by James Duthie
His Pittsburgh Penguin teammates call him “Geno,” but there are a few other appropriate nicknames for Evgeni Malkin. Like, say: Robin, Tonto, Boo Boo, Tattoo (“Zee plane!”), Garfunkel, Mr. Smithers, Ed McMahon (or Andy Richter, if you want to be more current).
Malkin has spent the first three years of his brilliant young NHL career being hockey's ultimate second fiddle. Drafted second. . . right after Ovechkin. Arrives in Pittsburgh. . . right after Crosby. And he's been stuck in that whopper of a double-shadow ever since.
“He is overshadowed, and I can never understand why,” says Buffalo goalie Ryan Miller, who ranks Malkin among the most dangerous players he has ever faced. “People always seem to just gravitate towards one or two players in a sport. Malkin is like Dwyane Wade this year in the NBA, having an amazing season but everybody just talks about Kobe and LeBron.”
He's right. Sidney and Ovie have become the NHL's Kobe and LeBron, at least in terms of popularity and hype. Ever since they came into the league, “Crosby or Ovechkin?” has been the hockey equivalent of “Ginger or Mary Ann?” And either-or debates don't usually have a third option (Mrs. Howell?). But you'd better make room for one now.
Malkin is running away with the scoring race, and has led (yes, I know. . . with Crosby) the Penguins on a warp-speed ascent up the Eastern Conference standings. After a stirring five-point performance last Tuesday, he heard chants of “MVP! MVP!” from a smitten home crowd.
And yet, outside the Pittsburgh city limits, almost every fan-player-coach-analyst you ask about the Hart still picks Ovechkin without hesitation. (And until last week, most had Zach Parise second.) Malkin might just be the most productive afterthought the game has ever seen.
“I had a reporter ask me yesterday if I thought he was an MVP candidate, and I said ‘Candidate? Are you nuts?’ He's been the best player in the league all season long,” says Malkin's teammate and former roommate Maxime Talbot. “He gets no attention whatsoever. It's ridiculous.”
There is, of course, a logical explanation for this. Ovechkin and Crosby don't cast shadows, but eclipses. Everything Ovechkin does or says is marketing gold. He oozes charisma. Geno just doesn't have that particular gene-o.
“He's just a different person than Ovechkin,” says agent JP Barry, whose firm represents Malkin and Crosby. “He's more reserved and laid back, Ovechkin is outgoing and in your face.”
That contrast was clear at an after-party at the NHL All-Star weekend in Montreal. Ovechkin danced madly atop a couch in a VIP area overlooking the club, four girls in tow, several more climbing over one another looking for a chance to. . . umm. . . play on his line. Meanwhile, 30 feet away, Malkin sat quietly with a couple of friends, unnoticed and, seemingly, content that way.
Their frosty relationship (which dates back to a run-in between Ovechkin and one of Malkin's close associates at a Russian bar) did thaw that weekend, thanks to peacemaker Ilya Kovalchuk. Malkin even helped Ovechkin with his props during the skills event. But they aren't friends.
Crosby doesn't have Ovechkin's flare, either, but he also possesses something Malkin never will: Canada. In his back pocket. Sidney has been a national icon since. . . oh. . . peewee. His boy(wonder)-next-door, straight-as-an-arrow image is like porn to corporate marketers. Sid sells. And thus, he is EVERYWHERE. Malkin, with the exception of a lucrative equipment deal with Nike Bauer, has not had a single North American endorsement opportunity.
“To be fair, not many hockey players do, outside of Sid and Ovechkin,” says Barry. “Evgeni just doesn't speak the language well enough yet. If you can't speak English, it's hard to do commercials. But I think the opportunities will come.”
Malkin's friends say he is charming and funny, and the English is coming, slowly. His buddies and teammates used to chuckle at his replies to their texts, which would usually consist of nothing but a “K,” a “$” (they have no idea what that meant) or a “Da,” the Russian word for yes. Now, there are actual words in complete sentences.
(Yes, this is what we've come to. We judge someone's communication skills by the quality of their texts.)
“He is much more comfortable now,” says Talbot. “We have a shootout at the end of every practice and one day he couldn't score, and I couldn't miss. He starts yelling at me ‘Max, this is not possible, you cannot score, you have no hands!’”
The ability to chirp in English is not the only sign of Malkin's growing comfort. He has finally moved into his own house, after living with teammate/full-time translator Sergei Gonchar for the last two years. Gonchar was his security blanket. He discarded it. And maybe, just maybe, he is about to do the same with those two unshakeable shadows.
“Two years ago was Sid's year. Last year was Ovechkin's year. And when it is over, I believe this will be remembered as Geno's year,” says Barry.
K. Da. $.
• • •
Postscript: His agent's words proved prophetic. Malkin won the scoring race, the Stanley Cup and the Conn Smythe Trophy as playoff MVP. He also finally won over fans. In a post-game news conference during the final, Malkin repeated his line about Talbot having no hands, cracking up the assembled media—the same crowd he used to avoid at all costs. It was played over and over across North America—it was THE moment Malkin arrived as an NHL megastar.
Chapter 64
Go Rat-Horse Go!
March 2003
Nowhere in my Shawn Kemp Guide to being a Sports Parent (a must-read—after all, with about a dozen kids at last count, who has more experience than the Kemper?) does it mention what is the right age to take your son or daughter to his/her first big-time sporting event.
I'm guessing that if you want them to fully comprehend just how religious an experience this is for a father, and to appreciate the bonding involved, the answer is somewhere around 37.
So, I jumped the gun by about 34 years or so by taking my boy to his first Toronto Raptors game.
Attending a professional (oh sorry, Raptors, make that semi-professional) basketball game was, by no means, his deepest preschool desire. In fact, right now, he lists as his lone goals in life:
To become a dragon.
To eat our house.
Hardly a guy who appreciates a good pick and roll.
Still, when the Wizards came to town last month for MJ's last Toronto appearance (*unless they meet in the playoffs—just so you know, I stopped after writing that and giggled for several minutes at its absurdity), I figured this was an event he needed to see. How cool will it be 15 or so years from now when he's sitting around the frat house with the boys, watching LeBron James win his seventh MVP, and they start comparing him to Jordan, and my boy says, “Hey, I saw Jordan play.” They'll all go, “Wow, Duthie, you're cool!” (Which, by the way, will be the first time that phrase has been uttered in at least two generations.)
He'll just have to leave out the part of the story where he wouldn't get in the car, screaming “NOOOOO, I DON'T WANT TO WATCH THE RAT-HORSES. I WANT TO GO HOME AND WATCH DRAGON TALES!”
Apparently, “Rat-Horses” is what Raptors sounds like to a three-year-old. Personally, I kind of like it.
“Jared,” I said, in what I now believe was my inaugural father-son speech. “A lot of Raptor [Rat-Horse] fans would probably rather watch Dragon Tales these days. Heck, Lenny Wilkens would probably rather watch Dragon Tales. But we're going anyway.”
He came around. As soon as he got the popcorn. As any Overeager-To-Make-Their-Child-A-Sports-Freak-Parent can attest: when you're three, the popcorn is all that matters.
The biggest building he'd ever been in, 18,000 screaming people, blaring funk, dancing girls, cool dinosaur animation on the big screen, and he didn't look up from the popcorn bag until midway through the second quarter. The Rat-Horses could use that kind of focus.
Only when the purple dinosaur mascot appeared did my boy spit out the last few kernels and scream with glee: “Barney!”
(Which I'm guessing is exactly what drunken mascots say to the Raptor in the mascot bar when they wan
t to scrap.)
I tried to point out the other Raptors, the ones in uniform (who, coincidentally, also resemble Barney, especially on defence), but he didn't seem too interested. What? Would you find Greg Foster entertaining?
However, he did come up with maybe the most profound line of the year. I had bought him one of those tiny Vince Carter jerseys at halftime, and as he wore it proudly, I pointed out Vince for him, sitting in his Armani at the end of the bench.
“That's the guy whose jersey you're wearing, buddy,” I said.
He stared for a moment in silence, glanced down at his shirt and then made a completely legitimate inquiry: “Why didn't you buy me a suit?”
Kid's got a point.
I spent the rest of the game trying to get him to watch Jordan. At one point, he saw MJ dribble up court and blurted out: “He got. . .”
Yes! He's going to say,“He got game!” Three years old and he has all the hip hoop terms down pat! That's my boy!
“. . . no hair!”
Or not.
For Michael's sake, it's a good thing the kid won't remember much, because the day went kind of like this:
“Son, see the no-haired guy shooting. . .” Clank! “. . . He's the best player. . .” Airball. “. . . in the history of the. . .” Turnover. “. . . sport.”
Mike went 1-9 for two points. And the Wizards still beat the Rat-Horses by double-digits. I elected not to clip the box score for his scrapbook.
Of course, none of that seemed to matter to a kid who was wasted on popcorn and fruit punch. He ate like Brando, screamed at Barney, climbed over and under seats, and whacked half the row in front of us with those long skinny balloons they give the fans behind the baskets to wave during foul shots.
It was almost as good as Dragon Tales.
“Dad, can us go see the Rat-Horses again sometimes?” he asked on the ride home (yes, he used “us” instead of “we” and he always adds an “s” on “sometime”—but he insisted he not be misquoted).
“Sure, buddy,” I said. “Just please don't make me do it until they stop sucking,” I thought.
Bad day to be a Rat-Horse. Great day to be a Dad.
• • •
Postscript: I must be a horrible father, as I don't think we've been back to a Rat-Horses game since then. I do plan on taking my two little girls to their first game this season. They still don't win much, but it likely won't matter to the kids, as long as there is popcorn, and men in purple dinosaur costumes.
Chapter 65
Why'd you Diss Hockey, Tiger?
June 2008
Eldrick Woods,
111 Huge Frickin' Mansion Lane,
Jupiter, Florida, 33478
Dear Tiger,
I doubt you remember me. We have met only twice. The first time was in a clubhouse bathroom at Augusta National on the Saturday morning of the 2002 Masters. You walked in and took a spot at the urinal next to me. I was startled, tried desperately to think of something cool to say, but could only muster, “Good luck.” You chuckled and answered, “Thanks, but I do this several times a day, I'll be all right.”
I thought that was pretty darned funny. Oh, by the way, you won that weekend (I figure you must lose track).
Our second meeting came right after you claimed the 2005 British Open at St. Andrews, when I conned my way into a one-on-one interview with you for TSN. The only thing I remember about it, besides how friendly and laid back you were (such a contrast to the stone-faced golfing Terminator people seen on TV), was that you called me “Homeslice.” Seriously. Just before the camera rolled, I said, “Congrats,” and you answered, “Thanks, Homeslice.” It freaked me out a little. I hadn't heard the word Homeslice since Dwayne Wayne used it on A Different World. Or maybe it was Rerun on What's Happening. You must have been joking with me again, because it would really hurt your street cred if you actually use that word regularly.
Anyway, Tiger, those two encounters mean we're pretty tight, right? So I am writing to ask you a favor.
Don't diss hockey anymore, Tiger.
You've probably heard by now your little quip last week got a lot of attention up here. You know the one. Some reporter asks you on a teleconference call who you are cheering for in the Stanley Cup Final, and you reply, “I don't really care. Ask me about the Dodgers. I don't think anybody really watches hockey anymore.”
Zing!
Now, I know this is old news and you've long since moved on to that little US Open thingy you're apparently involved in this week, but I've been on the road and hadn't had a chance to share my feelings with you. So I just wanted to say: don't worry, old buddy. Your comments didn't bother me much. Knowing your zany sense of humor like I do, you were probably pulling our legs again. I'm guessing you giggled internally as soon as you said it, thinking, “This'll get my buddy Weirsy all riled up! I kill me!”
You are one wacky funster, Tig. But here's the problem: most hockey fans who aren't as close to you as I am didn't get it. You see, we puckheads get our backs up when someone knocks our game. We feel sucker-punched. So we hit back. Hockey columnists wrote scathing editorials about you. Hockey commentators ripped you. Mike Milbury came to work Tuesday in Pittsburgh begging me to let him go after you on our panel. Sorry, Tiger, I couldn't stop him.
“You know what? I'm gonna change the name now. It's gonna be Tiger Wuss!” Milbury said. “Here's a guy that took about three months to get over a simple arthroscopic surgery. You look at Ryan Malone. His face exploded with a slap shot—he's back out in 10 minutes!”
And you thought Johnny Miller was tough! Could have been worse. Milbury could have hit you with a shoe (YouTube it, Tiger, if I lost you there.)
Your comments struck a nerve because we all admire and respect you. Heck, almost all hockey players golf. And if you are fortunate enough to be a Toronto Maple Leaf, you get to play a lot. Hockey people idolize you. So when you mock their game, it hurts them. Especially when you're wrong.
Yes, I know you weren't talking about Canadians when you said no one watches. You've spent time up here. You know that if we don't watch hockey, we get deported. It's in our Constitution. But even in the US, you are off base. Didn't you see NBC's ratings for the Cup Final? Hockey is hot in the US again. We may soon catch arena football in the ratings down there. After that, who knows? Women's softball might even be within reach.
Anyway, Tiger, I just think it would be best if you left hockey alone and went back to ripping Phil Mickelson. Now, that was good comedy.
No hard feelings. We're not going to get Sidney Crosby to slam golf, just to get even. And if even you don't watch our sport, we'll keep watching yours. At least when you play. (No offense, pal, but we aren't exactly rushing home Sunday to watch Bart Bryant and Tom Pernice battle it out for the Des Moines Open.)
Signed,
Your old pal, James (Homeslice)
• • •
Postscript: I included this column in the book just so we could all remember that simpler time, when the biggest controversy Tiger was involved in was upsetting a few hockey fans. Things have gotten a little. . . uhh. . . trickier, for him since.
Chapter 66
Survey Says!
November 2008
The brass of the National Hockey League Players' Association is in the midst of a full, 30-team fall tour, trying to take the pulse of its constituency on a variety of key issues.
Just out of curiosity, did you nod off during that lead? Thought so. I'm well aware that Players' Association news makes eyes glaze over faster than that design magazine your wife made you look through to pick out drapes. (That analogy comes from a very dark personal place.)
But trust me, this is important stuff. NHLPA executive director Paul Kelly and director of player affairs Glenn Healy should be commended for trying to reinvigorate the PA, and empower the players. And hey, this is novel: they aren't even spying on emails to do it!
Every NHL player is being asked to fill out a confidential survey about several key issues. Once
all teams have been polled, the results will go a long way in dictating the PA's agenda.
We have obtained the questions from the survey. Though intriguing, it seems to be missing some important follow-ups. So we conducted our own more detailed NHL player poll. Here are the questions and answers from both (since results of the NHLPA survey have not been tabulated yet, we offer instead our own unofficial estimations).
Actual Nhlpa Question:
Would you support the competition committee investigating a penalty for headshots?
Yes: 75%
No: 25%
Our Follow-Up:
Would you support a penalty for shots to Sean Avery's head?
No: 99.9%
Yes: 0.1% (Avery)
Actual Nhlpa Question:
Do you want NHL players to participate in the Olympic Winter games after 2010?
Yes: 98%
No: 2%
Our Follow-Up:
Do you know the 2014 Olympics are in Russia?
Yes: 63%
Oh. Crap. Can I change my vote on the last question?: 37%
Actual Nhlpa Question:
Are you in favor of grandfathering-in a mandatory visor rule?
Yes: 70%
No: 30%
Our Follow-Up:
Do some of you believe the previous question meant your grandfather is the one who would have to wear the visor?
Yes: 34%
No: 5%
You wanna go right now pencil-neck smart-ass?: 61%
Actual Nhlpa Question:
Are you in favor of terminating the current collective bargaining after the season?
Yes: 10%
No: 90%
Our Follow-Up:
What are the 10% of you who said yes smoking!?! Do you really want to spend next season in OMSK again?!?