NBA dunk contest participants are like my baby

I'm probably going to say this every couple of weeks for the next 24 years, but I think my baby is getting it.

Can he walk? No. Crawl? No. Sing Justin Bieber songs? Yes, but that's age appropriate. Can he talk? No. Can he toss out witty bons mots . . . Hey! Shut up already with the questions. He's just a frickin' baby.

Last week a fever followed by a cold increased his wah-wah quotient but when the heat subsided and the boogers dried he perked right up and became pretty with it for a five-month-old.

He turned himself into a human bowling ball, rolling halfway across a room to get to something he wanted (never mind that it was a used Kleenex tissue lying beside a garbage can). We started him on solid foods and he's already a pro, gumming down a more varied diet than I eat:

Sports Baby: salmon and broccoli

Daddy: beer and that sticky white cheddar popcorn with the ironic* name Smart Food

The biggest and best change is in the smiles and laughs. It used to be that finding his giggle button to release a laugh was a lot like a drunken freshman stumbling upon his girlfriend's bingo button and unleashing all heaven on the unsuspecting lass — total fluke and one-and-done, the same steps the following night yielding nothing more than awkward stares, crying, and eventually a wet diaper (I'm talking about the baby now again, I think). 

But now Sports Baby laughs when you tickle underneath his chin. He smiles back whenever we smile at him. He scopes out pretty girls, saving the biggest grins for them.

He's no longer a little ball of snot, as my cousin recently called a friend's baby. He's a little ball of awesome.

And speaking of ballers, I thought that Saturday night's NBA slam dunk contest was really good. All of those guys were brining it.

Blake Griffin won with his now famous Kia commercial with Baron Davis throwing him an alley-oop through the car's sunroof as Blake jumped over the hood. Showmanship aside, I actually thought it was one of the weaker dunks of the night and Blake's dunk coach Kenny (the Jet) Smith blamed Baron's pass for messing up the slam (they should have known that the best guy to make a pass inside a car is Stephon Marbury).

Blake had the buzz, but all four of the participants pulled off fantastic dunks. Usually there are at least a couple of duds in there but not this year (accepting the now-inevitable missed attempts that come before many of the makes). In fact, some have argued that DeMar DeRozan and Serge Ibaka, the two guys who didn't make the cut for the finals, had the best dunks of the night.

Check out Ibaka's legit free throw line dunk:

And DeRozan's "Showstopper":    

Like Sports Baby, all of the the contestants are finally getting it after several hit-and-miss years. Now if only the NBA would get it too. Here comes the part where this blog becomes like every other sports blog as I offer a solution that no one will care about to a problem that probably doesn't even exist. Anyway, if dunkers are going to bring it like they did on Saturday I think the contest needs a new format.

First of all, it's stupid that DeRozan and Ibaka didn't get to do as many dunks as Griffin and Javale McGee because their "scores" weren't as high after the first round. The scoring is bupkis (more on that in a second), so there's no way it should be used to eliminate dunkers before the end of the show. There are only four of them anyway. Give them all three dunks so they know what they are preparing for and can bring their best stuff out when they want to.

As for the scoring, the whole Table of Judges throwing up an 8, 9 or 10 thing isn't working anymore, not when all of the dunkers are doing good stuff.

Here's my solution: have the judges rank all of the dunks from best to worst and give the trophy to the person whose cumulative total rank for all of their dunks (or two of their dunks) is the best.

The math would be a little more complicated but all it would come down to is the person with the most dunks favoured by the most judges would win. After every dunk each judge would just have to decide where it fit in. Was Ibaka's free throw line dunk better than Blake's arm in rim dunk? Was the Showstopper (seen here again, but this time in beautiful super slo mo) better than McGee's two balls, two hoops (also in slo mo) dunk?

A cool offshoot would be that on top of having one person win there would also be one particular dunk that would be crowned dunk of the night. Another benefit would be that the first guy to go wouldn't get screwed because the judges have nothing to compare him to. This happened to DeRozan, who criminally got a 44 out of 50, one of the worst scores of the night, for this bit of awesomeness.  

The whole process would give the contest more of a narrative arc as well because each dunk would be compared and contrasted to those which came before it.

Problem solved.

Now if you'll excuse me my dinner is served. And poured.

*Sorry to my Dad, an English prof, if this is the wrong use of the word ironic. I feel like he's the only person on earth who has it nailed. You should have heard him rip that Alanis Morissette a new one. "Those are just coincidences! No wonder your boyfriend dumped you!"

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Vancouver is like my baby

My baby has started to, as they call it in the infant industry, "make strange." That's when a baby begins to recognize that the person holding it, looking at it or blowing fart-kisses on its belly is not one of the recurring characters in the drama that is its little baby life.

It's a weird expression, don't you think? Make strange. It sounds so German to me.

"Hey Spatzle face, vy don't you macht strange und schtop schtaring at me vile I macht sexy mit diese apfel strussel?"

It sucks for our friends and family who get an earful of screaming whenever they are reintroduced to the little guy but it's also a great boost to my confidence that I can lord my non-strangeness over everyone else not named Mama.

The city of Vancouver, itself practically a baby at the tender age of 125, made strange when the NBA arrived in town in 1995 in the form of the Grizzlies. As the team approached the city, Vancouver lost it.

"Ahhh, what is that?! Why isn't Trevor Linden on the ice? Wait, where the hell is the ice!? Ahhhhh, black people!" To be fair, most Vancouverites didn't encounter many black people during their formative years in Hong Kong.

The Grizzlies' biggest attraction, literally, wasn't even black (which might help explain why the team is long gone).

Really, who wouldn't make strange at a basketball team fronted by a huge, brush-cutted, white boy hill-billy baller nicknamed Big Country (see photo at top)?

The Grizz fizzled in Vancouver, lasting only six years before moving to

Memphis.

But the basketball radar blipped once again this week in Vancouver when commissioner David Stern mentioned his regrets about losing Vancouver as an NBA city while acknowledging that there have been talks of bringing a team back here.

“We’ve had visits from, believe it or not, Vancouver, where the Canucks are absolutely doing a spectacular job there,” Stern said on ESPN Sports Guy Bill Simmons' podcast on Tuesday in advance of this weekend's all-star game.

He didn't mention that the "visits" were from a couple of homeless guys asking if they could sleep in Stern's garage. (The answer: "No. And if you have to get high you can do it in the alley but then get the hell out of here.")

Actually, the owners of the Canucks made the visit but right now the talks are just talks and all reports seem to indicate that Vancouver is not one of the first choices for a new or relocated NBA team.

It pains me to say it but I don't think an NBA team will be back in Vancouver for a long time. Why? Because ballers don't bounce in the rain, according to a column I wrote for the North Shore News a couple of years ago. I've attached it below for your perusal. I've left it unedited and a few things have changed since I wrote it: the Grizzlies and Thunder are no longer terrible; Portland is now a young and arthritic team, not a young and talented team; and the fledgling B.C. Titans basketball team has now folded. Who are the B.C. Titans you ask? Exactly. I stand by my remarks about Toby Bailey though.

Anyway, enjoy the all-star game. And remember, if you don't want to get screamed at, try not to be so strange.     

Ballers won't bounce in the rain

North Shore News

Sunday, Nov. 23, 2008

Andy Prest

THE loss of two NBA teams from the Lower Mainland-Pacific Northwest area in the last 10 years disturbs me.

(By the way, I think there should be a name for the combined Seattle/Vancouver corridor. SeaVan might work but it's a little boring. What about SeaWeed?)

Of course Vancouver lost their mostly un-beloved Grizzlies to Memphis in 2001, forcing hardcore junkies to travel to Seattle for their NBA fix -- a trip that can take anywhere from three hours to 47 days, depending on border wait times.

Now this season the Seattle Sonics are no more, packed up and carted off to thriving metropolis Oklahoma City. That makes the closest big-time pro hoops team the Portland Trailblazers, which is nice -- because they are a talented young team -- but also terrible because Portland is not close to my house.

Sure the Sonics and Grizzlies were terrible when they left (and still are) but even awful teams are fun to watch for hardcore fans. The good people of Oklahoma get to see Kevin Durant, one of the most exciting young scorers to enter the league since Michael Jordan, blossom into a superstar for a few years before he goes somewhere nice as a free agent. And the people of Memphis they . . . well, they get to watch great players crush the Grizzlies night in and night out.

But what about SeaWeed? More than 5 million people live in or near these two cities but combined they have fewer NBA teams than Charlotte, N.C.?

What's the deal? Maybe the laid back West Coast can't handle games with so much scoring. Maybe basketball players who know how to "make it rain" aren't welcome here.

Whatever the reason, it stinks. Anyone who has taken in an Argyle vs. Handsworth North Shore finals series or stopped by the provincial championships at the Agrodome knows that there is no shortage of love for hoops here.

Maybe there's hope -- a pro team called the Vancouver Titans is set to start play in something called the International Basketball League next year. To give some kind of indication of what kind of talent you might be able to expect, the Titans are holding an open tryout today at SFU. I don't think Steve Nash is going to give up his Phoenix Suns gig to suit up for the Titans anytime soon, but there appears to be some "where are they now" appeal to the league.

Toby Bailey plays for the Los Angeles Lightning. If you know who Toby Bailey is I'd bet you'd pay eight dollars to watch 33-year-old Toby try to dunk on people with the rage pent up from years spent not in the NBA. I know I would.

Well, maybe four dollars.

Hockey brawls are like my baby

Add another first to Sports Baby's long list of accomplishments: first fever.

I'm happy to say that his Mama and I got through it without crashing through the front door of Lions Gate Hospital and screaming "My baby is one fire! Get all of your doctors to stop saving these losers and come help us now!"

Instead I got to make a 7-11 run at 3 a.m. to pick up some cherry-flavoured baby Tylenol (FYI: delicious. Whatever my baby doesn't finish I'm going to chug and then go crazy like Rod and Todd on Pixy Stix). I was delighted to see two drunk-up hoochies in 7-11, their shiny boots towering them over the little store clerk. As they strutted around, their flirting and drunk laughs bringing the clerk as close to a sexual encounter as he's been since a chubby EMT gave him mouth-to-mouth after a 1997 robbery, I thought to myself, "wow, hookers!"

Then I realized that they're not hookers, this is what people do on Thursday nights when they don't have to worry about their baby dying or their wife getting upset with them because they're slow-dancing a sloppy make-out with a stranger in the middle of the dance floor long after the DJ has started playing up-tempo tracks again. Ah, the memories. I almost broke down and bought an undergrad-memorial corn dog from 7-11.

Back at home my baby eventually roundhouse kicked his fever in the face, beating it away with a little help from more cowbell.

These days the NHL has a fever too — fight fever. The League is going retro these days with a slew of 1970's style line-brawls breaking out.

The Penguins and Islanders did it two games in the last two weeks with both games punctuated, strangely enough, by fights involving backup Penguins goalie Brent Johnson. In the first game Johnson shared a laugh with fellow goalie Rick DiPietro before breaking DiPietro's face with one punch. In the rematch Johnson was challenged to a fight by oddly-spelled no-namer Micheal Haley in a rare skater vs. goalie bout in a game that featured 346 penalty minutes and 10 player ejections.

Sandwiched in-between those games was a fight-filled contest between old rivals Montreal and Boston that featured a much tamer goalie fight between Carey Price and Tim Thomas, two all-stars who know better than to actually punch each other. Boston also threw down against the Dallas Stars recently in a game that featured three fights in the first four seconds. And then there was that brawl where Brick killed a guy. What's next NHL? Lions? Land mines? A friggin' Cyclops?

It's such an odd quirk of the sport. I'm not sure how I'm going to explain to my kid when he is four years old that it's not OK to punch people unless they break into your house, call your Mom a ho, or are wearing skates. Whatever, I'll figure it out.

For media watchers it's made for an interesting week.

Globe and Mail columnist Roy MacGregor, referring more to concussions than fighting, highlighted a growing gap between mainstream media writers who think the league has reached cartoon-level violence and are calling for stiffer penalties to protect players on one side and the Hockey Night in Canada analysts, particularly Don Cherry and Mike Milbury, who revel in the game's violence on the other side. MacGregor's article went so far as to equate HNIC to Fox News for the boisterous, old-school rantings of its resident blowhards.

How did Cherry respond to this wild fortnight of fisticuffs in tonight's edition of his weekly sermon, Coach's Corner? He didn't, instead using the time to proudly show a couple of fights between teenaged junior players ("They're good boys," he gushed) before joining Ron MacLean in a 1930's Yukon reenactment of the fake orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally. At least I think that's what it was. Although for most of it I had the sound off. And my eyes closed. Anyway, it was weird. (Here's the video. The baffling display begins at the 4:30 mark. Only watch it if you don't have better things to do with four minutes of your life — things like practicing villainous eyebrow arches in the mirror or dyeing your cat's fur orange with Cheetos goo.)

Anyway, I'm not sure if the NHL has any interest in cooling down their teams' recent fight fetish. If they did it would take a lot more than a cowbell. I'm thinking more like a gong.


Photo Justin K. Aller/Getty Images
Follow me on Twitter @Sports_Andy

Ben Roethlisberger is NOT like my baby

                                           Obviously not Roethlisberger. The new champ, Aaron Rodgers.

Any parent can tell you about a not fun game we all play called "Is my baby breathing?"

It starts the moment the baby pops out as you wait for the lungs to fill with air and that first cry that lets you know the little guy gets the whole breathing thing. Hours later as exhaustion kicks in on that first night, most parents still have trouble falling asleep, fearing that if they take their eyes off that newborn for just one second he may forget about the whole breathing thing.

As far as I can tell, the fear never really stops. (Sorry this post is such a bummer so far. I blame Ben Roethlisberger.)

One of my favourite times to worry about choking out my baby is when I'm out walking with him strapped to my chest in our baby carrier. On Super Bowl Sunday I took him out for a pregame stroll. My baby usually likes to take in all of the scenery on these walks, only falling asleep after I cover his head with a hood like a falconer putting away his peregrine.

Feeling my baby warm against my chest is one of my favourite things in the world. I always ruin it, however, by imagining that I've put him in wrong or the straps are too tight and I'm slowly choking him out. Is he breathing? Is that him or me that's moving? Should I poke him? What if I fall and smush him? What if a wolf attacks? What if I cut off a nerve and his legs fall off. Oh my God I'm hyperventilating! Brown bag, breathe in, breathe out. For the love of God, somebody get me a beer!

Sorry again, I got carried away. That's what it's like to have a baby.

Eventually the kid shifts around in the carrier, sighs, or just wakes up and tells me to stop being such a puss.

Anyway, on to Ben Roethlisberger.

I thought of following my normal convention with the title of this post but if I actually finished the sentence "Ben Roethlisberger is like my . . . " I would either be immediately put in jail for child abuse or my son would grow up, read it and then come hunt me down and thrash me like a Boy Named Sue.

This all because of Big Ben's well-documented penchant for getting accused of sexual assault and other acts of general dirt-baggery. His misdeeds earned him a four-game suspension to start this season but he returned with a vengeance (for football opponents, not college girls), leading the Pittsburgh Steelers all the way to Sunday's Super Bowl. And as the Onion Sports Network pointed out, his team's success coupled with his string of no sexual assault charges for almost one year seemed to place him just one Super Bowl win away from earning a complete pardon for all of his sins.

But alas, Green Bay's defenders locked Big Ben in the proverbial gridiron bathroom and had their way with him while their buddies stood guard to keep Ben's friends from saving him. Ick — this post really is getting gross. Thanks a lot, Ben.

Anyway, Roethlisberger did get his comeuppance, throwing two interceptions — including one that was returned for a touchdown — and missing an easy touchdown pass before failing to finish off a late comeback attempt. With two Super Bowls already to his credit, Roethlisberger had the chance to cement his status as one of the best big-game quarterbacks ever and to further rebuild his image. Instead he opened the door to questions about whether it was his play that led Pittsburgh to their recent titles or whether he was just a good player blessed with a great team. In other words, he choked.

Let's sum up.

Big Ben: Former dirt bag who is either a reformed dirt bag or still a dirt bag but pretending not to be one; cost his team the Super Bowl; eye-opener; choker.

My baby: respects women; never lost a Super Bowl; can chew on own toes; not a choker. 

Photo Perry Knotts/NFL 

Follow me on Twitter @Sportsbaby

Super Bowl parties are like my baby

The Super Bowl is this weekend and so I thought I'd post a column I wrote a couple of years ago for the North Shore News about the different levels of parties there are surrounding the big game.

Sorry to those of you who read this blog solely to keep tabs on the wee Sports Baby himself (Hi Nana!), there's no baby info in the column. But here's a quick update: Sports Baby likes to party too. All day. Thankfully he doesn't rock and roll all night.

No, our little guy bangs out nighttime sleeps like a coal miner after 14 hours of hammer and 13 shots of Jack. But in the daytime he fights sleep like Captain Kirk (slowly) fights boulder throwing green hissing monsters.

We've tried everything to get him to nap: baby hypnotism, baby-strength valium, Matchbox 20 music (note to social services: we haven't actually tried any of those things. We're not monsters).

He just seems to be so darn curious with the world that he never gets tired of looking at stuff. Any suggestions in the comment section would be greatly appreciated (ridiculous ones only please — I don't want to hear any of that "start a routine and stick to it" crap).

Enjoy the game!

Some of the references in this article are a bit dated but I've chosen to leave them as is for the sake of posterity and to open old wounds for my friend Bone.

Don't be a super jerk at super party

North Shore News

Sunday, Feb. 1 2009

Andy Prest

Last year my friend Bone threw a Super Bowl party that was heavy on the party and light on the bowl.

For some odd reason Bone is a New England Patriots fan and so for the entire game he was glued to the TV trying to focus on the field while more and more revelers kibitzed, canoodled and keg-tapped just inches away from him. A miracle play by quarterback Eli Manning and receiver David Tyree gave the New York Giants the Super Bowl and, to the joy of everyone not named Bone, ruined New England's perfect season.

Bone's problem, aside from being a Patriots fan, was that he was on a different game-watching level than the people around him who were eating his cheesy poofs and spilling on his carpet. My recollection is hazy but Bone may have punched someone in the spleen.

With today being Super Sunday -- and with other big-ticket events like the Stanley Cup playoffs on the horizon -- it's time to review the different game-watching levels. If you're throwing a party, make sure everyone knows what level they should be on. If you're going to a party, try to gauge the level before you arrive -- nobody wants to be the only guy in full body paint.

Level 1: There's a game on?

This is the type of party where half the guests don't know or don't care that two teams are playing their hearts out for the chance to pour expensive champagne on a reporter. At some point in the evening the game could be pre-empted as two drunk girls the host has never met stumble through Willie Nelson's On the Road Again on Guitar Hero. If you are a die-hard fan, or a die-hard gambler with a C-note on the game, DO NOT go to this party -- it's 50/50 that you will stab someone in the neck with an especially pointy nacho. How do you like those odds?

Level 2: Family fun time

At this type of party lots of people are enjoying the game in a festive atmosphere with lots of food and root beer. Mom is in and out with trays of brownies, there are kids flying around and screaming and probably at least one dog eating candy corn off the floor and then barfing behind a plant. Dad is really into the game before he falls asleep with his head tilted back and mouth open.

Attend this party if you're into the game but don't mind missing some plays and not hearing the play-by-play all the time. The only time it will be completely quiet is at halftime when grandma makes everyone shut up so she can watch that dreamy Neil Diamond sing Forever in Blue Jeans.

Level 3: Down in front

When the game is on at this party, everybody is watching.

Don't go to this party if you can't go 15 minutes without blabbing about some crap like how convincing Clint Eastwood is as a racist bastard, how the new Greek place down the street tastes like every other Greek place, or how your third marriage is crumbling.

Conversation is not encouraged but if it occurs it is to talk about the game, make fun of John Madden, or to tease Bone about cheering for a team of big cheaters.

Level 4: Official apparel dress code strictly enforced

At this game there is no talking, only screaming, fist-shaking, wall-punching or, hopefully, high-fiving. In Vancouver you'll most likely find a party like this for a Canucks game. If you are not a die-hard fan these parties suck because the die-hards will scream at you if you block their view and are likely to kick a table, spilling vodka and coke all over your cat.

Plus, if the favoured team loses everyone will be bummed and the party dies a horrible death. If it's a Canucks party during an important game this is guaranteed to happen.

Those, sports fans, are the party levels. As the gamblers say, know your limit, stay within it. And for God's sake wake dad up, it's the fourth quarter and time to shine for Eli Manning.


Photo Getty
Follow me on Twitter @Sportsbaby

Zdeno Chára is, like, Superman

Here's a special guest post from Sports Baby's Uncle Stewart. I've forgiven him for not including enough baby stuff in here. I've also forgiven him for putting that douchey accent in Zdeno Chara's name. Anyway, turns out Uncle Stew knows his way around a typewriter. Good stuff. -Sports A

Greetings all – Uncle Stew here. My brother Andy was kind enough to invite me to contribute to his blog. I have extensive qualifications for the job, having spent the vast majority of my life talking (or in the case of the Battle of Alberta, arguing) about sports with Andy. His only stipulations were that my contributions had to be interesting, had to be about sports, and had to have the word “like” in the title. (I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.)  I can proudly say I’ve met at least two of those conditions.

I don’t know about you, but I thought the NHL All-Star production brought up an important question, namely, what is it with hockey and comics? People have repeatedly tried – and sometimes failed – to combine the world of hockey and cartoons. It all began with Peter Puck. Then there was Wayne Gretzky and the Pro-Stars. Around the same time we also had the adorable Mouse Hockey League.

More recently, we were treated to that odd cartoon about robots and humans playing hockey that showed up on CBC NHIC broadcasts a few years ago, only to vanish without a trace.

This last weekend opened a new chapter in the hockey-as-comics saga. Stan Lee showed up during the All-Star game intermission, and proceeded to explain to us that the NHL is protected by Guardians – who happen to share names with the 30 league franchise – along with their leader, “Mike Mason.” Also, we learned that the league is menaced by an evil figure called Deven Dark.

My first thought of course was, why do this? It’s such an odd project. What does hockey have to do with comic characters?

Then it hit me: the key link is Zdeno Chára. Chára is, in fact, Superman. (Or possibly, “The Superman.” The Batman movie franchise has completely muddled my understanding of when to use the definite article when referencing superheroes.)

Consider these facts about Chára:

1.    He is the biggest and strongest player in the league.

2.    He comes from a far-off place that no longer exists. (Go try to find Czechoslovakia on a map.)

3.    His name includes an unpronounceable combination of consonants.

4.    He is following in the footsteps of a stern but devoted father, whose name (Zdenek) is equally unpronounceable, and to whom Zdeno credits much of his drive to succeed.

5.    He a clearly a super-genius, as he speaks seven different languages.

Spooky, right? But wait, there’s more. The definitive piece of evidence came this weekend in Raleigh. After Chára emerged victorious in the hardest shot competition for what seems like the 12^th year in a row, Jim Hughson remarked how it’s “hard for the rest of us mortals to even bend (Chára’s stick).” Chára then did an interview with Elliotte Friedman in which he talked about how careful he has to be not to hurt his teammates by accident, how he rarely shoots as hard as he can. “I have to be careful,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

Chára went on to add, “I feel like I live in a world made of . . . cardboard, always taking constant care not to break something, to break someone. Never allowing myself to lose control even for a moment, or someone could die.”

OK, he didn’t say that last part. Superman did. But that’s just my point – Chára might as well have. Nothing in sports gets as much protection as a hockey goalie. (Well, nothing except maybe Lance Armstrong’s blood test results.)  Goalies wear an incredible amount of protective gear, and yet Chára’s worried that he could seriously injure one of them with a careless shot? He’s The Superman, I tell you! Friedman should have asked him a follow-up question about how his game changes when playing under the red sun of Krypton. To think the Senators traded him and kept Wade Redden.

Incidentally, it turns out that the world-of-cardboard speech is a pretty common cultural phenomenon. It’s a trope, which is in fact how I learned about it, from a website literally called tvtropes.org. If you’ve never explored it, I encourage you to poke around a bit. Be warned, however: you might want to clear your schedule before clicking on that link. This is almost exactly what happened to me the first time I came across it.

In its general form, the trope refers to anyone dealing with a barrier that keeps them from putting forth his or her full power; often, the speech is delivered just before the barrier is overcome. There are many variations delivered by a whole host of characters, from Jules Winnfield to Samwise Gamgee. 

However, Chára is the first athlete I’ve ever heard using it, and using it in exactly the same way Superman did. Try to imagine a baseball pitcher talking about not wanting to throw the ball too hard for fear of hurting the catcher, or a soccer player not wanting to kick the ball too hard for fear of injuring the keeper. It’s a bizarre thought. James Harrison threatened to quit the NFL this year just because the league asked him to stop actively trying to maim opposing receivers.

So I think it’s safe to conclude that Chára is the real force keeping the league safe from that evil mastermind Deven. (By the way, does anyone else think that Deven is an odd name for an evil mastermind? It’s a bit like “Tim the Enchanter.”) Clearly, this Mike Mason, leader of the Guardians of the NHL, is none other than Zdeno Chára, aka Superman, incognito. And I, for one, will sleep soundly knowing that The Zdeno watches over us all.

-Uncle Stew

Photo Getty