The days are dragging like a pair of cargo pants stuffed with marbles and September 20 can’t get here soon enough, but it’s a good time to answer one of the biggest questions lingering over the San Jose Sharks. A new coaching staff has taken over, the payroll has increased dramatically, and ticket prices have inflated like Jagr’s ego. However, are the Sharks better than they were last season?
We’ll attempt to answer that question in the coming days during a three-part series titled “For Better or Worse,” examining the changes the Sharks have made over the last calendar year and comparing San Jose rosters from October 2007, April 2008 and the present day. The first part will focus on goaltending and defense, the second part will take a look at the forwards, and the third part will offer a stirring conclusion.
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The Sharks announced today that Marc-Edouard Valsic has signed a four-year contract extension. Of course, a lot of people are going to compare this signing to Matt Carle's last season, and you can make the argument the Sharks should have waited to see what Vlasic brings in his third season. He's coming off a sophomore slump, and he struggled in the playoffs, but he's only 21 and he's going to be a major part of the Sharks defensive corps for a long time.
Of course, we'll have to wait and see what kind of money Vlasic will be making. I don't think he deserves more than $3 million right now, but he could by the time the new contract kicks in and he'll be a steal down the road if he can keep improving and eat huge minutes on the blueline. Nice move, and I can't wait to see what he brings when training camp opens up.
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I enter each summer the same way, thinking I’ll take up some new hobby to fill the void left my hockey’s hiatus. It never turns out as well as I planned. The Jays play in the AL East, which means baseball has usually lost its appeal by the third week in April. My rollerblades make their way out of the closet a couple times, but I skate like Semenov… after he’s downed a fifth of scotch and three bottles of Nyquil. Books go unread aside from the first couple chapters, dancing lessons never make it past the initial planning stages, and tanning attempts result in nothing more than a series of sunburns.
Golf is the closest thing I have to a regular summertime hobby – besides peeling and heat stroke. Anyway, I figure I’d share an account of my last trip to the links. I suppose it’s also the last piece I’ll write for the Vallejo Times-Herald, so enjoy and stay tuned as September arrives and we kick things up eight notches around here.
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Left of Center
Some people were born to play golf. I was born to watch golf being played on television by those who know how to play golf. While most golfers aim for a couple birdies every trip around the links, I enter each round hoping to limit myself to three triple bogeys. Dorf — the pint-sized Tim Conway creation whose fame peaked in the 1980s — has more power and accuracy off the tee, and my putting stroke is as clean and smooth as an arthritic signature.
Undeterred by my lack of skill, I ventured out to Joe Mortara Golf Course in Vallejo last week in search of my first hole-in-one. Slightly larger than a Wal-Mart parking lot — measuring a shade under 1600 yards with an unimposing par of 28 — Mortara is a nine-hole course on the infield at the Solano County Fairgrounds. I figured it was as good a place as any to bag my first ace.
I entered the barren clubhouse and asked the attendant if I would be able to walk on to the course. “I might be able to fit you in sometime next week,” the man replied, his words heavy with sarcasm.
“I feel like I’m going to hit a hole-in-one today,” I said, exuding the false self-confidence and “fake it ’til you make it” mentality that has become my trademark in both golf and life.
“Do your premonitions often come true?” the man asked.
“Never.”
“There’s a man and his five-year-old son on the second hole,” the man said, “but you can wave to them and they’ll let you play through.”
My heart skipped a beat as the words “play through” reached my ears. You see, some of my greatest golfing disasters have come when attempting to play through. I’m a horrible golfer without any pressure, but when the eyes of a slow-moving group are trained on me I become Custer with a club, marching straight into certain doom. One time a group of elderly women waved me through and I chunked my tee shot, unearthing a divot the size of a small dog. It took me eight shots to advance my ball through the group, and the incident was about as long and agonizing as an episode of “Charles in Charge.”
I’ll admit I’m not the best candidate for a hole-in-one, but I have big plans when it happens. I’m going to frame my club, ball, scorecard and outfit, right down to my underpants. I’m going to have my shoes bronzed and have each witness sign a sworn affidavit. It might never happen, and age might limit my mobility by the time it does, but I even have a special dance to perform after my first ace, combining a moonwalk with a couple fist pumps. Mortara provided the setting, and I was bringing the theatrics.
I stepped onto the first tee armed with my 5-iron and gazed out over the first hole — a 192-yard par 3 — fearing where my initial drive would end up. Sure enough, predictable as the sun rising in the east, it was well left, just as it always is. When it comes to tee shots, I’m further left than Marx. My chip ended up short of the green, and after blasting a putt from the fringe well past the hole I ended up three-putting for a five. Considering I usually take a snowman (8) on the opening hole, I considered double bogey a small victory. Garner 1, Mortara 0.
The 158-yard second hole provided an interesting challenge, thanks to a maintenance worker raking the sand trap to the left of the green. He was wearing a bright yellow hard hat, so my errant drive was unlikely to kill him, but I was sure to put a scare into him nonetheless. “I hope he has a good health insurance plan,” I thought to myself as my 8-iron connected, sending a shot arcing to the left and landing a few feet from the startled man. I chipped to within three feet of the hole and sank the par putt. The grandstands were empty, but I imagined a capacity crowd roaring its approval.
I missed the green again on the third hole — to the left — but managed to salvage bogey with a 12-foot putt that snuck in the side door. The fourth hole was similar to the third, but my bogey putt lipped out and I settled for the double. Through four holes I hadn’t hit one green, and hadn’t come any closer than 60 feet from my elusive hole-in-one.
My tee shot on the 203-yard fifth hole was the worst of the day, landing well left of the fairway and disappearing into some thick rough. I equated losing a ball at Joe Mortara with losing your lunch on a tire swing, so I waded into a shallow swamp and rooted through the long grass with my pitching wedge. After a couple minutes I located my misguided sphere of frustration, saving both the ball and my pride in one fell swoop. I’ll wear sandpaper pants before I ever take a drop, so I chopped my way out to the front of the green and two-putted for a lucky bogey.
By the time I stepped up to the sixth tee box the group ahead of me — the man and his five-year-old son — had disappeared, saving me from the embarrassment of playing through. I’m sure they sensed they were about to witness a 17-shot massacre and hightailed it in favor of something a little easier to watch... like a Carson Daly monologue. My tee shot found the bunker on the left of the hole, and a nice sand save was wasted by another three-putt for a double bogey.
I sliced well to the right on the seventh hole, the course’s only par 4 measuring 311 yards. My approach shot went even farther right, ending up in front of the ninth green. I figured any ball that uncooperative would be better off with a new owner, so I decided to soldier on rather than taking the lengthy detour. A bogey awaited me on seven and I went on my way, realizing I probably wasn’t going to record my hole-in-one.
The eight hole didn’t provide the setting for a once-in-a-lifetime feat, but I did punch my 9-iron onto the green. I left myself a birdie putt longer than a Bel Air driveway, but it was the only green I’d hit all day so I was pleased. Naturally, I three-putted for a bogey.
My final shot at glory came up wide left, and after a chip and putt I was four feet from the finish line. I rolled my last putt to the center of the hole and heard a strange clank as it dropped into the cup. Peering into the hole, I noticed someone had retrieved my errant shot from the seventh and placed it in the cup for me. Some might have appreciated the stranger’s kind gesture, but not me. The ball seemed to stare up at me, silently mocking my futile attempts at a one-shot wonder. I picked up the ball and threw it into the pond on the eighth hole, narrowly missing a goose.
I suppose I’ll have to keep waiting for my first hole-in-one, and that’s fine by me. Just gives me more time to perfect my moonwalk and find someone who will bronze a pair of size 11 Reeboks.
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