there’s nothing wrong with them doing their jobs, although Herb, naturally, doesn’t perceive it that way.

All bitterness, he grumbles, “So now I’ve got another set of guys to answer to: lawyers and agents.” Welcome to being a GM, Herb.

“They’re part of the business, Herb,” argues Patrick, obviously calling on his experience as an NHL player. “You’ve got to face it: our best guys have other choices, and they know it.”

Shaking his head and poking his desk with a fervent finger, Herb declares, “Guys with choices on their minds don’t help us one bit. This has got to be the only thing in their lives. Not choices, this.”

Herb is starting to remind me of another Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory character who always wanted stuff now and didn’t care how. Herb would be really comfortable in a Communist regime, obviously, as he doesn’t want to run his team at all like a democracy. With Herb’s manic anti-choice stance, I can easily picture the following scene transpiring as the team’s bus pulls into a rest stop in the middle of the night…

Patrick: All right, boys. I’m going to run into Seven-Eleven to buy us all some drinks. Let me take a tally of who wants what. Raise your right hand if you want a can of Coke, and your left hand if you want a can of Pepsi.

Herb: Damn it all to Hell, Patrick! How many times do I have to remind you not to overwhelm their toddler brains with choices? Choices shouldn’t cross their minds at all. They should only be thinking about the Olympics, not sodas. Just buy about twenty-five bottles of Poland Spring, and be done with it. Water is good enough for this bunch. We need to leave soft drinks to the soft.

Perhaps having similar thoughts to the ones racing around my head, Patrick is so aghast he is speechless, and I’ll leave my readers to recover from their heart attacks at Herb’s mania until next time.

 

 

 

 

 

Breaking Down a Miracle on Ice Movie: Smile at the Camera

Since I have the night off from watching playoff hockey (funny how the elimination of more teams from the playoff picture correlates with an increase in the time I can devote to other leisure activities), I decided to fulfill my promise to watch and blog about the next installment of the 1981 Miracle on Ice film. This section focuses on part of the trials process associated with selecting the Olympic team, but since this movie centers around the trials more than its twenty-first century counterpart does, I will continue to examine the trials process in the next blog post as well, as the trials process appears to extend beyond the portion that I’m being for this post. With that caveat, wagons ho! We’re about to depart on the next part of our wonderful journey to gold in Lake Placid.

When we last left our boys, they were besieging Patrick with a million and one questions. Apparently having received answers to all their manifold inquiries, they are now giving their names and getting their photographs taken. This is probably intended to serve as our introduction to all the boys—providing us with a way to place all the faces with a name—but it feels like too little too late, since we’ve already been thrown into the deep end without a life vest, and, anyway, most of these actors (a term I employ here in the loosest possible sense) bear an uncanny resemblance to one another. Basically, this is my disclaimer that at some point in the movie I might end up saying something about how Mark Johnson has this great line when really it was Rob McClanahan who said it, because casting makes everyone look the same. In real life, though, I would never in a million years confuse those two, so I can still keep my real Miracle fan badge, right?

While the Miracle fan board reviews my case, the first guy to come forward to get his picture taken is Rizzo. He strikes a pose that is more arrogant than outgoing, and I’m not sure that’s really him. I’d believe he’d give off a confident but also friendly vibe. Once Rizzo is done with his photo op, OC steps forward to have his picture taken while chewing a wad of gum just like Brett Connolly did in the 2010 NHL Entry Draft when he went to the podium to shake Steve Yzerman’s hand, and we just had to be grateful that he didn’t spit or pick his nose since neither his parents nor his agent had coached him in how to meet a GM and Hall of Famer. Unlike Brett Connolly, OC does not seem as if he is operating under the influence of horse tranquilizers, and he puts on this cocky smirk that I believe is perfect for his character. So far he’s one of the better portrayed guys in this film, though that may be damning with faint praise.

Jim’s up next, and he needs to be told to look at the camera, which I guess could be the filmmaker’s way of trying to establish that he was something of a loner. After giving his name, he gives this horrible half smile, and I cringe in disgust. Why, oh way, did casting think Steve Guttenberg was a perfect fit for this role? You could torture me like in that graphic and only appropriate for adult audiences scene in Braveheart, and I’d still refuse to believe that Guttenberg was Craig, until the bitter end shouting, “Freedom!”

After Jim, Ken Morrow follows, and he gives his name so quietly that Patrick asks him to repeat it, which is a reasonably clever and relatively subtle way of showing how reserved Ken was. Kudos to the script writers here.

Buzz is up next, and all I can think is that at least he’s better looking than the guy who plays Jim Craig in this movie. His smile is a bit more smug and less kind than I would have imagined, but maybe that’s just me.

Les Auge follows Buzz, and, like OC, he’s chewing gum. It’s a gum-chewing pandemic. I hope that none of them gets attacked like Hugh Jessiman by their suddenly sentient gum when celebrating a goal. I mean, it’s a sure sign that you’re basically a total bust as a professional athlete when you can’t even celebrate a goal without some hilariously ungainly malfunction, and you don’t want to give Herb that sort of insight into your failings.

Next up is Rob McClanahan, who seems pretty regular and inoffensive, which is about all you can ask from this film at this point. Then we have Pav, who is totally blank for the camera, and that goes well with his hating-the-spotlight personality. Pav is followed by John Harrington, who seems normal though plumper than he looked in earlier shots of him. It must be the light…

We shift over to the rink, where some guys are performing a warm-up skate after having their pictures snapped. Les Auge skates up to Rizzo and introduces himself before remarking about how there isn’t much competition. In response, Rizzo observes that is a good thing because he’s still tired from the trip. Since Rizzo mentions jet lag, I’ll just point out that many of the boys who tried out for the ’80 Olympic team actually arrived in Colorado Springs many days in advance so that they could adapt to the higher altitude.

On that note, we’re back to Patrick taking a picture of a guy named Steve Thompson. I admit that unlike Les Auge, Cox, and Hughes, I don’t remember reading a word about this Thompson fellow in any of the books or articles I’ve studied about the Miracle on Ice, but it’s still interesting to have a face to go with one of the names that Herb will (spoiler alert) end up cutting in this movie. Thompson is followed by some other dude with the surname Parides that I’ve never read about either. It’s weird and vaguely sad how some names are utterly lost in the annals of hockey history.

After those two guys who are the merest footnotes of history in this movie, we have a dude who I have heard of: one Bill Baker, who gives a slight smile and nod at the camera. He’s pretty cute, even though he is apparently not Eric Strobel after all.

Following Bill, we have Mark Johnson, who has dark hair and white skin but other than that really does not look at all like Mark in terms of facial structure or eye color. He also has this arrogant expression on his face that isn’t at all suitable for Mark to be wearing. Why did the director allow this to happen?

When Patrick is done taking Mark’s photo, the scene shifts to focus on all the boys skating around the rink, and then zones in on the bleachers, where Patrick joins Herb, who is watching the warm-ups like a hawk, and asks, “Now what?”

Herb replies that Patrick took the words right out of his mouth, and Patrick looks aghast at his rudeness. I predict that Patrick will spend about half of his screen time going into cardiac arrest because of all the nasty things that emerge from Herb’s irritable lips. Proving me right, Herb, being his blithe self, continues, “What’s this—a hockey camp or a rehearsal for the ice companies?”

That’s actually a good bit of dialogue (or else my standards have just been lowered by the abysmal quality of the rest of the script, because I can’t even tell any more), and I have some time to appreciate it before Patrick responds with a chuckle, “Relax, Coach. There’s got to be twenty great ones in that line-up.”

Being a total boar, Herb counters, “Good. When you find out who they are, let me know.” Again, Patrick looks astonished by Herb’s terseness. I see this conversation is going nowhere, and maybe the emotionally stunted Herb actually senses the same thing, because he goes on, “Meanwhile, would you get them started? Sprints and everything. Work ‘em. Work ‘em hard.”

Patrick stands up and blows his whistle, but we are left to imagine the horrible paces the boys are put through, since the next scene transpires in Herb’s office, where we are looking down at a pile of the pictures Patrick has just taken on Herb’s desk.

Herb, who presumably was using the phone to attempt a call to his wife, puts it down, stating that she must have taken the kids to a movie. Switching from the personal to business, he scoops up the pile of pictures and begins to rifle through them, asking Patrick, who is seated in the chair opposite his desk, what on a scale of one to ten he thinks of Grazier.

Patrick estimates a nine, and then bumps it up to a nine-and-a-half, reasoning that Grazier is dependable in clutch situations.

Herb demands who would back Grazier up, and Patrick, looking pensive, says Johnson and Parides could. I’m assuming from the fact that Grazier’s and Parides’ names are linked with Johnson’s that these guys were seen as talented, top prospects in 1979, but since I’ve never heard of them, I’m guessing that they busted. That’s the interesting thing about prospect development. Sometimes a late round pick blossoms into a Chara, Pavelski, or Lundqvist, and a first overall pick can be a disappointment like Alexandre Daigle or Marc-Andre Fleury.

Referring to Parides and Johnson, Patrick says, “They’re both talented.”

Hurling down the pictures, Herb wants to know, “But are they tough? Will they stand up?”

My immediate reaction to this line is that the scriptwriters are trying to be all philosophical and whatnot, but are actually betraying the fact that they’ve never drawn up a hockey roster or even contemplated doing so for more than six seconds. Toughness probably isn’t within the top five qualities that coaches and GMs look for in a first line center. Things like stickhandling, skating speed, playmaking abilities, shooting strength, and overall hockey sense are all more important. You look for skill in a first line center, and toughness in a fourth line center, because, a fourth line goon considers it a great triumph to get a star center to drop the gloves and earn a coincidental penalty.

That’s my reaction if it’s physical toughness being questioned here. However, if it’s mental toughness, that’s much more valid a concern, but still a slippery slope, since the hockey world tends to overrate the toughness of players who are chirpy on the ice but then delve into full turtle mode if anyone actually raises a fist while underrating the bravery and endurance of quieter leaders like Steve Yzerman whom Scotty Bowman said had the highest pain threshold of any player he ever coached.

All I can say is we better not be headed down the path of “Mark Johnson was a talented player but a weak one,” because Mark Johnson got his shoulder speared in the Czechoslovakia game and returned to the line-up in the next one even though he had to have his arm in a weird sling under his equipment. It was like playoff hockey, and, on that note, tune in to NBC tomorrow to watch Jonathan Toews, who wears number nineteen just like Steve Yzerman, lead the Blackhawks against the Kings.