Vote Rostraver for Hockeyville! Me & Flyer great Hextall would want you to

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I disappointed a lot of readers by not returning from last month’s Philadelphia visit with even one story about how Philly was full of Pitttsburgh-hating jerks.

Sorry, but everyone I met was perfectly sweet so I defend Philly.

Maybe it’s because I once defended arguably one of the biggest Philly jerks of all time.

Yes, at one time I defended Ron Hextall.

And he had my back! 

I played defense on a peewee hockey on a team with Hextall, who went on to play goaltender for the Philadelphia Flyers and was described by none other than Wayne Gretzky as “the best goalie I’d ever faced.”

I mention this now because today is the final day to vote for Rostraver Gardens to win $150,000 from Kraft Hockeyville as the best hockey venue in America. Rostraver and Bloomington (Minn.) Ice Garden are the remaining finalists culled from 1,300 entrants.

I just signed up and voted Rostraver 50 times, which is the limit and after I’m done with this I’ll try and think of a way to submit another 5,000 votes.

Rostraver Gardens means a lot to me and most every other kid who grew up playing hockey in Pittsburgh. It’s where I learned hockey fundamentals, the values of teamwork, leadership and persistence.

It’s where Hextall screamed at me so cruelly I nearly crapped my hockey pants.

I was 10.

He was 8.

I’ve known Marines who were less profane.

Hextall was the son of former Pittsburgh Penguin Bryan Hextall and the grandson of NHL Hall of Famer Bryan Hextall Sr. He had a very proud pedigree.

I was the son of a South Hills optician and was proud when I learned to tie my own skates.

In those pre-Mario Lemieux days, hockey wasn’t huge in Pittsburgh. Almost every kid who played — and every son of every Pen — played in the leagues run out of Rostraver. I played with the sons of notable Pens Vic Hatfield, Marc Boileau, Syl Apps and Dave Burrows. They were all just great, regular kids.

Hextall was a monster.

In my life of people yelling at me for being stupid, lazy and wrong, I’ve never had anyone yell at me like Hextall did.

“Rodell, you’re &%$#! screening me! I can’t *#$%&* see! Hit somebody you stupid *&%$#@ pussy! &%*#!%& *%$#@! *&%$!”

At 10, I only understood one out of every four words he was screaming, but I instinctively knew he was, let’s say, displeased with my performance.

And it was only our first practice.

I don’t remember crying, but I probably felt like crying. Crying and quitting.

In the end, I did neither. Instead, I went to work.

I’m not saying I became a competent hockey player because he screamed at me — I wouldn’t want my wife to draw any conclusions from the fable — but showing Hextall I was good was a serious motivation.

I’ll never forget the game about half way through the season when I was on fire. I made two key break-out passes that led to goals, scored on a rebound and broke up two 3-on-1 breakaways in the crucial 3rd period. We beat the Kiddie Kings 3-2.

Later in the din of our victorious locker room, Hextall yelled out, “Rodell!” I looked over at him.

All he did was nod. One time.

But I felt utterly euphoric. The son of Pittsburgh Penguin approved of my play. I felt welcomed. I felt like a real man.

Two years before my first pube!

I wouldn’t say we became friends. Heck, I’m not sure a kid that angry ever had a friend in his entire life. He went onto a great career, but was considered one of the meanest players ever.

And that’s in goon-filled hockey!

But he did became respectful of my play. I love recalling those stories and recollecting all my time at Rostraver. It’s a very special place and hope you’ll vote for it at Kraft Hockeyville.

I ask you nicely.

Don’t make me go all Hextall on you.

Related …

Youth hockey league in hot water over icing anthem

Pens vs. Sharks in Cup final (and life)

“Slapshot,” “Lonesome Dove,” movie trivia

Real champions & imaginary friends

Pens vs. Sharks in Stanley Cup (and life)

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The Pens playing the San Jose Sharks for the Stanley Cup is less than idyllic for me because I’m one of those guys who gets annoyed having to pay attention to any news happening in any of the 39 world time zones that aren’t the one I’m in.

If it’s not happening in EST, I have trouble paying attention. Same goes for news about people whose names I have trouble pronouncing. 

It’ll be annoying for people watching the games with me because I’ll inevitably ask stupid questions about real sharks.

For instance, I’ve always wondered if these notorious man-eaters are uniformly voracious or if there are some sharks that are like some picky kids about cleaning their proverbial plate.

Dad shark: “Son, if you don’t eat your liver you’ll go to your room without your device privileges for the whole night.”

Son shark: “I hate liver! Isn't it enough I ate both the awful kidneys!”

I like it when best of seven series involving Pittsburgh teams are against teams within our sensible time zone against players whose names lend themselves to convenient heckling.

That’s why I was hoping we’d play the Brooklyn Nets, a EST team with players named Tad Young, Will Read, and Jarret Jack.

Of course, this would be highly unusual because the Nets are a professional basketball team and playing an NBA team in the NHL’s Stanley Cup would unprecedented.

And, oh, how the Pens would kick their asses.

NHL scouts routinely rate a team’s skating abilities. I’m sure they’d say an NBA team has very poor skating skills.

It’d be fun to watch Sidney Crosby zoom around a bunch of 6-foot-10 dudes who can barely stand up on skates. I’m confident Crosby could beat the Nets all by himself. Heck, our goalie could beat them all by himself.

Alas, we get the PTZ (Pacific Time Zone) San Jose Sharks and guys named Dainius Zubrus, Marc-Edouard Vlasic and Joonas Donskoi.

I also hate the sports league propensity to try and achieve perfect fairness in scheduling. That means games 1, 2, 5 and 7 will be played in Pittsburgh, which gets home ice advantage because of its superior record. 

Those of you who are statistically minded will note the disparity in sequencing. Games 3, 4 and 6 will succumb to the scheduling equivalent of Manifest Destiny.

It upsets environmentalists like myself because of all the squandered  jet fuel it’ll take to zoom back and forth across the continent in the event the series goes seven games (it won’t).

It’s incredible wasteful.

It’d make environmental sense to play the games in a central location, like Lebanon, Kansas, the exact geographic center of the USA.

If you think Lebanon would be a convention mecca, you’d be mistaken. Population 279, one resident told me they’re so desolate they’re 60 miles from the nearest Walmart and that they buy toilet paper by the pallet.

Of course, the biggest question of all involving San Jose’s participation in the Stanley Cup is whose idea was it to put an NHL franchise in San Jose, an inland city with the same international prestige as Fresno.

Who wants to junket to San Jose?

It’s like taking a California team and making it come to Pennsylvania to play Scranton.

There shouldn’t be professional ice hockey in towns that never see roads covered in actual ice. And I reserve the right to alter my position once Global Warming renders the whole stipulation preposterous.

So it promises to be a fun week here in Pittsburgh and San Jose, too, I’m sure.

I grew up playing hockey and have remained a huge fan. This Penguin team is very appealing, too.

Being in a city that’s on a championship run is tremendous fun. No one knows this better than Pittsburgh fans. In my lifetime, I’ve celebrated six Super Bowls, three Stanley Cups and three World Series championships.

That’s 12 in five decades, for an average of more than two every decade.

By comparison, fans in Cleveland haven’t won squat.

Yes, it’s good to be us.

This week will prove it again.

It sounds like one of those hysterically hyped Animal Planet shows, but this series will confound the the aquatic natural order: The Pens will devour the Sharks.

Livers and all.

Pens in five.

Related …

Let’s move nation’s capital to Lebanon, Kansas

Youth hockey league in hot water over icing anthem

MOvember & my magnificent mustache

Fanning vs. shark: we need a rematch!

The winter day I nearly died in Minnesota

Daughter, 7, says God is dead; Is Elton to blame?

(659 words)

Our daughter Lucy, 7, and I were enjoying some afternoon ice cream, which for her was the perfect time to express her heartfelt blasphemies.

“It’s a good thing God is dead or He’d probably be doing a lot of bragging,” she said.

I asked what she meant.

“Well, He’d be like, ‘I created this. I created that.’ He’d really be pretty full of Himself.”

I think she was comparing God to Timmy, a second grade classmate of hers who is being raised by well-intentioned parents who are doing their utmost to ensure their runny-nosed son will never be troubled by any low self-esteem issues.

I told her we believe God is not dead and it’s unlikely He’s doing much bragging these days. Sure, the Pittsburgh Penguins are finally doing better on the power plays, but other than that His creation seems to be a bit flawed.

I asked her where she heard God is dead. She said she didn’t remember.

I fear it may have been Elton John.

In his catchy ’71 tune, “Levon,” a song I’ve played for her and her sister many times, he sings:

He was born a pauper to a pawn on a Christmas Day

When the New York Times said God is dead and the war’s begun

Who knew my attempts to steer my daughters into a tasteful appreciation of pop music would one day lead one of them straight into the arms of Satan?

I guess the Baptists were right.

I love discussing theology with 7 year olds because everything’s on the table. It’s always fun to ask someone that age what God looks like and if He does things like skateboard.

You can’t talk about these things with some adults.

A Facebook friend recently took me to task for some unspecified post: “A lot of people take God much more seriously than you do. You might want to think before alienating any more of them.”

I messaged him back to try and discern what I’d written that may have offended my Christian friends. Was it when I wondered what God says when Jesus sneezes? When I asked, “If marriage is so great then how come God’s still single?”

He never wrote back so I may never know.

Honest, I’d never do anything to intentionally upset my friends of faith, true faith being something I admire. It’s beautiful and soothing to be in the presence of anyone who is utterly convinced of the existence of something that can’t be seen.

My daughter’s like that with Santa Claus — and those of rigid faith might not want to ever ask her who’s higher on the depth chart, God or St. Nick.

I have faith, but lack the cement certainty of so many God-fearing Christians.

It’s maybe the one thing I have in common with Thomas Jefferson, who said, “Question with boldness even the existence of God; because if there is one, He must more approve of the homage to reason than that of blindfolded fear.”

It zeroes right in on the God in whom I believe. He could have made us uniformly stupid so we’d never think to ask such impudent Almighty questions. 

He instead imbued us with our restless curiosities, our outreach and intellect.

The God in whom I believe would never begrudge us our questions, our uncertainties, no more than I’d scold my darling daughter for hers.

So I will be mindful about posting anything that might offend the dainty sensitivities of those of faith who lay their heads down at night assured they have it all figured out.

I do not.

Thus, I will continue to ask questions and seek answers and forever rage at the rampant injustices in a world that all too often seems truly God-damned.

And I will raise my daughters to do the same.

See, I don’t believe God is dead.

I just think too often He acts like He just doesn’t care.

Related . . .

How come there isn’t a Mrs. God?

Our wills, our ways; prayers for Oklahoma

What God says when Jesus sneezes

National No-Prayer Week

America needs snitch prayers

When idiots pray

Proper prayer posture

My absence/their fonder hearts

It was the Roman poet Sextus Propertius who is said to have given the world the first notion that absence makes the heart grow fonder when he wrote, “Always toward absent lovers love’s tide stronger flows.”

That his name endures in the canon of great poets more than 2000 years after his pre-Christ passing is remarkable, especially for a poet inept at composing even simple nursery rhyme.

My appreciation of poetry is sadly deficient and I admit when I saw the name Sextus Propertius my first thought was, man, I’ll bet it’s funny when they read his name aloud in high school English.

But his initial wisdom persists, as I am reminded whenever I return home from a jaunt.

Happened again Monday when the 5-year-old toddled off the school bus and dashed straight into my arms. I’d been away seven nights and had just returned the previous evening with a bagful of girly goodies.

“Daddy,” she said, “when we get home will you help me change into the new shirt you brought me and then come outside and play with me?”

It was so beautiful and heartfelt I decided right then and there -- to hell with my busy schedule -- I was going to be 15 minutes late for Happy Hour.

Father of the Year Award, here I come!

Who says I’m not sentimental?

I’m becoming aware that I’m loved most by the people who see me least.

I suspect that’s the way it is with most of us. The people we see less often recall the laughter and forget the pettiness. An occasional wisdom will resonate and fleeting bone-headedness will be dismissed. Embarrassing personal problems like chronic and uncontrollable flatulence are mostly gone with the wind.

The trick in life is being around enough to remind loved ones you’re part of their lives while being absent enough for them to miss you even a little.

I have momentarily achieved that balance.

Right up until I vamoosed the girls were all raring for me to go. They complained about my constantly being around, my insistence on watching the Penguin games instead of their Disney Channel shows, and they revolted at the olfactory offense that’s part of my lifelong struggle with chronic and uncontrollable flatulence.

And for me a road trip is a traveling two-fer. The kids miss me and I get to make a host of new friends because I’m becoming a master at the art of fleeting first impressions, at least among drunken strangers, my sweet spot demographic.

I think I’m popular with those kinds of folks because I’m convivial, never ask pesky questions that don’t involve another round of liquor, and the only time anyone hears me going bitch, bitch, bitch is if I’m telling a story about a successful dog grooming venture.

I like to think these methods would work as well making friends with sober strangers as it does with drunken ones, but it sounds too boring to bother trying.

Of course, given these preoccupations with being too present too often, I often fret if I blog too frequently or the posts go on too long.

So I think I’ll quit now and allow you to enjoy basking in the goodness of me being gone.

Plus, I need to catch up on those 15 minutes of Happy Hour I lost Monday when I was out playing with the kid.

Dealing with life's disappointments

Yesterday’s callers all sounded as if they’d been dispatched from the suicide hotline.

“You gonna be okay?”

“It gets better, believe me . . .”

They all thought the Pittsburgh Steeler Super Bowl loss had me way out on the ledge.

Ha!

In the great canon of my life’s disappointments, this one barely registers.

I can’t recall the disappointment that inspired the attempt, but I once set out to divine history’s most pessimistic summation of this great practical joke we all call life.

Here’s what I came up with:

“Life is a series of disappointments, each one greater than the last, leading inexorably to the grave.”

It doesn’t, I admit, have the same pithy ring of “Have a Nice Day!” but the essence is evergreen.

This has been especially true for someone like me whose life has been plagued by persistent delusions of grandeur.

Perhaps the clearest example of this was spring of 2009. The Pittsburgh Penguins had just won their third Stanley Cup.

Pittsburgh was hosting a raucous parade attended by 250,000 revelers. The Pens rode in open cars and basked in the adulation of a metropolis they had by the tail.

I remember sitting home watching the euphoria on TV and thinking, man, I can’t believe no one called to invite me to be part of this.

And I wasn’t talking about the parade. Homeless derelicts were welcome at that.

I meant being up their on the podium with the champs.

Let’s for a moment examine this. I was an outstanding amateur hockey player -- and that’s no delusion -- but I ceased playing after high school. I covered the Ohio University Bobcats hockey team for the college newspaper, and later coached an area high school hockey for three bewildering seasons (combined record 8-42).

As for the Penguins that year, I’d done basically squat. I hadn’t attended a single game or contributed anything to the local media driving more rabid paying fans.

Sure, I watched the games on TV and wore my Penguins hat to the grocery store for milk whenever my hair was misbehaving, but that was it.

Yet for some reason, I felt the heads of the Penguin organization should have extended an invitation to have me be part of the team festivities -- the parties, the stag dinners, the midnight gatherings at the private strip clubs.

Why I feel this way is a complete mystery.

I do know this: everyone would have enjoyed themselves more if they had invited me -- and that’s no delusion.

As for my professional life, each and every day is, I swear, a crushing disappointment.

I go to bed each night distraught that some prestigious editor hasn’t called to say they want my novel and that Stephen Spielberg is interested in discussing the screenplay.

And then there’s this deadbeat blog. I figured it would take about a six months to gain an enormous audience and interest from wage-paying syndicates who’d want to shower me with praise, perks and piles of cash.

It’ll be three years in May and there’s still no sign it’s destined to become the national mania I was convinced it would be.

The strange thing about this is I know pockets of people who are absolutely insane for it. They give me just the reaction I’d hoped for when I commenced this solitary uphill climb.

They become despondent if I go more than three days without posting something fresh. They can’t all have substance abuse problems or foolish beliefs if they say nice things to me I’ll pay them all the money I owe them.

Talk about your delusions of grandeur.

So, yes, the Steelers loss was a disappointment. But I shall press on.

It’s all I know to do.

Because life is full of disappointments. The best we can all do is to cherish what we have while we have it.

Me, I’m going to divert my sporting interests to the Penguins and hope they are on a joyful march toward a fourth Stanley Cup.

Maybe this time someone will think to call me for the celebrations.

I’ll be disappointed if I’m not first to sip champagne from the Cup.

I hate my dog

I wonder if there is a hell for dog owners who are mean to their pets.

I don’t mean like Michael Vick mean.

I’d never put my dog in a pen to fight another suitable opponent, which in this case would be an ill-tempered hamster.

I’m not inhumane to my dog. Just rude. I treat him the way people used to treat dogs before they started treating dogs like children.

We live in times of rampant venom. Hostility reigns. There are wars, ethnic hatreds and daily assaults on refined manners that makes life such a heartbreaking endeavor to those of us not raised by wolves.

Yet, I never stoop to incivility. I treat all my fellow man with high regard. I encourage their success, sympathize with their failures and cheerlead their every effort.

Not so with Snickers, the dog with the two-syllable name I never fail to address with fewer than six. We were told he was a little pug, a little shih tzu, maybe a little terrier.

The best I can tell is Snickers is composed of a little Moe, a little Larry and a little Curly. Individually, I love them, but imagine if you combined Moe’s meanness, Curly’s violence and Larry’s stupidity.

You’d have an unholy mix like something old Doc Frankenstein would have conjured in his lab.

He’s high-strung and nervous, the Andy Dick of dogs. As I’ve said before, he’s the kind of dog more likely to ignite blazing fires than cuddle up beside them.

Still, I know many humans who behave like that and I tolerate them with equanimity, albeit an equanimity softened by multiple bourbons and mindless nods meant to mislead, yes, I’m listening and, yes, I care.

The girls love him.. But I’ve never been as frustrated with another creature in my entire life. I’ve had angry run-ins with DMV clerks, surly mechanics and idiot editors.

But, even in the heat of dispute, none of those bone-headed miscreants has ever expressed their contempt by waking me up out of a sound sleep to pee on my bare foot at 5 a.m.

Please, send no tips, no advice. We’ve done it before. We have the crate. We have the bell by the door. We have the treats. And the only time I ever say anything positive to the 16-pound doggie is when he successfully targets the yard for his relief.

“Yeah, Snickers! You’re the best! Good boy!”

I’ve never cheered for Penguin captain Sydney Crosby as enthusiastically as I do for Snickers when he craps in the yard.

We’ve had the dog in the parks and are often met by friends and strangers who say how adorable he is. The girls all gush in agreement.

“I hate him,” I say. “He wakes us up every night at 5 a.m. He’s wild. He barks when a single leaf falls to the ground. If I’m out having fun someplace, I have to arbitrarily end the fun so we can go home before his thimble-sized bladder bursts.”

What’s been heartening to me is how many people share my hatreds. Here’s a little secret: in every partnership, one person or the other hates the dog and how much the other fusses over it.

In rare successful marriages, the hatreds merge.

“We got rid of our dogs when our daughter was 2 and it was just too much,” confided one friend. “I felt sad for about 40 minutes, then felt a zen-like peace. I told my husband how I felt and he high-fived me.”

My wife was away this week and it was hell. I’m not cut out for the Mr. Mom routine, especially when the baseball playoffs are on.

My mother came out to give me a break and by the happiest of coincidences it happened the night of Roy Halladay’s historic no-hitter. When I got home from the bar, the house was in chaos. Snickers was loose and had peed in the kitchen.

Val called later and asked if my mother hated Snickers as much as me.

“Ah, honey, nobody hates Snickers . . .” I said.

“How sweet! I knew a little bonding time would do the trick.”

“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, ‘Nobody hates Snickers . . . as much as I do.’”

In some corners of the world, calling a person a dog is the most vile insult.

It goes to show how I can find human harmony with all cultures.

Snickers is a real dog.

I just can’t fathom what kind.