Let's pretend we're in Las Vegas, even though I've never been.
Here I am at a poker table with a Royal Flush. I know no one can beat me. I smile. I'm all in.
That's how I feel about the 2013 Chicago Blackhawks.
I'm all in.
And you should be too, if you're a Hawks fan.
Now I'm not saying the Hawks can't be beat. But I'm here to say not only do I think they will win their second Stanley Cup in a three-year span (since 2010), but I also think this is a club on the verge of a dynasty.
Whether or not that happens, well, that rests squarely on the shoulders of the boys who suit up in Indian Head gear each night. But really, what's not to like?
Captian Jonathan Toews, he of so many charitable causes by the way, is one of the top centers in the National Hockey League and an MVP candidate. Winger Patrick Kane, too, has matured and stayed out of the negative headlines on his way to what I feel is his best season so far in the NHL.
Marian Hossa is an all-world, point-a-game player who has erased his past "playoff jinx," after losing in two Stanley Cup Finals with two clubs before winning his first for Chicago. Winger Patrick Sharp is as dangerous a goal-scorer as there is.
Heck, even Viktor Stalberg looks like a second coming of former Hawk star Jeremy Roenick lately, showing flashes of speed we haven't seen here in quite some time.
Then there's youngsters Andrew Shaw, Rookie of the Year candidate Brandon Saad, Bryan Bickell ... the list goes on and on.
Defensively, Duncan Keith is as good of a defensman is exists in the league, period. The same can legitimitely be said for teammate Brent Seabrook, though he doesn't get the credit. Nick Leddy, Nicklaus Hjalmarsson ... defense is where the Hawks have shined this season, allowing the fewest goals out of any team in the league, just ahead of Ottawa.
That's thanks to the stellar play of both Corey Crawford and Ray Emery, who both had career-best type years. And that's what makes them as dangerous as the 2010 team that won the Cup. Their defense is better, and while they aren't as potent offensively, the Hawks still can score as frequently as anyone in the league.
What's remarkable about this group is that Hawks general manager Stan Bowman has locked up the core of this team long enough to keep it winning year after year. One look at the club's future contract situation and scenario, and it's clear this team won't just be winning now. They'll be Cup contenders next year, and years from now, too.
Mark my words, folks.
As much as I've bashed some of Bowman's lesser decisions, his foresight has guaranteed the Hawks will be the kind of franchise others aspire to become for years, if not decades. Stop and think about that.
When I caught up with Ottawa goalie Craig Anderson, who is having the best season of his NHL career -- and started his career with Chicago -- he told me he thought the Hawks were "something special."
"So from a fan's perspective, it's definitely a cool thing what they've (the Hawks) done this
year," Anderson told me. "From a professional side of things, you hope that you get the opportunity
to play them in the playoffs. You just never really know what's gonna happen."
The Hawks, of course, broke an NHL record by going the first 24 games of the season without a regulation loss.
"You wish your competitors the best. It (the streak) was cool to watch, that's
for sure," Anderson said. "It was kind of the talk of the league."
Know what else will be the talk of the league? If the Hawks have a parade in the city with the Stanley Cup again this summer. Because if that happens, then we start talking statues, how many remaining ring fingers we all have, and make comarisons between this and the Chicago Bulls dynasties that someone named "M.J." dropped in our laps.
How much fun would that be?
Make no mistake, slowly but surely, in the face of the Cubs, Bulls, Bears and White Sox, Chicago is becoming a hockey town again, much like it once was in the 1980s and 90s for a time. It's a day I never thought I'd see again, when just a decade ago, the United Center was so empty at times you'd be stunned if you saw photos.
That's what you've done, Mr. Kane, Mr. Toews, Mr. Keith and the rest of you. Win another Cup, and you get to punch your "1927 Yankees" card popularity-wise in Chicago.
Plus, we've got the coach with the coolest mustache in sports, hands-down, in Coach Q. A legendary leader in the NHL in his own right. And to think, some of you wanted to run both him and Kane out of town last year. Shame on you.
But there's room back on our bandwagon, starting tonight. If you've never been to a Blackhawks playoff game, find a way.
If you can't, sit back later, turn your speakers up, and watch the Hawks renew an old, old rivalry when the playoffs start at the Madhouse on Madison tonight against Minnesota.
So many intangibles in the Hawks' favor this time, too. Their experience, and even their youth, which may seem like a contradictory statement, but therein lies it's beauty. The Hawks are both young AND experienced. And given the fact this has been a shortened season with a hectic schedule...well, when other teams are dragging late in some of these postseason marathon games....look for the Hawks to be one of the few clubs with some spring left in their step in the final minutes, when it counts most.
Remember the start of my story?
Now I'm headed to the Blackhawks' blackjack table.
"20!" I hear the dealer shout as he throws me my second card.
"I'll stand," I reply. "Don't plan on busting, either. I'm confident about winning this."
So are the Blackhawks. I can see it in their eyes. In their game. In their heart and hustle every shift.
The House doesn't have 21 anyway, right?
Right???
Much like my metaphorical casino trip above, there's not much that can beat the Hawks. Key word being, not much.
"House busts!" I hear the dealer yell.
Yep, that's what I thought.
A winner, just like these Hawks.
You'll see.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Bonds, Sosa and Clemens for Hall? Never.
I recall being just nine or 10 while growing up on a now-closed military base in Glenview, Illinois, which is an affluent town in suburban Chicago.
It's where I first learned to play baseball. Heck, when I was seven, I slid head-first into first base in my first-ever at-bat in the T-ball league my father signed me up for. Simply because it was something I saw the legendary Pete Rose do once on TV when I was a child.
Back then, us kids looked up to baseball players. We all did.
On the Navy base I grew up on, there was a giant field --- and I do mean giant --- literally 100 or so feet from the front of the trailer I grew up in. The field was once a runway, and eventually, grass grew there plentifully, making it an open area kids could play in.
It was an innocent time, those 1980s.
The favorite thing I recall about that field was that for the longest time, there was only one structure built on the massive plot of land.
An old, rickety, silver baseball backstop.
I and others in the neighborhood would gather on an almost daily basis to play ball, much like the kids in the movie "The Sandlot." It's where I learned to love the game. It's where I'd hear my mother yelling for me to come in for dinner when the sun finally peeked below the horizon.
It was childhood innocence at it's purest.
Perhaps that's why I get so defensive when people ask me why I wouldn't vote for Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa or Roger Clemens for the Hall of Fame.
(Bonds in 1990 vs. 2007. Who knew your neck could grow so much wider naturally?)
I'm guessing that at some point, Bonds, Sosa and the "Rocket" as we called him back then also played baseball on small fields like I did, when they were kids, and long before they became famous for their athletic abilities.
But at some point in each of their lives, something changed. What that something was, only they truly know.
Maybe it's because of the money, and the millions that were thrown their way. Maybe it's an ego thing. But whatever it was, it was a choice. A conscious choise they made...to suddenly all be different people than the public was accustomed to seeing, out of the blue.
When Barry Bonds' attorneys claimed during their court testimony Bonds was stuffing his body full of steroids and designer steroids like HGH but wasn't aware of what he was being given, I shut off the television and never watched another second of what was said.
Seeing Sammy Sosa suddenly forget how to speak English while testifying in front of Congress and being asked about whether or not he juiced, well that just made me shake my head in disbelief and turn the TV off then also.
And when Roger Clemens was brought up on charges he used PEDs, that were ultimately dropped, I stopped watching that fiasco pretty early on as well.
Part of the Hall of Fame voting process says voters should include a player's character, and their contributions to the game in assessing that individual's Hall-worthiness.
If I'm Barry Bonds, I know what is or isn't going into my body. Always. To say someone was just handing you creams, oils and other things to put on and in your body, yet you had no clue, is akin to someone handing you or I a bottle filled with an unknown substance, and us simply drinking it without even asking what it is.
It's ridiculous. It insults my intelligence.
(1990 vs. 2003. Hey, I work out too. Why don't I get that big in my 30s?)
In Sosa's case, well, there's that pesky New York Times report that he failed a test in 2003 and was also a juicer. And regardless of how the Times came upon the information, which was supposed to be kept secret, is really beside the point. Has Sosa ever once denied those alleged results being true? Did he sue the New York Times?
No.
I am also reminded of another incident, where Sosa was caught using a corked bat that exploded all over the Wrigley Field infield grass, then claimed ignorance.
And Clemens, whose own teammate Andy Petite tesitfied --- then retracted --- that he was well-aware he also juiced...well, consider this:
At age 42, in 2004, Clemens posted an 18-4 record and a 2.98 ERA in 214 innings. At age 43, he went 13-8 with a ridiculous 1.87 ERA. I challenge all of you to remember what you were doing, or will be, at age 43.
There are those who will argue that there is still no definitive proof any of these three juiced.
The words "resonable doubt" echo in my mind. That is, until I also stop to consider this:
If you weren't using steroids, and someone accused you of doing so, would you sit back and openly take the allegations and suspicions of an entire nation? Wouldn't you be furious that your name, reputation or credibility had been damaged? Or would you sit back, as one of the finest athletes the world has ever known, and just take it?
Funny how after yesterday's Hall of Fame vote, there's been neary a peep from any of these three. As strong as these warriors and competitiors would push themselves to win on a baseball field, how incredibly telling that when this occurs, and they aren't voted into the Hall, they are as quiet and shy publicly as the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz.
Maybe I was born yesterday. But do any of those things above scream out "good character" to you? Is there a shred of evidence that's been shown to overwhelmingly prove these three are truly innocent victims of a witch hunt?
Not a shred.
Sure, there are some semi-ratonal arguements out there that oppose mine.
Still, I'd never vote for any of these three for the Hall of Fame.
Maybe it's just gut instinct. Maybe it's my ability to read between the lines, or put two-and-two together. Or maybe it's my simple human empathy and reaction to know that those who are innocent behave a lot differently that these guys have in the face of such accusations.
People aren't dumb.
Which is why my 10-year-old self, standing in that field playing ball on a hot summer day back then would never, ever allow me to vote for any of these three.
The innocence and purity that I once felt when I played the game back then as a child, after all, insists upon it.
In a world where I, too, am now a parent to a child who loves baseball already, I have chosen to take a stand.
Frankly, taking these kinds of stands are just the thing our society needs a little more of these days.
Because doing and preaching the right things to our own kids makes us far greater heroes than any of these baseball players will ever be.
It's where I first learned to play baseball. Heck, when I was seven, I slid head-first into first base in my first-ever at-bat in the T-ball league my father signed me up for. Simply because it was something I saw the legendary Pete Rose do once on TV when I was a child.
Back then, us kids looked up to baseball players. We all did.
On the Navy base I grew up on, there was a giant field --- and I do mean giant --- literally 100 or so feet from the front of the trailer I grew up in. The field was once a runway, and eventually, grass grew there plentifully, making it an open area kids could play in.
It was an innocent time, those 1980s.
The favorite thing I recall about that field was that for the longest time, there was only one structure built on the massive plot of land.
An old, rickety, silver baseball backstop.
I and others in the neighborhood would gather on an almost daily basis to play ball, much like the kids in the movie "The Sandlot." It's where I learned to love the game. It's where I'd hear my mother yelling for me to come in for dinner when the sun finally peeked below the horizon.
It was childhood innocence at it's purest.
Perhaps that's why I get so defensive when people ask me why I wouldn't vote for Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa or Roger Clemens for the Hall of Fame.
(Bonds in 1990 vs. 2007. Who knew your neck could grow so much wider naturally?)
I'm guessing that at some point, Bonds, Sosa and the "Rocket" as we called him back then also played baseball on small fields like I did, when they were kids, and long before they became famous for their athletic abilities.
But at some point in each of their lives, something changed. What that something was, only they truly know.
Maybe it's because of the money, and the millions that were thrown their way. Maybe it's an ego thing. But whatever it was, it was a choice. A conscious choise they made...to suddenly all be different people than the public was accustomed to seeing, out of the blue.
When Barry Bonds' attorneys claimed during their court testimony Bonds was stuffing his body full of steroids and designer steroids like HGH but wasn't aware of what he was being given, I shut off the television and never watched another second of what was said.
Seeing Sammy Sosa suddenly forget how to speak English while testifying in front of Congress and being asked about whether or not he juiced, well that just made me shake my head in disbelief and turn the TV off then also.
And when Roger Clemens was brought up on charges he used PEDs, that were ultimately dropped, I stopped watching that fiasco pretty early on as well.
Part of the Hall of Fame voting process says voters should include a player's character, and their contributions to the game in assessing that individual's Hall-worthiness.
If I'm Barry Bonds, I know what is or isn't going into my body. Always. To say someone was just handing you creams, oils and other things to put on and in your body, yet you had no clue, is akin to someone handing you or I a bottle filled with an unknown substance, and us simply drinking it without even asking what it is.
It's ridiculous. It insults my intelligence.
(1990 vs. 2003. Hey, I work out too. Why don't I get that big in my 30s?)
In Sosa's case, well, there's that pesky New York Times report that he failed a test in 2003 and was also a juicer. And regardless of how the Times came upon the information, which was supposed to be kept secret, is really beside the point. Has Sosa ever once denied those alleged results being true? Did he sue the New York Times?
No.
I am also reminded of another incident, where Sosa was caught using a corked bat that exploded all over the Wrigley Field infield grass, then claimed ignorance.
And Clemens, whose own teammate Andy Petite tesitfied --- then retracted --- that he was well-aware he also juiced...well, consider this:
At age 42, in 2004, Clemens posted an 18-4 record and a 2.98 ERA in 214 innings. At age 43, he went 13-8 with a ridiculous 1.87 ERA. I challenge all of you to remember what you were doing, or will be, at age 43.
There are those who will argue that there is still no definitive proof any of these three juiced.
The words "resonable doubt" echo in my mind. That is, until I also stop to consider this:
If you weren't using steroids, and someone accused you of doing so, would you sit back and openly take the allegations and suspicions of an entire nation? Wouldn't you be furious that your name, reputation or credibility had been damaged? Or would you sit back, as one of the finest athletes the world has ever known, and just take it?
Funny how after yesterday's Hall of Fame vote, there's been neary a peep from any of these three. As strong as these warriors and competitiors would push themselves to win on a baseball field, how incredibly telling that when this occurs, and they aren't voted into the Hall, they are as quiet and shy publicly as the Cowardly Lion in the Wizard of Oz.
Maybe I was born yesterday. But do any of those things above scream out "good character" to you? Is there a shred of evidence that's been shown to overwhelmingly prove these three are truly innocent victims of a witch hunt?
Not a shred.
Sure, there are some semi-ratonal arguements out there that oppose mine.
Still, I'd never vote for any of these three for the Hall of Fame.
Maybe it's just gut instinct. Maybe it's my ability to read between the lines, or put two-and-two together. Or maybe it's my simple human empathy and reaction to know that those who are innocent behave a lot differently that these guys have in the face of such accusations.
People aren't dumb.
Which is why my 10-year-old self, standing in that field playing ball on a hot summer day back then would never, ever allow me to vote for any of these three.
The innocence and purity that I once felt when I played the game back then as a child, after all, insists upon it.
In a world where I, too, am now a parent to a child who loves baseball already, I have chosen to take a stand.
Frankly, taking these kinds of stands are just the thing our society needs a little more of these days.
Because doing and preaching the right things to our own kids makes us far greater heroes than any of these baseball players will ever be.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Tears Flow as Game-Winning Shot Helps Town Heal
Sometimes, it's the little things in life that really matter.
And while I don't normally write about high school sports in my blogs and columns on this site, I am compelled to make an exception this time.
Last night, I was lucky enough to witness one of those rare moments, in a gymnasium in the small midwestern town of Grayslake, Illinois. It also happens to be where I graduated from high school.
Last weekend, one of the team's former star girls basketball players, Alex Scarbro, tragically lost her life. Alex played on the 2010-11 squad that made it to the IHSA Class 3A Elite Eight, and wasn't just a great basketball player.
She was a tremendous, giving human being.
So needless to say, last night was a diffcult time, as it was also Grayslake's first home game since her passing. The Rams were facing one of their biggest rivals in the Fox Valley Conference, Cary-Grove.
There on the Grayslake bench sat Alex's green jersey, with the #10 on it, the entire game. It had been symbolically placed there by Rams coach Steve Ikenn.
Trailing by a point with 11 seconds to go, the Rams threw the ball in-bounds, and what happened next was a bit of magic reminiscent of the same magic so many witnessed when Scarbro finished her career there two years earlier.
Junior center Morgan Dahlstrom, who was one of the few current players on the varsity roster the same time Scarbro was two years earlier, sank the game-winning layup with just 7.6 seconds to go, giving the Rams a one-point victory.
And even though it was only a regular season game, fans began storming the court as the final horn sounded in what suddenly erupted into a wild celebration.
There, in the middle of it all, was Alex's father Dave, who was understandably bawling his eyes out after the shot went in, making winners out of the Rams. One-by-one, fans began hugging him. Even those who didn't know him but only knew his family's tragic story were also in tears.
After making his way through the mob of fans, he found Grayslake Central's players waiting for him. They, too, were in tears, knowing what the moment meant to him, and the entire community, and formed a huge circle around him while also showering him with hugs.
"I knew Alex was gonna make something happen," Dave kept saying repeatedly, as tears of a momentary comfort streamed down his eyes. "I just knew it. I told everyone."
Minutes after the game, I, too approached Dave, who reached out and gave me a huge hug. I felt his warm tears on my own cheek as they fell onto mine. I could tell words could never capture how much the moment meant to him. As he let go of me, he just looked back and smiled.
I'm not necessarily one to believe in divine intervention in sporting events. But if ever there was a moment made for such a thing, Friday night was it.
Maybe, just maybe Alex was there, in that gym, giving the team an extra boost in the waning seconds. Maybe she was there to oversee such a beautiful moment. One that for at least one night, helped start the healing process for a small community that was stunned by her sudden passing.
Oh, the little things.
This one "little thing," which felt more like a small miracle, made me, and a lot of other people smile again, if only for a night.
And it was one tiny step on the long road to recovery for a town that continues to miss Alex. A town that will never forget what she meant to it, and continues to.
And while I don't normally write about high school sports in my blogs and columns on this site, I am compelled to make an exception this time.
Last night, I was lucky enough to witness one of those rare moments, in a gymnasium in the small midwestern town of Grayslake, Illinois. It also happens to be where I graduated from high school.
Last weekend, one of the team's former star girls basketball players, Alex Scarbro, tragically lost her life. Alex played on the 2010-11 squad that made it to the IHSA Class 3A Elite Eight, and wasn't just a great basketball player.
She was a tremendous, giving human being.
So needless to say, last night was a diffcult time, as it was also Grayslake's first home game since her passing. The Rams were facing one of their biggest rivals in the Fox Valley Conference, Cary-Grove.
There on the Grayslake bench sat Alex's green jersey, with the #10 on it, the entire game. It had been symbolically placed there by Rams coach Steve Ikenn.
Trailing by a point with 11 seconds to go, the Rams threw the ball in-bounds, and what happened next was a bit of magic reminiscent of the same magic so many witnessed when Scarbro finished her career there two years earlier.
Junior center Morgan Dahlstrom, who was one of the few current players on the varsity roster the same time Scarbro was two years earlier, sank the game-winning layup with just 7.6 seconds to go, giving the Rams a one-point victory.
And even though it was only a regular season game, fans began storming the court as the final horn sounded in what suddenly erupted into a wild celebration.
There, in the middle of it all, was Alex's father Dave, who was understandably bawling his eyes out after the shot went in, making winners out of the Rams. One-by-one, fans began hugging him. Even those who didn't know him but only knew his family's tragic story were also in tears.
After making his way through the mob of fans, he found Grayslake Central's players waiting for him. They, too, were in tears, knowing what the moment meant to him, and the entire community, and formed a huge circle around him while also showering him with hugs.
"I knew Alex was gonna make something happen," Dave kept saying repeatedly, as tears of a momentary comfort streamed down his eyes. "I just knew it. I told everyone."
Minutes after the game, I, too approached Dave, who reached out and gave me a huge hug. I felt his warm tears on my own cheek as they fell onto mine. I could tell words could never capture how much the moment meant to him. As he let go of me, he just looked back and smiled.
I'm not necessarily one to believe in divine intervention in sporting events. But if ever there was a moment made for such a thing, Friday night was it.
Maybe, just maybe Alex was there, in that gym, giving the team an extra boost in the waning seconds. Maybe she was there to oversee such a beautiful moment. One that for at least one night, helped start the healing process for a small community that was stunned by her sudden passing.
Oh, the little things.
This one "little thing," which felt more like a small miracle, made me, and a lot of other people smile again, if only for a night.
And it was one tiny step on the long road to recovery for a town that continues to miss Alex. A town that will never forget what she meant to it, and continues to.
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