PART 2: Fear and Loathing in 2k7

I apologize for my absence of late. To start making up for it, here's the conclusion of PART 1: Fear and Loathing in 2k7.

Note: This is a fictional work. Originally, I was going to write game-by-game coverage of this classic tournament in the first person, as is fashionable these days, especially in gaming-rags. To further my own narcissism I intended to cover my team like I imagined the great author and party-animal Hunter S. Thompson would, as a tribute to an inspiration. The terrible reality is that, yet again my complete disdain for 2ksports hockey has been further encouraged by the failure of this great tournament.

The fiction you are about to read is not far from the truth, as it was not for owner no-shows, non-reporting games and other pleasing occurrences of any typical organized gaming-event using 2ksports servers. Of course, almost as usual, it was the pure incompetence of 2ksports, and their lack of quality assurance. Using recent, updated (and apparently finalized) rosters the 1971 Chicago Blackhawks were completely selectable, and one of the best remaining teams from the pool I had available to me. Lo and behold, upon my first game I find that I can't enter the lobby without setting my lines first. This is odd, lines are pre-set and I was going to go classic Chicago strategy in my first game. Fair enough, I go to adjust my lines only to find I have no roster and must withdraw from the tournament despite extensive troubleshooting by the organizers and myself!

I was so excited to be invited to this tournament and show that I've kept up my NHL 2k7 skills. But again thanks to 2k and their crappy games, it was not to be. The result, is this final part of Fear and Loathing in 2k7. Enjoy everyone!

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Sleep is a rare commodity in both the hockey and gaming worlds. One must manage a life, a wife (or husband), a hockey team and a full-time job. On the road, we were lucky, after all of the ruckus to get some peace and quiet. Only God knew the odds would be stacked against us when would arrive in Montreal a few hours later. As men off to war, we all knew the risks- but we also knew the rewards. I like to think that's why most of the remaining '71 Chicago Blackhawks were here and it was sure as hell how I felt to coach them! A certified honour!

Snuggled up to my jacket the I dreamed of pacing the bench of Bell Center in Montreal, Canada. It was a cold, meticulous building and entirely becoming of the state of the Montreal Canadiens franchise. Certainly, it was nothing like the old days at the Forum. Its cozy blind alleys and severely rationed seating with potential for gratis soda and poutine (if lucky enough to be in a less rowdy section). It's extreme experience made an impression on me and I longed for those old time hockey days.

Our guys are going to feel lost out there. I had to come up with a game-plan! Just before my trip I had gotten drunk and just couldn't muster the motivation. It was time to do or die.

I woke up in a snap with the urgency of two filthy drug addicts in bat country. The sudden screech of the 35 year old air-braking MCI bus jilted me more than any fair-trade status-symbol coffee-cup filled with shit coffee in the morning. Damn it! We were here.

Starting with my hair, I began preening frantically paranoid of looking unprofessional and mostly hung over in front of the media and fans. Eye drops. Check. Breath mint. Check. I straightened my jacket in the window and turned about face only to be confronted by a hovering customs officer.

Startled, I yelped "I'm a American citizen".

"Any tobacco or firearms on your person, Sir?" he demanded with a deep rooted, cultivated boredom only achievable by border agents and Swedish hockey players.

"Why would I have any tobacco?" always the smart-aleck.

"Well, you reek of smoke."

"Hmm. So you're right I have three packs of cigarettes and three..." I paused just to see what this dull man would do. His right eye twitched slightly as if he were thinking of preparing his pistol.

"Cigars" I continued. "Or cigarillos. What do you Canucks call them?"

"Ok, that's an acceptable amount. No firearms, Sir?" The agent almost seemed relieved.

"Nope, although how are your gun laws?"

"Very tough" the agent retorted and I let him know if that was the case, I had no intention of testing them. Border agents are touchy brutes and exist in conflict with the average Joe. They want to think you're lying, after all, its their job not to trust you. You can't let them know that they intimidate you. And you especially can't let them know that you might have a few joints stuffed in your shampoo bottle or too many Celine Dion albums.

The king of manipulation, surely I would be up for a tournament coaching award or two , I thought. Time to prove it Holmes- 1 hour to morning skate at the Bell Centre.

Down the Decarie, it was easy to concentrate. Our rickety bus was safely nestled between drivers of such insane skill that they formed plasma of protection around our fledgling transportation. The weathered stone wall left warping our travels to ludicrous speeds. Knowing my team was safe at the eye of the traffic storm, I returned to my game plan. We were playing the '72 Montreal Canadiens in our first match up. What a rag-tag bunch if I've seen one, if we could execute the plan, they were sure to suffer in agony at our hands.

Ken Dryden, in nets, softened by over a decade of Canadian Liberal politics would start in goal for the home team, and I thought after a few jabs at the knee from Makita and Pit Martin down in front- he'll be begging to be pulled. Meanwhile down in the corners the wimpy Jacques Lemaire and Yvan Cournoyer will simply get destroyed. My main worry is the Mahovlichs' trademark grit. They could roll with our top line, and make us pay.
Good thing we had old Tony Espisito. Still sharp and fit, I was confident even a 64 year old Espisito could steal us a few games. Frank Mohovlich and the '72 Montreal Canadiens were our test.

Pinch our defense and rattle Dryden from the point. Trap the neutral zone and crush them when they try to work the corners in our own end. Get the puck to Hull and pray for a old-timer's miracle. Sound plan considering the circumstances.

We arrived at the Bell Centre in due time, and as the old boys awoke an air of confidence came over me.

"Ok guys. Let's get our things and go inside. No coffee on game day. Put your stuff away and get on the bikes on an empty stomach. Steak and eggs after a modest workout! Get R' Done gentlemen!"

"What the fuck...?"

Oh no, I thought. Did that just come from Keith Magnuson? No, couldn't be, shaking off the impossible. Yet I could feel his piercing glare burning the top of my head.Did I just say that out loud?

"Did I just say that out loud?" I echoed to complete silence in the room.

"Ok, not into the whole game-day ritual thing. Right-o," I trailed, "we're gonna get some chow and lace up. Let's see if any of you ladies can still skate!"

"When's nap-time?" Eric Nesterenko, piped up sarcastically.

"Shut it old-timer, we're here to win." I yelled instinctively. This possibly may have had to do with my father coaching my hockey team as a child, but I chose to go with the flow.

"This team couldn't win jack 36 years ago, what makes you think we stand a chance here?" queried one of the wingers-Cliff Koroll, flippantly. Obviously someone was still a little bitter.

"I don't," I interjected on his tiresome rhetoric, "Why do you think I'm pushing you pussies so hard. Pop a pill, put on your dia-pers, or drink your metamucil, I don't give a crap. I want to see some effort tonight! This is Montreal fucking Canadiens, mate! It's time to make good on bad history boys, now make me proud! We didn't come all this way to roll over and die to these bunch of hippies! Let's have a hard skate and find our legs."

Again, silence. You could hear a drop of sweat hitting the floor. Shortly, procession. Total obedience and acceptance. Maybe I was cut out for this coaching business, after all.

I was the first to step off the bus and we were greeted by tournament officials.

"Good day Madame, comment ça va? Je suis ça va bien? N'on pas craindra, Never fear the 1971 Chicago Blackhawks are here!" I announced triumphantly. "I'm their coach, HolmesIV. Can you please show this fine hockey team to their dressing room and I, to my lounge? Merci beaucoup, mon petit fleur." I was slick indeed.

"Ohhhh! We're so glad you could make it but, I'm sorry Monsieur, Je suis désolé- you are not registered for the tournament. Registration was closed last month. Did you not receive our confirmation package via US Post?"

"Confirmation package? Mail? Are you kidding me lady this is 2007!" I could hear the natter of 20 senior citizens faintly as I began to boil. "I responded with our roster and registration fee!"

"What's email?" could be heard amongst some of the murmuring.

"I'm sorry Sir, but we cannot accept walk-up teams." she curtly responded and turned away. Clearly, this woman was tough as nails and wasn't going to budge. But I had one secret weapon.

"Pardon me 'Mam but this is no walk-up back-water team from Val-Dor. I present aprez vous the 1971 Chicago Blackhawks, arch nemesis of your precious team and one hosting some of the greatest hockey players of all-time!" I exclaimed theatrically. "I have entrance fees and paper work, please allow us to join the tournament. Think of the draw of Bobby Hull and his brother, Stan Makita, Pit Martin, Jim Pappin and Chico Maki will have for your tournament. Don't forget Tony Esposito, quite possibly a superior goaltender to your own Ken Dryden!"

"Bobby Hull? Tony Espisito?" I've never heard of them.

"N'a-t-il pas joué pour Boston?" the woman's previously invisible assistant rudely budded in, obviously the worst kind of social animal: a bilingual predator cutting me out of the conversation.

"Je déteste Boston de toute façon. Cherry est un abruti," the tournament offical responded.

I didn't need to 'parle le ding-dong' 'comme ils disent' in order to understand what was going on here. No registered roster- no tournament. All thanks to a 'postal glitch' of some kind. Yes, a glitch. No doubt a conspiracy of monumental proportions. This clearly went all the way to Parliament.

Imagine all of the potential good-will spoiled- simply disregarded by the self-proclaimed center of the hockey universe. But this was a team that gave up long ago. Somewhere in the halls of the Commons, Ken Dryden, Master of the Universe could be heard cackling maniacally at his triumph.

"Sometimes, I don't miss the hockey." Dryden likely muttered to himself as he knocked back a shot of single-malt scotch and stewed in his victory without even stepping on the ice.

And so it goes... my final day as "Coach" of the 1971 Chicago Blackhawks.