Thursday, July 16


I get a lot of fan mail here at He Score, He Shoot!. Hockey guys mostly, shut ins, some sluts; long time listeners, first time writers. They fawn a lot, which is nice. There is something though that every single one of the literally tens of letters I have gotten have in common: they all ask me if I hate Ottawa as much as I write I do.

You just can't
, they write. It's unhealthy to be filled with that kind of blah blah blah, they reason. Massive coronary, they warn. Using a lot of words and sentences that end in exclamation points. I write these fans back, sometimes in my own blood, sometimes in others' and tell them that they should mind their own goddamned fuckin' asshole business.

But seeing as everyone has asked and seeing as we're a few weeks removed from the chummed waters of free agent signings. With all the interesting stories already written and the fear that Kaberle could turn into this summer's Sundin. His where, when and for what replacing last summer's will he, won't he, why wouldn't he? as most annoying by- line.
And there being a really obscene amount of times between posts here at HS/HS. Let me answer the question honestly and objectively.

Ottawa: Oh , How I Hate Ye

It was this Canada Day where I really enjoyed the Dany Heatley saga. Because I was imagining those filthy bastards. The whole crusty-healed throng sitting on the 'hill', wondering aloud, "les odeurs d'air comme farts, uh?". Shaking their fists in between polite applause for the entertainment. Between those kids who dance from Otter Lake and that girl fiddler, just after their hit of angel dust or Molson Canadian (or whatever gets them through their day) they'd bemoan.
"That godamn 'Eatley.'
"I hate dat godamn guy, me." Someone would answer.
"Dat friggin guy." Another would say.
"....godamn Murray." They'd all say in unison, raising their fists like they're the gold and bronze medalists (respectively) of the 200 metres at the 1968 summer games in Mexico City.
"That guy's an arsehole." Someone would yell.

Max Keeping would be onstage saying gidday and wearing something embarrassing. You can bet that at some point in the afternoon you were going to hear him lisp, "Ladies and Gentlemen... The Nylons!"

J.J Clarke, (my 2nd most hated Clarke after Bobby) would be standing on Sparks Street telling the people watching at home that it's sweater weather and to be wary of the wind chill, and that, oh yeah, that OC Transpo has a special ride all day for $25 Canada Day promotion so there is no reason to drive and drive.
The look of panic on J.J's face as obvious as a neon coldsore, and the flop sweat pooling around his neck suggest that J.J. has already had too many 7 and 7's.
(I've heard that he lost all his money investing in a Planet Hollywood in Manotick.) Whatever it is, J.J. looks like a man who took a very hard kick to a very fat stomach.

Somewhere near the CJOH van Chris Neil would be selling cigarettes to school kids and bullying others. The sleeves of his too-tight jean jacket would be pushed up as he'd yell "2 for flinching!" at the passerby.

And it would be there, close enough to hear the skateboarders not landing any tricks at the War Memorial that you could close your eyes and take it all in; Ottawa: A loud roar of nitrate, trans-fatty acid and Pepsi burps.