March 08, 2004

The New Yorker goes for a spin around the rink and finds... the Broadway blueshirts and a morose Messier winding down another season out of the playoffs. John Kerry - the choice for rink rats. And Igor Larionov goes to a multiplex and watches the new sportsodrama Miracle.

posted by gspm to hockey at 02:30 PM - 2 comments

Late at night, Hockey walks down Broadway in the rain. Hockey has dined alone. Hockey has drunk too much. Pausing before the window of a fashionable restaurant, Hockey stares balefully at Major League Baseball, sharing champagne with models. Hockey dials the number of a girl it used to know and gets her machine. “Candace, if you’re there, pick up,” Hockey says. “It’s Hockey.” Candace waits for Hockey to finish, then erases the message.
The party ends, but no one has told The New Yorker. It sits daintily at the end of the couch, nursing its Rob Roy, engrossed in its own artifice, smelling faintly of a cologne that was last produced decades ago, wondering why no interesting topic will come over and talk to him, while the hosts, in their nightgowns, stand holding the front door open, waiting patiently for The New Yorker to notice that the lights are out, Hockey and Network TV and Politics and Big Business have all gone to a diner to try and work out their differences, and The New Yorker has completely missed the whole point of whatever it was it was talking about.

posted by chicobangs at 03:06 PM on March 08, 2004

The Larionov story is sort of amusing: "I wish the guys in Hollywood had spent more time, maybe even just five minutes, to show the Russian side of the story. They should have showed a little bit of what happened inside the Soviet camp. But I know American movies are always like that.”

posted by mkn at 03:22 PM on March 08, 2004

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