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The Jester’s Quart
April 21, 2006
The Jester’s Quart: My Trophy Can Beat Up Your Trophy
Imagine seeing your first child born, running out into the
hospital waiting room to pass out cigars, and discovering the rest of the world
hates babies.
That's what it feels like to be a hockey fan at playoff time.
This week, my New Jersey Devils ended an improbable run to the Atlantic Division
title on the last night of the regular season. Like any real fan would, I rocked
my red-black-and-white Claude Lemieux jersey the next day, celebrating their
achievement in preparation for a first-round series against the New York
Rangers. In any other sport, this display of fanatic exuberance would have been
met with high-fives, "attaboys" and words of encouragement for future success;
but most of the non-hockey fans I bumped into gave me blank stares, half-smirks
and at least one guy saying, "Oh, did they ever settle that strike?"
We are the hockey fans. Lepers to the legitimate, creeps to the in-crowd. In the
great cafeteria of sports, we sit at the table closest to the teacher's lounge;
the one covered in old chewing gum and spilled chocolate milk where all the
foreign kids converge at lunchtime. We're like a fourth-tier religion; even
during our holiest annual celebration, all a non-believer can muster is, "Well,
I'm not sure I understand, but happy whatever!"
Look, I get that hockey - especially in certain corners of the United States -
isn't on par with baseball, basketball, football, golf, auto racing, poker, cage
fighting and dwarf tossing. I get that all this crowing about attendance being
on the rise comes from the fact that tickets were slashed to dollar-store prices
when they weren't being given away. And I'm fully aware that a sport played
inside an arena is being carried by a network dedicated to Outdoor Life.
Denigrate us. Ignore us. It doesn't matter. We have something none of you will
ever have: the coolest flippin' championship trophy in sports.
Look at her shine! The Stanley Cup is, like Jesus, made of magic. My trophy can
beat up your trophy.
There's no way to explain the feeling you get when you're in the building and
you see this thing carried out onto that little pedestal near center ice. (And
by "little pedestal," I mean the stand, not Gary Bettman.) Fathers lift their
children on their shoulders for a clear look at the chalice. More flash bulbs go
off than during a Lindsay Lohan nip slip. You could be waaaay in the upper deck,
like I was when the Devils won the Cup in Game 4 against Detroit in 1995, and
still feel the gravity of the thing. Remember the look everyone got in "Raiders
of the Lost Ark" every time they'd see a mystical artifact, whether it was the
little nugget at the beginning that set off the booby traps or the big enchilada
at the end? Well, that's the look every fan within eye-shot gives the Stanley
Cup. (It's also the reason the Blackhawks can't win the title until they change
ownership, because Bill Wirtz's face will melt off like that German dude at the
end of the movie as soon as he touches the Cup. Super-cool holy magic chalices
really don't mix with greedy evil oppressors.)
The Stanley Cup is iconic, a symbol of history and the amazing fortitude it
requires earning your place in that history. Yet after you win it, the Cup can
become so many other things: a drinking buddy, a fellow vacationer, a dance
partner, even a trough for a horse.
Can you say the same about this?
First off all, the thing looks as fragile as one of those crazy sugar castles
they make on the Food Network chef cook-offs. They must require any team that
wins the World Series
to have a gallon of Superglue in the locker room in case David Wells sits on it
by accident.
The design is all wrong. All of those pennants make the trophy look like
something a high-school color guard might take home from a weekend competition.
I get that the pennant is a symbol of baseball's postseason, and I see that we
have an actual baseball represented on the trophy; but there's so much
iconography missing from the sport. No bat? No glove? No syringe?
The trophy isn't even named for anyone, which is stunning when you consider
every Hall of Famer in the last 30 years not named Ernie Banks has won the damn
thing. Maybe they're just holding out for the Jeter Trophy...
Meanwhile, in the NBA:
This looks like something that should be revolving around the roof of a burger
joint.
The Larry O'Brien Trophy
(no, I wasn't aware it had a name either) is famous for two reasons:
1. Being featured in some pretty funny commercials over the last few seasons in
which players interact with the trophy.
2. Being somewhere in the frame every time Michael Jordan was photographed
following one of his championship victories. I actually created my own "Where's
Waldo?" game with it.
The problem being, of course, that more people could probably identify Jordan's
cigar than this anonymous trophy. That's because the trophy doesn't speak to
this generation of NBA players or fans; I mean, there isn't a single diamond on
it, nothing gold-plated seems to spin, and it's much too big to be a pimp cup.
FYI: If you squint hard enough, the O'Brien Trophy looks a little like a bust of
John "Hot Plate" Williams.
And then there's this:
The Lombardi Trophy is
really the only piece of championship hardware that comes close to the Stanley
Cup in American sports. It's simple, it's classic, and it looks really good when
hoisted into the air by anyone not wearing a New England Patriots uniform.
Really the only problem with it is that the football was made to be "in the
kicking position"; and really, who personifies the blood and sweat of a
championship season than an "idiot kicker?" (tm Peyton Manning).
But the Lombardi Trophy, the O'Brien Trophy, and the soon-to-be Jeter Trophy
still can't compare to the Stanley Cup because, unlike hockey's greatest prize,
they made new awards every season for the champions in each sport.
In football, basketball and baseball, you keep the history you make; in hockey,
you're simply a part of a greater history, etched in every name and team on that
shining silver beauty.
Congrats to whoever gets to hoist it this season...
'GLOW PUCKS
UPDATE'
I've now done nearly a month's worth of media for my book
"Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History"
appearing on radio stations across the country of all sizes and frequencies. I
can't begin to tell you what an honor it's been to hear from readers that I've
written something that's made them laugh and made them think. That's what I set
out to write, and I'm glad I accomplished that mission.
Complaints? People think the BCS is too low on the list. I think I defend my
decision well in the book, but to each his own. I've actually had pretty
spirited debates on the air with some hosts and callers about the shootout in
the NHL, which is fine: one man's excitement is another man's pathetic skills
competition gimmick, which if replaced with something like "fastest skater"
would reveal its utter absurdity as a manner to determine postseason
participation.
I'm scheduled on ESPN Radio 1250 in Pittsburgh Friday night between 8-9 p.m.
EST, and 1570 AM in Green Bay next Thursday, among others. I'm looking forward
to both because I've been really getting fired up about my chapter on
Warm-Weather Super Bowls.
Again, the book is in stores now and available on
Amazon.com for a price that really isn't going to help me, but will help
you, especially if you're looking for a Father's Day gift.
Thanks again for reading...
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Published on the web and www.SportsFanMagazine.com since 1997, "The Jester's Quart" is a weekly satirical look at sports, pop culture and why NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman is a jackass. Columnist Greg Wyshynski is the Senior Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" can be ordered now. Email Wyshynski at jestersquart@hotmail.com.
