Draft Day Suit

When LeBron James gave himself a Twitter account, he called himself KingJames, of course — or that’s @KingJames, to us subjects.

When someone else made up a Twitter account for King LeBron (James.) (Can you stop saying that? Because I can’t. Something in that LeBron James’s name’s water, makes me wanna holla. James. LeBron.)

Okay, let me (LeBron) stop (James.) STOPIT.

When someone else made up a Twitter account for this guy, they focused on what everyone has seemed to be focusing on since this whole surreal odyssey of LeRobn Jemas (see what I did there?) began approximately 37 years ago:

Ego, yes. There is a lot of talk of this man’s ego. There is much talk of LeBron James, period, actually. Can you stop talking about him? I barely can.

Anyway, since he pulled his stunt last night wherein he went to a Boys and Girls’ Club in Connecticut and made an announcement about his future in some kind of weird, robotic fashion, I saw it. When he told the worst interviewer in the world that he had woken up with a vision of what he ought to do, about how much he had done for Cleveland and how much Cleveland could suck it, I saw it. And when he went on in a vague, irritating fashion about how he was going to go to Miami and form a super team of sorts (albeit a team of three) with Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh, I saw it.

He basically said his mom and God were responsible for his decision, and whereas I’m not so inclined to bicker with either of those deities, I can’t help but think that they may not have been the only decision-makers here.

I am biased. I feel badly for Ohio. I understand making business decisions, and I understand that pro sports is about some weird things across the board. But here’s what I don’t understand:

1. Not telling your boss first that you’re leaving.

2. Not quitting at home, and spending maybe millions of dollars on a television spectacle that is the upscale equivalent of an it’s-not-you-it’s-me text message. Whatever happened to putting a letter on someone’s desk? And yes, I understand that proceeds from this show went to kids, and that Ohio will see some of that money. But if Cleveland was home, if Cleveland meant a lot, he should have quit in Cleveland.

And don’t get me started on the University of Phoenix scholarships. Last time I checked, the Ohio community college system or maybe even Cleveland State could use the boost.

Holla.

And I don’t really even have a problem with him leaving his hometown. People move on, people make decisions. But to try to leave with at least a semblance of goodwill would have likely resulted in far fewer burned jerseys (which is an idiotic move, to be sure. I’m not into setting things on fire, even if its Ebay value just completely tanked.)

Sorry. If you ‘re a big man, you do big man things, bigger than sending back rubber shoes, even.

If you have the big ego of a man, you do whatever it tells you to do.  And in this case, I think that’s definitely what was in charge.

For one day, and for a very good reason, I say “Go Hawks!”

The Stanley Cup and recently traded Chicago Blackhawks defenseman Brent Sopel and his wife appeared in today’s Chicago Pride Parade on the Chicago Gay Hockey Association’s float.  The Association asked, and the NHL said yes, simple as that. CGHA president Andrew Sobotka told the Chicago Sun-Times:

We are thrilled and honored for them to consider and accept our request. It’s just the news we wanted to hear. For the Blackhawks to do this is amazing. It is wonderful to know everyone is helping to make 2010 a year to break down barriers.

Brent Sopel and the Stanley Cup ride in today's Chicago Pride parade.

The Cup’s travels in its 100-day off-season are always interesting — it was used in 1996 to baptize Colorado Avalanche defenseman Sylvain Lefebvre’s daughter –  so its trip back from the NHL draft in L.A. yesterday was business as usual. Sopel was traded last week to the Atlanta Thrashers, but he and his wife Kelly rode anyway to  honor Brendan Burke, 21, son of U.S. Olympic hockey coach and Toronto Maple Leafs General Manager Brian Burke. Brendan, a hockey team manager at Miami University in Ohio who came out while in college, died in a February car crash. Sopel played for the Canucks when Brian Burke was the general manager.

…With Brendan coming out and then being killed four months later, that was the first thing that popped in my head. I knew Brian personally for years, and I met Brendan a couple of times… any young kid that dies like that is tragic. Nobody should have to bury their children.

It’s tough to deal with stereotypes, Sopel said, and he hopes one days “things will be clear and wide open for everybody.”

Agreed.

Now, I am not foolish enough to believe — as a diehard hockey fan — that hockey equals love and equality, or that all (or maybe even most, who knows) ice hockey players or fans are open and accepting of anyone regardless of sexual orientation.  A parade is a parade. One player’s participation, same thing.  But I do believe in progress when I see it and I am proud — as a diehard hockey fan — that the Blackhawks and by association the NHL showed up to Pride. I’m pleased that the Blackhawks took a hard-fought win that was so supported by Chicago fans to a place where it is sometimes dicey for sports teams to go. And I think it’s cool that there is a Chicago Gay Hockey Association at all, because if people need a place to feel more accepted and safe when they play or enjoy hockey, so be it.

And I just, in general, dig hockey fans. There’s my bias, right there. And to be fair to baseball, the Cubs had a float too, featuring Hall of Famer Ernie Banks and the “Go Cubs Go” theme song, so “Go Cubs” for a day, also.

I’m not saying it’s okay that it’s sometimes dicey for sports teams to go anywhere, either, but the last time I wore rose-colored glasses was sometime back in the last millennium. I understand reality. The Blackhawks were photographed celebrating the Cup win in front of a whiteboard that said Flyer Chris Pronger “is gay,” after all, shortly after the Tribune put him in a skirt and called him Chrissy. (Which really means they were calling him a woman, to be clear, which makes it offensive as well as ill-advised and no I am not sharing either picture here. The link is your friend.)

I know that there are no openly gay players in the NHL, or the NFL or the NBA, for that matter.

Are there gay players in the NHL? Probably. Definitely? I don’t know. I don’t care. And I say that with love for my team (hello, Washington Capitals, I’m kind of proud I got this far along in a post without mentioning you,) other players who impress me and a sport that makes me crazy and that I love all the same. And I can honestly say that I don’t care very much about their personal lives as long as they’re not doing anything really off the wall, in which case I’ll pay attention because, well, what would I write about?

But if a hockey player did come out? I’d so support him for saying out loud who he was and how he lives his life. Why not? And beyond that, I would wish on him no kind of discrimination or fallout from his choice to speak up. I would know he would get it, from some places and people, but I would not wish it for him and I would be sad if he did.

And if he were a Washington Capital and helped to win us a Stanley Cup? I would care even less about his personal life, just saying, but I’d be, somehow, prouder of my team.  It’s a little complicated that way, I guess, but just as today I say “hell yeah” to the Cubs and the Blackhawks, to Brent Sopel and Ernie Banks, to the National Hockey League and to Major League Baseball, I’d say it to him too.

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Photo available under Creative Commons from Flickr user Jasmined.

Confused by the World Cup buzz? I was.

I’m not talking about the incessant yapping of the media and everyone watching and even the people who claim not to be watching who seem obsessed with talking about the World Cup anyway. I’m talking vuvuzelas, baby.

Mind you I did not know what these horns were called until yesterday. I’ve watched exactly no soccer games in my life but I’ve been watching the World Cup since the opening ceremonies started because:

a. I am currently spending a lot of time on my couch working from home.

b. I appear to be on a quest to expose myself to every single sport, even those in which I previously had zero interest. This includes timbersports, which I just learned are a thing.

c. When you hashtag #worldcup on Twitter, a little soccer ball pops up in your Tweet. I am easily amused by this sort of thing, and will be lobbying for a little Twitter puck next year during hockey playoffs for sure.

On the first day, I enjoyed watching the South African team celebrate their goal against Mexico, the first goal of the whole shebang in what would end as a 1-1 tie game.

I am seriously considering adding that little dance to my just-because daily repertoire.

So things started off enjoyably, but after a few hours, the low, droning buzz in the stadium that seemed to get louder and louder as the games wore on started to get to me.

Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Long, relatively uneventful stretches of men kicking a ball around and bopping it with their heads. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

OMG CICADAS SWARMING AROUND MY HOUSE OMG STFU GET THEM OFF ME.

Then everyone on Twitter started talking about the noise, and complaining about the noise, and how it was distracting and unnerving and why was it happening? So I knew I wasn’t alone, which is nice, because it’s sad to bitch alone and validation that I’m not hearing things is always useful too.

Vuvuzelas FTW! Glasses not necessarily included.

These vuvuzela horns — find me a more fun word to say, I challenge you — are a traditional part of South African soccer games. Culturally speaking, I think that’s pretty interesting. But their noise output averages about 127 decibels — louder than a chain saw, says this former audiology major — and that’s a lot to listen to for an hour and a half straight. FIFA considered banning them for the Cup but the South African football association were understandably not down.

Here’s Mike and Mike complaining about them.

A site called Ban the Vuvuzela is up already, with the “against” camp firmly in the lead. World Cup organizer Danny Jordaan caused a bit of a stir Sunday when the BBC reported that  he insinuated that the horns, which have been accused of distracting players, the audience and newscasters, may be banned. But reports quickly surfaced that that would only happen in the case of a vuvuzela being thrown on the soccer pitch or used in any kind of way to harass players or the crowd.

Meanwhile vuvuzelas are selling in England — and probably in other places, I just haven’t seen the reports — at a fast clip, and I would like one, too. I’m not going to make noise on it for 90 minutes or annoy anyone on purpose, but I just figure something called a vuvuzela would be a fun thing to have.

This World Cup business will be going on for a month so I’ll keep an eye on this critical issue. You’ve got your #vuvuzelawatch right here.

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This happened in Game 1, but this is the idea.

Seriously, by the time June 9 hits, still having NHL hockey going is beyond ridiculous. Hockey is played on ice. Ice is long gone in most parts of Canada by mid-June. So maintaining the season this late feels surreal,  watching games in short sleeves instead of parkas and drinking margaritas instead of beer. But, given Bettman’s penchant for expanding the hockey league in to sunbelt cities where the only ice they know is in drinks and not on the ground, I guess he prefers it that way. It didn’t help that the NHL inexplicably dragged out the final series, delaying Game 1 by 5 days, delaying Game 6 by 4. Even A 7 game series could have been done a week ago had the games been scheduled normally. Instead, we all sit around and look awkwardly at each other when we realize, there’s a game on tonight? Still?

To be fair, I stopped caring a whole lot about hockey after Montreal was eliminated by Philly. That sweetheart season was over and I rejoiced the ability to regain control over the remote. But I did tune in for the end last night, and there were a few moments that put a smile on my cynical (if sleepy) face.

Moment One: Wunderkind Jonathan Toews, 22, Olympic Champion, World Champion, Conn Smythe winner and now Stanley Cup Champion, hoisting the cup in front of his ecstatic parents. I used to believe this trend of giving Captaincies to kids who can’t even grow a beard was just a way to mollycoddle this new generation of Precious Snowflakes. Then I started to follow Toews, who is cut from a different cloth than other punk Captains. He just plays. Works hard. Doesn’t seek the limelight, doesn’t whine, just .. plays.  And wins Stanley Cups. That’s a kid who deserves to be a role model. That’s a kid who has a long career ahead of him. That’s a kid I like. 

Then, Moment Two:  Seeing Toews hand the cup directly over to no-longer-cursed Marian Hossa, the player I’ve been all crushy on since he joined the Senators back in the mists of antiquity, the player who’s been in the Cup final three years in a row, the player who took so much flack last year for jumping to Detroit only to see them lose to his former team.

Marian Hossa with the Stanley Cup

He faced lots of accusations of being a Cup Chaser – as if he somehow predicted that Detroit and Pittsburgh would meet in the final two years in a row – but given that he’s signed with Chicago for the next 11 years, he seems to have been rewarded for his loyalty. 

And finally, Moment Three:  Putting the 2009-2010 season to bed, already. Hockey in June might bring an occasional tear to my eye, but mostly, it makes me wonder what the hell the NHL is thinking. I’m Canadian. I love hockey.  And by June, even I don’t care.

That said, sincere congratulations to the Blackhawks and the people of Chicago, who I’m sure will joyfully sweat their way through Friday’s victory parade. It’s finally summertime, hockey people.

Shannon is an Ottawa blogger who writes about politics, parenting, sports and the environment (among other things) at ThreeSeven and EcoChick. She is @zchamu on Twitter.

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