Every week there is usually a development of some sort that I can expound upon in self-important fashion, as I appear (to some of you, anyway) to care deeply about nearly every argument I make. But really, this column is a weekly outlet for self-expression. You have a blog. Or a Facebook profile. Or My Space. This column is like that, except nobody lets me get away with cute spelling.
At this point, it's not so much about the substance; it's the style. I don't usually know what I'm talking about (as is the case with today's gem), but I'll do my best to convince you otherwise. Give me something to write about, and at the very least, I'll give you an original perspective, and at the very best, an interesting one.
The intention of my preface is this: I'm writing about hockey because I watched a particular hockey game over the weekend that many of you may have also watched.
Anyone who knows me is probably shocked by those last 28 words, no, 31 words of that last sentence because I don't like or care about hockey and I don't know anything about it. I bring no intelligent or worthwhile insight to the game. I understood the result of the game, the final score, which team wore what color and so on, but I had to read a bunch of recaps and fan websites to really figure out what I had just watched.
I learned we are a fairly boring defensive team (here at Wisconsin? who knew?) whom I suspect hockey fans rooted against the same way I rooted against a team like Florida winning this year's NCAA Tournament.
I can tell you with great confidence, however, that I would truly regret writing about baseball's opening week, the NBA playoff picture or Amy Mickelson when I could address the first—and probably the last—Division I National Championship that I will see during my time here as a student.
I should clarify: Generally, I believe there are only two sports that I—or any significant proportion of the student body—care about, but I can make an exception for men's hockey because it has been brought to my attention that, at one time, when I was still eating sandwiches with the crusts cut off, this was a hockey school.
When the men's hockey team won their last championship in 1990—before Dick, Barry and Bo put UW basketball and football back on the map—they were the hot ticket in town. But, for the sake of hockey, I hope it doesn't become too popular too quickly. I'll explain (as if I was going to switch gears and tell a few jokes about airplane food... why am I so bad at segues?).
I represent a small minority of kids who are slightly annoyed at how drunk—er, inattentive—people are at games. I love our student section's rehearsed cheers and sheer volume, but I don't think it's as funny to exclaim that—as former Cardinal columnist great Michael Jones so wonderfully put it—Section ‘O' fellates the ref\ when we have just turned the ball over or let up a big play late in the game.
I see something very noble about hockey's fans and players. They strike me as a take-it-or-leave-it bunch. They may wear boots and cultivate greasy hairstyles, but you know what? They don't care. In the hockey world—the only game they care about—it's all about winning hockey games. And self-assuredly sticking to (but somehow pulling off) those unruly playoff beards, no matter what girls at the Kollege Klub might prefer.
I would hate for kids with trucker hats and puka-shells (who only turn from their ""Anchorman"" DVD to acknowledge a national champion) to decide that hockey games are a worthy pre-game setting while they drown out former high school hockey players who forfeited the funds for a couple nights out to buy season tickets.
And I'll be the first to admit that I watched the national championship game for the same reason girls watch the Super Bowl; I just didn't want to feel left out. Like most co-eds Super Bowl Sunday, I knew I was supposed to care, and everybody else cared, so I figured at the very least I should pretend to care and watch just to see if I could begin to understand the appeal.
Sure enough, I did. A lot of that had to do with the fact that the game was always close. And that we—excuse me, the Badgers—won.
But while game strategy, the concept of a shift and the ability to ice skate is beyond me, I thoroughly enjoyed the game without—I'll have you know—jumping on the bandwagon, pledging to buy season tickets next year, or taking ownership of a team's success that I spent so little time watching or caring about during their times of only moderate success (as you can see by my choice to refrain from referring to the Badger hockey team as ""we,"" which I often do when talking about the basketball or football teams).
All I wish to do is give the hockey players, the staff and the fans their propers. If I'm going to see a national championship in my years here, perhaps this was the best one. Sure, a basketball or football title might satisfy me to (almost) no end, but just imagine how terrifyingly out of hand the riots on State Street would be following a championship of that magnitude.
I'm afraid I'd be so euphoric that I would say something grave with a deceptively serious tone. ""This is fantastic. This is just fantastic. Does it get any better that this? I don't think it does. This is as good as it gets. Might as well kill me now.""
And if I'm even within a 13-block radius of the main Taco Bell-oriented bonfire, a happy rioter just might, in celebration—and out of victory-inspired benevolence—grant me my wish.
I really appreciate what the hockey team accomplished this year. And obviously ... it's safer this way.
Contact Ben Hubner at bphubner@wisc.edu. if you want to borrow his personal puka-shells or browse his DVD collection.\
