The best thing about the Penguins Game 1 win over the Carolina Hurricanes in the Eastern Conference Finals, besides Miroslav Satan's head fake of netminder Cam Ward, was seeing Mama and Papa Malkin in the stands cheering on their son, Evgeni, as he flopped to the ice in celebration of his goal (a nifty little flip of a Phillippe Boucher pass over the shoulder of Ward.) Moments like that keep me tuned in. Not just to the magnificent Malkin and Penguins hockey, but to all sports. There's nothing so exhilarating as the synergistic dance of fan enthusiasm and player exuberance. When those fans and that player are kin, the enjoyment factor increases exponentially.
So few aspects of fandom are as satisfying as watching the Malkin family become part of the Pittsburgh family through the course of three hockey seasons. Vladimir and Natalia Malkin first traveled to Pittsburgh for a short stretch, to watch their son play and visit with him before returning home to Russia. For their son's part, he elevated his play when his parents were in the stands, prompting my buddy the U.Conn fan to note that the sooner we could transplant the Malkins to Pittsburgh, the better.
With each visit, Mama and Papa became more comfortable among the Mellon Arena rabble. At first, they looked like those sepia photographs of immigrants exiting the boats at Ellis Island, circa 1900, back before folks figured out that it was okay to smile in the presence of a camera, so they all just stared morosely and ended up looking stiff, dour and humorless for all eternity. (Somewhere in a huge trunk of family photos left to my mother by my grandmother, there is a photograph of my great aunt Lena on her confirmation day. In Italian Catholic circles, confirmations are pretty joyous occasions, but if you looked at this snapshot of my great aunt next to her mother, my great-grandmother, you would be certain they had just returned from a funeral. Or mine cave in.)
During those early visits to Pittsburgh during Evgeni's first season with the club (2006-2007), Vlad and Natalia looked as though they should be lurking in the background of that photo of my great aunt, like refugees straight off of the boat from Minsk and Pinsk. And understandably so. I'm not kidding when I say that they come from the Russian equivalent of Pittsburgh. They are not trendy, nor do they appear to be urbane dilettantes. Who knows what they thought of the nearly 13,000 insane Pens fans at the Arena? They're just regular folk whose son, as it turns out, is a freak on the hockey pond.
So they came to Pittsburgh to watch their son play and with each visit, they seemed to relax -- just a little. You had to watch it from the beginning to really see it. The changes were positively glacial. Slowly, bit by bit, game by game, one artistic Evgeni Malkin goal building on another, each point peeling away layer of discomfort from Natalia and Vladimir Malkin of Magnitogorsk, Russia.
With the Pens down two games to none in the 2nd round against the Washington Capitals, the young Malkin came alive. It was no fluke that it was on home ice, with his parents in the stands. His stat sheet read simply, 1 goal, 0 assists, but Geno was all over the ice. He dominated the game from the first puck drop. He soared, deeked, spun, drew penalties, created opportunities, wore down, and dazzled his opponents. When young master Malkin drilled a wrist-shot behind the previously impenetrable Simeon Varlamov, on a power play he himself created by goading fellow countryman Alexander Semin into a silly hooking penalty, I thought Mama Malkin was gonna climb over the glass and chest bump her son at center ice. I'd swear under oath that Papa Malkin teared up.
I usually tire of the needless, gratuitous shots of player wives or children in the stands. Because I just don't care. Just show me the damned game. But there is something so endearing, so normal and yet compelling about all of the Malkins - Vladimir, Natalia and Evgeni. This is one family drama I can get behind.
The transformation from 2006, when they looked like strangers in a strange land, is complete during these 2009 playoffs. There's Vlad, rejoicing, high-fiving and hugging other Penguins fans around him. There, too, is Natalia, who appears to be sporting an updated hairdo, waving her Penguins home white towel, exploding with unbridled ecstasy at every great play.
Perhaps it is because they take such palpable joy in their son's accomplishments that the fans embraced them, both literally and figurative. (They've become recognizable Pittsburgh style celebs with fans back-slapping and hugging them everywhere they go.) It's a genuine love affair on the side of Pittsburgh fans. I don't think the Malkins will have to pay for a drink in this town for a long time to come.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
And Then There Was One
The Penguins-Capitals series is everything I thought it would be. Every game is a nail-biter. There are huge swings, emotional peaks and valleys in each game, not to mention the ebbs and flows throughout the series. Momentum is mercurial. Frankly, I don't think I can take anymore. During the epic Game 6 of the Penguins-Capitals series, I'm pretty sure my heart stopped. Just momentarily, but stopped nevertheless.
In the aftermath of six magnificent games, I intended penning something about the role players, the unsung contributors on each team. I was going to compose rhapsodies in honor of Pittsburgh defenseman Rob Scuderi, who has flat out robbed Ovechkin of golden opportunities again and again. (Ovie would have double the seven goals and 13 points he has in this series were it not for the unbelievable play of Scuds.) I planned to pen odes to the unexpected beauty of defenseman Mark Eaton's offensive skills. I was going to verily sing of the Capitals Brooks Laich and sing of Tom Poti. In my bed, in my head, I had half-composed a rant about Washington's Dave Steckel and the enormous pain he was causing to my Stanley Cup yearning Pittsburgh heart.
But then, that would be missing the forest for the trees. Or something like that. As great as the netminders have been, as wonderful as Nicklas Backstrom and Evgeni Malkin have been, with every passing period of hockey, I became more convinced that Sidney Crosby and Alexander Ovechkin are without peer. They are better at what they do than any two athletes in any other sport, anywhere.
My pulmonary distress occurred when Ovie unleashed a 50 foot laser of a slapshot in overtime. I have no idea how Marc-Andre Fleury tracked and caught that. I was shocked that the puck didn't simply burn through the netting of Fleury's glove, torch through the goal net, flame through the Mellon Arena boards before finally ending it's trajectory by impaling some poor bastard seated behind the net. I haven't seen a faster shot. Ever. Though Ovechkin didn't score the tying goal in the third period (that was Brooks Laich), or get the go-ahead tally (that was Viktor Kozlov), he had assists on both and Ovechkin assists aren't "lucky" assists, the kind you get because somebody scores on your shift, as happens from time to time. His mere presence creates opportunities for his linemates. His aggressiveness is unparalleled. Ovechkin's offensive drive is almost feral, his desire to score goals is rapacious.
In many ways, Ovechkin reminds me of the NFL's Earl Campbell of the Houston Oilers. When Campbell came into the league in 1978, he dominated every game the Oilers played. He was big, strong, elusive, and willing to dish out hits. He ran over, through and around everybody. For a while, he was nearly unstoppable. Then the hits, both those he absorbed and those he delivered, took their toll and his career just tailed off. But while he was at his best, he was mesmerizing.
So, too, is Ovechkin. The issue is that Ovie is occasionally too aggressive, always riding the thin edge between tough and dirty hockey. In the words of Pens play-by-play man Paul Steigerwald, there is a difference between playing to hurt and playing to injure. You can make a strong argument that he intends to injure, but I suspect that he is needlessly, selfishly and thoughtlessly reckless. Whatever the case, regardless of whether you think he's great or a punk, his talent is so prodigious, were he to play in a different era, he would be completely unrivaled.
But he plays now and Mr. Crosby has matched Alex the Great in every game, and particularly in Game 6. Simply, Sid left everything he had on the ice. Every bit of heart, soul, muscle memory, guts, determination and skill were out there, on the Mellon Arena ice in the third period as he frantically worked to tie the game, single-handedly dragging his team into overtime.
With about nine minutes left in the third period, and trailing by a point, Crosby was tireless and fearless. He came around from behind the net to try to create a scoring opportunity, if not for himself, then one of his teammates. As he tossed the puck toward net, there was a collision which he lunged headlong into. He saw it coming, but threw himself toward the crease anyway, the puck skittered wide with no Penguin there to try to grab a rebound, as Sid flew backward from the force of an unceremonious Capital elbow to the face. It didn't stop him.
Night after night, Crosby crashes in front of the net, inviting contact, willing the puck in. To tie Game 6, he batted the puck up and into Varlamov not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times, before directing the game-tying goal into the net, over Varlamov's left shoulder, with a little over four minutes left in regulation. The thing about that Crosby goal was, despite it's defiance of gravity and logic, it wasn't the most amazing thing he's done this post-season.
Both players are so great they make their teams greater. But while Ovechkin inspires through his brashness, Crosby's greatest strength may be his equanimity. His teammates know he'll always be there, steady, never quitting on play, on a game, on a series. In addition to his freakish level of skill, it marks him as a truly great, pantheon worthy player. I expect more of the same from both tonight.
In the aftermath of six magnificent games, I intended penning something about the role players, the unsung contributors on each team. I was going to compose rhapsodies in honor of Pittsburgh defenseman Rob Scuderi, who has flat out robbed Ovechkin of golden opportunities again and again. (Ovie would have double the seven goals and 13 points he has in this series were it not for the unbelievable play of Scuds.) I planned to pen odes to the unexpected beauty of defenseman Mark Eaton's offensive skills. I was going to verily sing of the Capitals Brooks Laich and sing of Tom Poti. In my bed, in my head, I had half-composed a rant about Washington's Dave Steckel and the enormous pain he was causing to my Stanley Cup yearning Pittsburgh heart.
But then, that would be missing the forest for the trees. Or something like that. As great as the netminders have been, as wonderful as Nicklas Backstrom and Evgeni Malkin have been, with every passing period of hockey, I became more convinced that Sidney Crosby and Alexander Ovechkin are without peer. They are better at what they do than any two athletes in any other sport, anywhere.
My pulmonary distress occurred when Ovie unleashed a 50 foot laser of a slapshot in overtime. I have no idea how Marc-Andre Fleury tracked and caught that. I was shocked that the puck didn't simply burn through the netting of Fleury's glove, torch through the goal net, flame through the Mellon Arena boards before finally ending it's trajectory by impaling some poor bastard seated behind the net. I haven't seen a faster shot. Ever. Though Ovechkin didn't score the tying goal in the third period (that was Brooks Laich), or get the go-ahead tally (that was Viktor Kozlov), he had assists on both and Ovechkin assists aren't "lucky" assists, the kind you get because somebody scores on your shift, as happens from time to time. His mere presence creates opportunities for his linemates. His aggressiveness is unparalleled. Ovechkin's offensive drive is almost feral, his desire to score goals is rapacious.
In many ways, Ovechkin reminds me of the NFL's Earl Campbell of the Houston Oilers. When Campbell came into the league in 1978, he dominated every game the Oilers played. He was big, strong, elusive, and willing to dish out hits. He ran over, through and around everybody. For a while, he was nearly unstoppable. Then the hits, both those he absorbed and those he delivered, took their toll and his career just tailed off. But while he was at his best, he was mesmerizing.
So, too, is Ovechkin. The issue is that Ovie is occasionally too aggressive, always riding the thin edge between tough and dirty hockey. In the words of Pens play-by-play man Paul Steigerwald, there is a difference between playing to hurt and playing to injure. You can make a strong argument that he intends to injure, but I suspect that he is needlessly, selfishly and thoughtlessly reckless. Whatever the case, regardless of whether you think he's great or a punk, his talent is so prodigious, were he to play in a different era, he would be completely unrivaled.
But he plays now and Mr. Crosby has matched Alex the Great in every game, and particularly in Game 6. Simply, Sid left everything he had on the ice. Every bit of heart, soul, muscle memory, guts, determination and skill were out there, on the Mellon Arena ice in the third period as he frantically worked to tie the game, single-handedly dragging his team into overtime.
With about nine minutes left in the third period, and trailing by a point, Crosby was tireless and fearless. He came around from behind the net to try to create a scoring opportunity, if not for himself, then one of his teammates. As he tossed the puck toward net, there was a collision which he lunged headlong into. He saw it coming, but threw himself toward the crease anyway, the puck skittered wide with no Penguin there to try to grab a rebound, as Sid flew backward from the force of an unceremonious Capital elbow to the face. It didn't stop him.
Night after night, Crosby crashes in front of the net, inviting contact, willing the puck in. To tie Game 6, he batted the puck up and into Varlamov not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times, before directing the game-tying goal into the net, over Varlamov's left shoulder, with a little over four minutes left in regulation. The thing about that Crosby goal was, despite it's defiance of gravity and logic, it wasn't the most amazing thing he's done this post-season.
Both players are so great they make their teams greater. But while Ovechkin inspires through his brashness, Crosby's greatest strength may be his equanimity. His teammates know he'll always be there, steady, never quitting on play, on a game, on a series. In addition to his freakish level of skill, it marks him as a truly great, pantheon worthy player. I expect more of the same from both tonight.
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