A Satire (or is it) By B.D. Gallof
#4: Life of a Hockey Writer
4/23/07
Writing professionally means you get paid. That is true currently, but wasn't always the case when you do work for startups and freebies just to get some experience under your belt. I have been published on defunct websites and magazines, where the only payment was based on its success. Then it crashed and burned worse than a Finnish goalie on the Atlanta Thrashers.
I have crafted my skills over the course of years, my best training coming from an elite group of writers in the mountains of China. You see, after a prison brawl (they aren’t too lenient with writers in China), I was invited by a man to join the infamous League of Writers. Their head writer, the mysterious Ra's al Gallof, trained these mad men and women in the sacred art of writing combat and cigar smoking. We’d watch hockey, mixed martial arts fighting, news and other sports, training ourselves into the intricacies and subtext of what really goes on behind the scenes.
After smoking a rather potent cigar and eating a buffalo wing laced with hallucinogenic, during my final training exercise I tipped over a lantern, burning the place down. So, I returned to the mainland and here I am now, traveling the US and Canada, all to give you the very heart of darkness. As for Ra's al Gallof, some say he was torched to ashes. Others say he’s waiting, underground, to make his move. And even others say, despite dying, he was reincarnated into his last pupil. Nobody knows for sure . . .
What I do know is that I am lying on the cold gray concrete of the pedestrian walkways outside Joe Louis arena. Last thing I recall is Pierre “Madman” McGuire’s bloodcurdling screams and that look of murder in his gaze, like someone stole his Grey Poupon.
I shuffle to my feet. Last thing I want to do get caught on these mean streets at night. Though, there isn’t a soul around, who knows what nefarious scoundrel could be skulking, waiting for me to take my guard down. Sometimes, despite my Brazilian Ju Jitsu black belt and many years of cage fighting in the Chinese prison system, I do worry that someone will try something just to see if my razor-honed reflexes have been dulled by the soft life of the road.
Suddenly, I am bathed in a fiery light. Good Christ, I think, the Martians have finally found me!
But no. It is something else entirely. Instead it is a flaming Zamboni, driving errantly through the walkways, heading towards me. And the driver is none other than Gordie Howe. Flames shoot out his eyes, his skin melting, showing the fabled metal plate in his head. This was a man who had sharpened elbows and took lots of damage. Here was a man who showed that old time hockey and roughing was an integral part of the game and history.
Gordie could rattle off all the great debacles that make Detroit/Calgary just a blip on the reactionary fans radar screen. He’d tell you about Rocket Richard hitting Hal Laycoe of the Bruins and then attacking a linesman. Wayne Maki took out Ted Green with his stick. Ted, like Gordie, has a metal plate inserted in his skull. Mike Milbury going over the glass and beating a fan with the fan’s own shoe. The great hockey opposing goal scrapper Dino Ciccarelli once spent a night in jail taking a stick to Luke Richardson. Gordie could go on and on, making hockey softies like McGuire piss in his panties.
Yet, fans like to think that someone, this situation, the one that has them up in arms is the worst event in hockey history. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Even Chris Simon’s chop on Hollweg was small potatoes. The league will still attempt to make a big deal and appease the politically correct police that have taken over this country and Canada…and the media outlets will still use it over and over again...sensationalizing every fart and fizzle of melodrama. But make no mistake, it’s nothing like what has gone on before, despite what they imply.
To Be Continued . . .
Find out what mission Gordie Howe gives B.D. Gallof tomorrow in Blog #5.
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