Today as I wore my war wounds around the office, I was Edward Norton from Fight Club. I am Jack's Abstract Visage. People would stop mid-sentence and ask if I'd fallen into something, or if I'd hit something with my face. I know I may not be as gritty as a Philip Marleau, or as comic-book as a MMA goon, but it is a little disappointing to have 'Getting in a Fight' completely ignored from the list of 'broken face' explanations. However with that said, I was told that prior to yesterday's tussle, my entire squad would have awarded me with the 'least likely player to drop the gloves' honor, and with my Pts-average of 2 points per game, and the 6 minutes in Penalties I recorded this season, I have to agree that the role of enforcer was a surprising twist to my player profile.
But was it really a twist. On the same night that I responded to a flagrant elbow to the face and a cheap sucker-punch, Captain Crosby fought Florida's Keith Ballard, after the young defensemen delivered a low hit to Pen's star forward Evgeni Malkin. Everybody has to fight sometimes. Iginla, LeCavalier, even finesse frontman Alex Semin have danced with their fists when the time was right. It's been front and center in the news more than once in recent history, 'Fighting and Hockey, yay or nay?' To many the subject of Fighting in Hockey is an easy conversation involving adjectives like savage and barbaric, with statements about the violence of the event, and the lack of purpose it serves. To these privileged debaters, a lack of hockey experience and understanding allows them to wave a proud flag displaying their elitist thoughts. It's too easy to assume that peace and love will regulate this high intensity contest. Emotion, Speed, Adrenaline, and the Express Judgments found in hockey makes the opinions of those outside the sport uninformed.
The question is not: 'Do we ban Fighting from Hockey or continue to have players die?', but yet it's the one being answered by the majority of nay-sayers. Most players, coaches, and experienced fans of the game will tell you that in general Fighting, or more specifically 'the possibility of Fighting', is in fact a measure to reduce violence and injury in hockey. Fighting is the sport's self-correcting tool. It generates the same warrior-respect as the concept of Mutual Destruction, which guided the World passed the all out annihilation that threatened the planet during the Cold War. Why not just toss out a knee on the star player of the opposition? Injure him? Remove him from the game? Why not spend each shift carving players up with your stick? Feeding them slashes behind the refs back? Catching them where there's no padding? Why not hit from behind, spear, butt-end, or run someone without the puck? Because of the threat of a penalty? Really? Is the idea of 2 minutes in the penalty box going to convince everyone to 'play by the rules'? Some players don't respond well to the 'Minor Penalty' concept. Queue DiNero from Righteous Kill: "Most people respect the badge, but everyone respects the gun". No cheap shots, no testing the boundaries, no distractions from the 'Game'. For the Cold War's Superpowers the 'possibility of the Fight' allowed for negotiations and politics to be the focus, on the ice the prospect of a flexed muscle helps to eliminate everything that isn't hockey.
'Do we ban Fighting from Hockey or continue to have players die?' Just because it serves a purpose, doesn't mean that it justifies tragedy. Major Injuries resulting from Hockey Fights should generate a different discussion: Should Fighting be taught? In my opinion the answer is yes, but even as I consider suggesting this question the out-cry has drowned out any free thought. Should Fighting be taught... to the cute little Timbit Hockey Cabage-Patch-Kids from the commercials? No. Should Fighting be taught... to the once-a-week, division 4, teen player out on the ice for a chat, concerned more with the 'Mate' than the 'Team' part of teammate? No. The weekend rec puck player? No. The twice a year pond hockey bum? No. Should the proper Fighting techniques be made available to the high level player graduating from the minor ranks and pursuing a life in the sport of professional hockey? Yes.
There's more to a Hockey Fight than just the Looney Toon windmill of iron fists being caught by a big mushy face. Like the graceful offensive trickery of an Alexander Ovechkin, the moves of a Fighter are magic. While delivering similar combination to those of a boxer, the Fighter has to throw his punches while dancing on the ice. Balance is always being tested. But bobbing and weaving isn't enough. The threat of the rolling haymaker creates the need for strong grappling defense without sacrificing the offensive attacks that land the success. There's jersey control, strong-arm vs switch-up, foot work, and on top of that, each match up is different. The best of the best make it look easy enough that the average player thinks Anger is the only tool required. The worst injuries occur when basic technique is ignored. If each punch is opening you up, and you have no control of the other player's body, and the ice hits you just as hard as the knock down blow, then it's not the fighting part of the confrontation that is hurting you, it's all the mangled, irresponsible technique that's drawing blood (your blood). In the professional game, having a fundamental understanding of how to fight is as important as being able to deliver and receive a check, play with an awareness of all the players on the ice, and stop without piling up on the boards. The know-how won't encourage the act, it will simply remove the mystery, the fear, and the danger of it. Good Fighters will drop their gloves, battle within the abstract choreography, and congratulate their rival when the contest has run its course. The Hockey Fight is the neglected middle child, punished without being understood. It’s time to figure this kid out.
None of this was a concern of mine when I was faced with the only four options available to a helmetless player staring down an avalanche of hammering fists. I had challenged the goal on a two on one, and as the puck and the play left the offensive zone a crushing elbow met my right cheek bone. Total confusion and disgust. I could feel the clever wit mixing with my frustration, and as I turned to tear Elbows open with a string of hurtful Trash Talk, I stopped his mitted fist with my face. Sucker Punch! Are you kidding me?!?! This defensemen was not just pushing me around, he was setting the stage for bullying our entire team. All it takes is one talentless oaf to get away with roughing a player up and the tone of the game can shift, leaving one team vulnerable to physical abuse. I pushed back to remind the Oaf that I wasn't his play toy, but as quickly as the elbow and fist had found me, he had dropped his stick and forced my helmet off. The four options that now faced me had previously been discussed between myself and our Goalie (Goalies tend to know more about hockey then they let on, they are wise, they are sneaky, watch them carefully). I flashed on the following: Duck and Turtle and hope to survive; skate away and hope that the Oaf doesn't follow; stand strong and take the punches, Or... Fight Back! Oddly enough the lack of creativity involved in reffing most Men's Hockey League games means that all four available options lead to the same even up calls. Embarrassment aside, what's the point of taking the punishment for 'fighting' if you don't actually do any fighting. The worst part of getting in a Hockey Fight is getting punched in the face, and since I had already done that...
I wanted to use my ridiculously long and lanky reach and land enough punches to convince him (and everyone watching) that I was more than just a pretty face, with a large elbow shaped bruise. It all happened within a confusing rustle of banging equipment. Heavy breathing and angry grunts were all that the Oaf offered up aside from some slow miss-fires. Go figure, I can fight. I can only imagine that it's all the Playstation tussles I've put those little electronic tough guys through, that, and luck. I landed half a dozen decent punches, enough to get him leaking, and was able to protect myself from most of his attempts (random dodging maneuvers made me a pretty slippery target). "This is going Very well!" I thought to myself (Inside-Me smiled at this, Outside-Me continued to make the scrunchy face that does nothing for preventing landed punches, but looks really goofy). I then became well aware of the fact that the refs were nowhere to be found. After three or four good cracks on his noggin I was about done with the whole experience. Check it off the To-Do list, and abandon ship. This is where the fear came in. I suddenly realized that I was in a fight with a monstrous Lunatic, full of old-man strength, and irrational rage. Where were the refs? Why wasn't anyone coming to save me? I was now terrified. It's a good thing that I had chosen 'Fight' when I did, because with the Crazy-Nutjob getting more frustrated I wanted the other three Weenie-Options back ASAP. Just then I saw my opportunity; as the Oaf lunged forward we moved in unison like life-long dance partners, and my Judo instinct eased me on to the ice with a textbook Break-Fall. Beautiful, beautiful ice, my new favorite place. My mind quickly replayed the whole scene as the Where's-Waldo refs finally joined our situation. I smiled (not at the Oaf though, the risk-taking has to stop somewhere). I had not only survived the Fight, but I think I'd won, I made a big huge doofus bleed his own blood. I am bada$$. I feel great!
And that's exactly what I told my cheering section. I loved it; I loved that it was over, I loved that I wouldn't have to do it again, I loved that I hadn't started to cry, but mainly I loved that in the end the consensus was a thumbs up. The guys on the team couldn't get enough of it, they had been feeling the Oaf's stick all game, and were fed up with his cheap shots. The crowd was all geared up, as they had looked passed his moronic-Oaf exterior and saw the goon for what he really was; doosh-bag... big doosh-bag. Even the rink rat who gave me a bag of snow to ice my face told me that seeing people beat up oversized losers was the highlight of his job.
As I skated passed my fans (the true Jack-Webb hockey fanatics - Family mostly, but enthusiastic Family, truly committed, in fact they make up about 90 - 100% of the game's audience most nights), I saw a mix of concern and disappointment. My inside smile waivered. Did they not share my excitement? Did they not view the situation in the same way that I did? Was the Webb Crew part of the Ban-Fighting Following? Was there something other than 'Fight' or 'Weenie' that I could have worked with? No. The concern was for my safety, and the disappointment was for my sentencing. It should be noted that among the frowns and worried expressions, my brother brought something else to the table; he was all smiles - smiles, wide-eyes, and high fives. In the end, once the adrenaline had worn off and I had received an elegant off-setting double-minor to accompany my dismissal from the game, all that was left was our 7-2 victory, a couple of delicate black-and-blue souvenirs, an invitation to play in the next playoff game, and a great story complete with a 'you should see the other guy' tag line. My only slip-up throughout the whole adventure was during my recovery; way too much icing. Twenty-four hours should have produced a full collection of rainbow shades to decorate my face, but instead the elbow-imprint, the forehead goose-egg, and the bright red tracer drawn by the edge of my helmet, were all distant shadows of themselves. I am Jack’s total disappointment.
And now everything is back to normal. The story has been told, the bruises have disappeared, I’ve returned to the ice as the dangling play maker, and life goes on. But I feel different. Something has lingered, something quiet and subtle, something new; I have changed. And it has very little to do with the fight itself; it’s not the landed punches or ducked death blows, it’s not the excited cheers or my resulting survival, it’s that I did it. I lived that experience, and because of the adrenaline, the energy, the fear, and the smiles, that Fight is not just a memory, it is now a part of me.
She can wear whatever she wants... or nothing at all...
So I'm picturing myself as one of the following:
- Brad Pitt (Chad Feldneimer - Burn After Reading)
- Revolver (why the Brits panned this film and filed it under 'No Good, ship 3 copies overseas for North America' is beyond me, it's Guy Ritchie with a Twist)
