I have been told that there is a strange underground movement in this country, and especially in the collective igloo villages beyond America’s northern border, for a barbaric competitive effort that involves men trying desperately to avoid falling through ice into freezing water by distracting the other men with a small black circle that is made of tobacco and bacon. They call it… hockey. At least that’s how it was described to me by the homeless meth head outside of Starbucks when I just paid him a dollar to flash a bus.
I plan on having my comprehensive NHL lockout-shortened season preview up by the end of this week, once I’ve finished looking over the league’s 4-day schedule that leads into a one-game Stanley Cup Finals. That’s what happens, right? My meth head was hit by the bus, so he didn’t get to finish.