A Satire??? by B.D. Gallof
In The Nefarious Clutches of Colin Campbell
Colin Campbell played 11 years in the NHL and was primarily known as a scrappy defenseman. He totaled over 1200 penalty minutes playing for the Pittsburg Penguins, Detroit Red Wings, and the Vancouver Canucks. He was assistant coach for the Wings and then for the Rangers, finally being tapped as head coach when Mike Keenan had his extremely convenient meltdown and contract violation dispute where GM Neil Smith was only too happy to aid getting rid of someone he detested using that very questionable “contract violation”. However, Smith’s suddenly not-so-smooth moves, the team’s inability to play with a fire, besides Campbell’s inability to stave the oncoming slide in the standings led to Campbell’s dismissal only three seasons later. Campbell, soon after, became Senior Vice President and Director of Hockey Operations, actually chairing the very committee that radically changed hockey rules that actually created this “new NHL”.
Before me stood, in his full hockey suit from the mid-70’s, was the man who engineered This new NHL. The man who removed the fists and on-ice vigilance in hockey. A man who filtered the sport from Johnny Walker Blue and made it into Johnny Walker Red.
Colin moves toward me, stick swinging back and forth, as if I was some newbie player with my head down, looking to press into the offensive zone. His glare seethes with bad intentions.
My phone rings, stopping Colin Campbell in his tracks.
I look at Colin strangely. He looks at me quizzically.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” he asks.
With a shrug, I do.
“Hey Gallof, it’s Garth.”
“Who?” I struggle to place him.
“You know…Garth, you hockey blogger pal from hockeybuzz….”
Silence.
“…Come on, Gallof. Quit joshin. You are so funny I almost spit out my pop when I read your blog. I loved your work on the Islander/Buffalo series. You have to know who I am. You put me in one of your first couple of blogs, for god’s sake. You had me in a Flutie Flakes t-shirt,” says Garth exasperated, starting to get annoyed. “Ok, here you go….I’m the guy who gets 100 of comments to each of his blogs while you get a handful if you are luckyl”
“Ohhhhhh, that guy,” I realize, “How the hell are you, Garthy?”
“Jeez, I figured you remember me,” Garth sniffs, “Well anyway, just wanted to see how you were doing in Toronto. It was very funny that you were thinking that NHL headquarters was in Toronto when every blogger knows it’s in your own home state…you know, that city you work in…New York City. Funny stuff man.”
“Uh…oh, yeah. Errr..thanks.”
Colin checks his watch, and is tapping a skate on the floor impatiently.
“Hey,” I nod to Colin, “Blogger working here.”
Colin rolls his eyes muttering about primadonnas, walking a few steps back, giving me some room. I focus back to my phone.
“So listen, Garthy,” I whisper, “I’m in a bit of a bind. I’m caught on the 15th floor with Colin Campbell. He looks a little pissed. Any tips?”
“You watch those Sabres last night man? It was beautiful. That hit Zubrus did on Jagr, just terrific…”
“Umm, Garthy…earth to Garth, I need some help here.”
“..and Lundquist…dude, he’s unraveling. You can see it in his eyes. Too much work for that crappy defense. You called that one right…”
“Garth? Old pal? Buddy?”
“…I cannot wait till we get the cup. We are the champions. We are going to have a dynasty,” Garth is breathing and panting wildly now. He begins shouting. “RYAN MILLER IS A HOCKEY GOALIE GOD! BRIERE IS BETTER THAN BRYAN TROTTIER! LINDY RUFF IS GOING TO HAVE MY BABIES! KISS THE SKATE OF YOUR NEW HOCKEY OVERLORDS, YOU NEW YORK HEATHEN…”
- click �"
I look at the phone helplessly, and then finally look at Colin.
“Wrong number“ I shrug my shoulders in surrender, “You can beat me up now”
Colin does. Fists. Body checks. A cross-check. Boarding into the walls. At one point, Colin holds my head to the video screen of the NHL hockey review system making me watch the Brendan Witt shot versus Buffalo, screaming at me to call it a no-goal.
“Say it! Say it you punk!!! Say it’s a no-goal!!!” he screams, as spittle mixes with the blood on my face.
I tell him it’s a no-goal. I tell him that Eklund is really Mike Milbury. I tell him I’m an Oscar Meyer Weiner…Alexei Yashin will be MVP of the league next year…I like bread. …My mother once tried to lock me in the glove compartment….I’m a little tea pot, short and stou…
And when Colin finally cracks me over the noggin with the TV screen, all goes black.
Narrator: “Will your intrepid writer escape? Can his team of hockey thugs find him in time? Is this the ghastly end for our Celebrity Blogger? Answers tomorrow morning. Tune in tomorrow…same Blog time, same Blog channel!”
To be continued . . .
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