Penguins vs Capitals, 3/19/13

When I was growing up, there was a park at the bottom of the hill below my house. It's called Clair Park, and it's still there, as a matter of fact. A few of us spent hundreds, probably thousands of hours there, playing roller hockey in the summers, sledding and having snowball fights in the winters, and making chlorine bombs whenever we had enough bottles, rubbing alcohol, and chlorine pucks. If you're reading this and you're 12, I suggest giving it a try. The hockey and sledding, not the chlorine. I would never EVER suggest that someone does that. Of course, it's fun, scientific, and amusingly dangerous, but seriously kids, DON'T do it.

No, definitely do it. It's awesome.

One day, as we walked toward the park with our hockey stuff, we saw what appeared to be a man sleeping in the grass by the park. He looked to be in a bad way. We assumed he was a homeless person, which doesn't really make sense in Upper St Clair. Four years of college have taught me that he was just hung over.

The point of this story is that this guy was a lot like the Washington Capitals. The night before, around 10 p.m, he thought he was the king of the world. The beer or cheap vodka was coursing through his system, and he could do anything. He could even successfully convince that hot chick in the corner to go home with him. By 11, everything had gone south.

He walked up to the girl, and introduced himself in a slurring voice, and offered her a shot or two. She obliged, and the two hit it off nicely. They probably began making out, oblivious to the fact that everyone else around them was laughing at the guy. They knew something he didn't.

The guy realized that he just couldn't get home that night, so he and the girl slipped off to his friend's room to engage in some "extracurricular activity". At 11:45, he felt something odd, and realized something was wrong. This woman was a transvestite.

The fellow ran out of the room screaming, fell, smacked his head on a table, and vomited uncontrollably on the floor, a cascading flow of partially digested vodka and pizza, coloring the kitchen floor a vibrant shade of reddish gray. He then stumbled out of the house, walked across the street, and fell asleep on the grass at the park, a place that reminded him of an easier, more carefree time.

The Washington Capitals are that guy. Every year, they seem to believe they stand a chance at winning the Stanley Cup. They do well until it counts, as everyone around them laughs, knowing that the inevitable will arrive, and they will fail to achieve success. More often than not, the transvestite from the story ends up being an unbeatable goaltender such as Jaroslav Halak or an overpowering offense led by Sidney Crosby. Rinse, wash, repeat. It happens every year until finally, the Capitals fall asleep on the proverbial grass at the park, or in their case, a golf course in Northern Virginia.

But not this year. This year, they just suck.

The Wednesday Rant: Mail Room Edition!

Look at this person, here.

This fine gentleman is a mail room worker. Notice his demeanor. Attentive, friendly, welcoming, likely knowledgeable about his job, and hardworking to the point where he somehow manages to encompass all of these qualities while simultaneously writing and smiling for a picture. This is the face of dedication.

Now look at this face.

 

 This is an accurate artistic rendering of the manager at the school's mail room. Gaze in awe at the aloof and unhelpful expression on his face. Does he look like the sort of person you would trust when mailing things across the country? I think not.

Actually, he doesn't look much like that, I'm just a great artist and tried to pretty him up a little. The true fellow has that smug "I'm nerdy as hell, and proud of it, and I'm going to look down at you in disgust for not knowing this things that I know" look. Like this:

About the only accurate thing about my drawing was the pony tail. If you're a guy and you have a ponytail, cut it off. There are very few instances in which it is acceptable to have a pony tail as a guy. First, perhaps you don't normally wear it that way, but you have to for work. This is alright. The most acceptable reason to have a pony tail is that you are incredibly badass, and use the pony tail to display this. Maybe you wear the pony tail in defiance, a sort of "come at me, bro," to goad lesser mortals into fights that they will inevitably lose, like a deer with huge antlers as a sign of "not to be messed with". That's alright.

But mail room guy, cut it off. You look ridiculous.

you may ask, "Will, why are you picking on the poor mail room guy?". the answer is simple. It is because I am an asshole. However, when I'm at work, I treat even the most astoundingly whacked-out customer with respect and a smile. Mail room guy, on the other hand, does not. In my four years of experience with him, every conversation has seemed like it is designed to make me feel like I am an inconvenience.

Today, I walked in to send out a book, and asked for a box. "We don't have boxes, you should have brought your own". Alright, I was under the assumption that this is the mail room, and your sole job is to mail stuff in boxes. Also, there's a rack of boxes behind you. Gimme one of those, please. "I guess we have some of these boxes, but the book will move around". As long as it moves to New Jersey, that's all the matters to me. The book's comfort along the ride is not my concern. So he gave me a box, and I got it all together, packing slip inside, on top of the book, and handed it back to him. "What?". Please mail this. "You need to tape it up and put it in the appropriate bin". Sorry dude, I was under the impression that you work in the mail room, and it was your job to do these things.

I realize that I'm coming off as a dickhead who is perhaps expecting too much. But I figured taping my box together was sort of his job. Whatever, I can tape it, and so I did. But my real problem is with him giving me such a hard time and making me feel like an idiot for not knowing everything about something I had only done once (and that time, they took my book, assembled the box WHICH THEY ALREADY HAD, and taped it up for me. I was expecting the same thing).

I guess what I'm saying is that I can't stand people who treat their job and customers like it's the biggest hassle. Some days at Buybacks, I was up to my nose in disgusting used CDs, sorting through them to see if there was one we could buy, and then dealing with the venom spewed my way when I told them I couldn't take any of their crap. And I did it politely.

But at least I don't have a pony tail.

AND ANOTHER THING! As I was taping up the box, there was an art therapy professor in there, trying to figure out a problem she was having with something she was expecting in the mail. Packing tape is loud. When it peels up from the main roll of tape, it makes a horrible noise somewhere in between duct tape and a Sun Chips bag. As I was trying to attach the packing tape, it was making a lot of noise, and the professor turned to me and said "could you PLEASE keep it down, I'm TRYING to sort out an issue".

Well perhaps I wouldn't have this problem if the asshole who lost your mail wasn't too lazy to do his job. Also, art therapy is bullshit, and your students should get a refund. You know what was art therapy for Led Zeppelin? Music and a bag of whatever drug they happened to be into at that time. I bet that worked better for them than ambient music and pastels.

I Have A Lot To Cover And Unlimited Space In Which To Do It.

I should probably start writing again, shouldn't I?

As the months stretched on, November gave way to December, and December passed on into January. There was no NHL season in sight, and people started to expect (or at least heightened their preparation for) the worst. My sister, of all people, told me that the season would begin on January 19th, and I, being a fool who believed I knew everything about anything that was released by the NHL, disregarded her. As it came to pass, I was awoken by my Mom in the early hours of January 12, and told that a deal was reached, the season would begin on the 19th. Abbie, as I've found is almost always the case with most women, was right and I was wrong.

Since then, the NHL has resumed, and a number of incredible things have happened, not the least of which is the current state of the Atlantic division. Immediately after the deal was reached, preseason predictions began pouring in.

The New York Rangers, according to everyone, would be an unstoppable juggernaut, the likes of which would make Genghis Khan shit in his bearskin loincloth and give up his empire. The Vancouver Canucks would run away with the West in more convincing fashion than Reagan beating the hell out of Walter Mondale. Hell, even Adrian Dater said the Oilers would be the third best team in the NHL this season. I'd make a historical comparison, but I can't think of any. Oh wait, yes I can.

Damn, I'm good.

As it turns out, all the king's horses and all the king's men can't make the "experts" right about anything. Every year, the general consensus between all of the so-called experts is that some team will win it all, and every year, they are wrong. I think that the batting average for their predictions would be enough to keep them on the Pittsburgh Pirates, though. Year in and year out, we are treated to "the Canucks will win the Cup," "Jarome Iginla will be traded," and "the Edmonton Oilers will finish atop the Western Conference".

Having passed the halfway point in the season, it's safe to say that Mongolian dry cleaners are without business from Mr. Khan, Mondale is putting up a good fight, and the Oilers will screw the Blue Jackets out of yet another first overall pick, and therefore the right to eventually trade Seth Jones to the Rangers for Stu Bickel and Steve Eminger.

"Did you just make a joke?"

SURE DID

Well now, that's just funny.

Thought you guys might like some pictures.

The Rangers are currently 8th place in the Eastern Conference, only two points ahead of the 9th place Winnipeg Jets, whom I picked to finish 8th, due to what I assumed would be a strong home record. The Jets' home record, for those wondering, is a weak 4-6-0, compared to their 8-5-2 away record. Not as solid as my prediction for where they would be in the standings this season, I suppose. Can't win 'em all. The Canucks are technically 6th in the West, though tied with Los Angeles for 5th in points, with 28. Clearly not the Presidential candidates some thought they would be. Injuries to Ryan Kesler play into this, as does some sort of goalie controversy you might have heard about.

The big story for this season has been covered to death, and I'm going to cover it just a little bit more. The Chicago Blackhawks chased down ol' Genghis and popped him some laxatives. They had some historic start to the season, blah blah blah, that's great. See? I covered it just a little bit more.

But the true story, one that nobody saw coming, and most people still haven't seen, is that of the Anaheim Ducks. The former Disney marketing scheme finished 13th in the West last season, ahead of only Edmonton and Columbus, whose records last season were funnier than a new Louis CK special (premieres Saturday, April 13th. I'm hoping to get some kickback from HBO for spreading the word). This season, the Ducks are 2nd in the West, with an 18-3-3 record, which if it weren't for the Blackhawks, would be front page news. It should have been expected of the Blackhawks, who boast a lineup that includes Patrick Kane, Johnathan Toews, Marian Hossa, Patrick Sharp, and Duncan Kieth. Of course, the Ducks have their stars in Ryan Getzlaf, Bobby Ryan, and Corey Perry, but the three were bested in points last season by aging legend Teemu Selanne. The "Finnish Flash" is having an "off year" by his standards, with 17 points in 24 games. If this is his last season (I don't think it will be), what a career he's had.

The Ducks of the East (who much like the Wicked Witch of the East, should be crushed by a house for the good of all Munchkinkind) are the Montreal Canadiens, who I'm told are "the greatest sports team of all time, the standard by which all clubs should be measured, and spent half of the season in a contractual dispute with their best player and are currently trying their hardest to run him out of town". Maybe I only heard the first two things, but only the third is accurate. I can't take away from them too much, though. They are a dreadful team on paper, and should be out of the playoff picture by this point in the season, but great goaltending from Carey Price and phenomenal coaching from former Penguins Head Coach Michel Therrien have les Habitants sitting atop the Eastern Conference. I'm going to go vomit uncontrollably for having to write that.

When judging who should win the Jack Adams award for best head coach in the NHL, toss out Joel Quenneville of the Blackhawks and give it to Therrien or Boudreau of the Ducks. My choice would be Therrien, for turning shit into steak.

More near and dear to my heart, of course, are the Pittsburgh Penguins. Sidney Crosby is first in the league in points, and it isn't close. Rumor has it, people are willing to sell vital organs on the black market for a chance to swap-spit-with-Sid. I've just come up with a new marketing scheme for Penguins ownership: donate a kidney to UPMC (one of the Penguins' major sponsors) for a chance to go on a date with Sidney Crosby. A guaranteed makeout session is in the contract. So far, I'm expecting kickback from HBO and billionaire Pens owner Ron Burkle, but I can do better...

...and what better way to enjoy dinner than with a delicious, fresh Italian combo or meatball sub from Teresa's Deli, with two convenient Erie area locations?

That should take care of dinner for the next few months.

The Continued Adventures of Will Schuster: Hypothetical Ninja

I have a feeling that when I was younger, I was one of those children who would cause a scene in stores. Temper tantrums, knocking over displays, that sort of thing. Come to think of it, I have a habit of riding shopping carts down aisles, throwing loaves of bread into the cart from long distances with an arm that would make Joe Montana proud, and sticking my tongue out at small children when their parents' backs are turned.

Anyways, my Mom used to leave me in the car from time to time if she had to just make a quick stop in and out of the store, a habit which turned into my own personal choice. I enjoy music and talk radio much more than I enjoy Giant Eagle, so sometimes I choose to hang out in the car while she shops.

After a certain point in the car, my brain ceases to function like that of a normal person. Perhaps it is the sun beating down on the windshield. Maybe it is because of the long stretches of isolation. Whatever the cause, after about 15 seconds in the car, a change comes over me.

I become a ninja.

Yes, the primal urge to become a crime fighting vigilante, whose powerful attacks are always one step ahead of wrongdoers is too much for me. Nearly every person walking by the car becomes a potential figure in my crime fighting fantasies.

Not only do I save little old ladies in my head, but I create elaborate storylines in which an attempted mugging is simply a way of hiding the fact that Russian terrorists have taken over the Giant Eagle, and are attempting to blow it up. And yes, I have a lifetime undefeated streak.

But if something actually happened...

Perhaps I'm alone in this, but every time I see something that's actually about to happen, and will certainly cause head trauma to somebody, my whole body tenses up, I hop in the air several times, and I say "oh fuck, fuck, fuck!". I have the same reaction for whenever I drop my computer or stub my toe.

So that's the difference in how I want to see myself, and how I actually am. In my head, I'm John McClane from Die Hard, with a bit of Sherlock Holmes thrown in for good measure. In real life, I'm McLovin from Superbad.
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In keeping with the theme of this post, I figure I should offer up a story of a time in which my badassedness was on display for all to see.

Sophomore or Junior year of high school, one of us saw the movie Fight Club, and decided "hey, let's have a fight club in George's basement!". I know that the first rule of fight club is to not talk about fight club, but that movie kind of sucked, so I'm talking about it.

On a side note, what is the big deal about that movie? It's shitty.

Anyways, I decided to join my friends in this foolproof endeavor, and was told that I'd be fighting Ryan Stockton, a worthy adversary. I put on the sparring gloves and headgear, because when you have untrained teenage kids fighting in a basement and telling people to "keep it down so that George's Mom doesn't hear us," safety is obviously the first priority.

We tapped gloves, as gentlemen should, and got ready to do battle. Now, I had never worn boxing-style headgear before, and as I learned, it eliminates your peripheral vision. I didn't see it happen, but almost immediately, something heavy slammed into the side of my jaw, which I ascertained was Ryan's hand. I shook it off, because I'm a badass, and waited for him to do it again. He did, and I ducked it and took his legs out. I then prepared to beat the shit out of him (because we're friends, and that's what fight club is for), but was told to stop because his headgear came off (safety first!).

We got up, were told to fight on, and I decided that my next point of attack would be to kick him. He also decided that I looked infinitely kickable. Only, he decided this a split second before I did, so when he connected on his kick, my leg was in mid-air, attempting to kick him back.

What should have caught me in the side ended up slamming into my testicles.

The fight, my hopes of being a baritone, and the chances of me being a father ended in one swift motion of foot on balls.

The world turned black, and all that existed was pain. And laughter. My friends are assholes. 

To wrap this all up, it's on film, because George was kind enough to tape it. At the moment immediately following testicular impact, there is a shot of me on my knees, mouth open in shock. In the background of the shot is Jared Englert, who for some reason was only wearing compression shorts, with his hands on his hips and a very satisfied look on his face. Due to the proximity of the two of us and pained look on my face, it appears as if I'm doing a sexual act, provided you pause the tape at that exact moment.

So if you're in high school and reading this, I implore you not to start a fight club. Do it for the children. Your future children.

And more specifically, your balls.

A New Sport

When you were a kid, chances are good that you were annoying, often got food on your clothes, and thought you were awesome, only to come to the realization that you are not, in fact, a special snowflake.

Chances are also good that if you're like me (and all of the above was and still is true), you often created games. The reasons for this are many. My main reason is that my Mom often said "make your own fun," which frustrated me, because children expect everything, including fun, to be given to them. Now I realize that my Mom did what any good parent would do, and sent me away while she paid the bills so that we could remain indoors. I will eventually do the same, provided that my "send them away as babies to be raised by other parents, then let them come home when they're old enough to skate and use a bathroom on their own" idea doesn't pan out.

Often, the games that lasted longest were the simplest.

There was rakeball, which was essentially field hockey, but with less emphasis on skirts, and more emphasis on shooting a ball into one of three stacked milk crates with a small rake. I think my brother, sister, and I played that for a month or two.

My personal favorite was called CurveBall, I think. Bryan Esherick and I came up with it in the winter one day. Played on one of those basketball courts with hoops and foul arc things width-wise, you and an opponent took turns whipping a racketball across the court, with one bounce in between. If you didn't catch it, you lost the serve. Points could only be scored on the serve. Really, it was tennis without rackets, and I think it could be highly profitable.

The reason I mention all of this is because during the NHL Lockout, we all need to "make our own fun". Some may choose crack cocaine, which I'm told would possibly extend past the lockout. Others will take up playing the bagpipes, which is a surefire way to get the neighborhood to hate you. Still others will do something completely nonsensical, like watch something else on tv. Ridiculous, I know.

I will be creating a new sport. And I will do it right now.
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-All good sports have balls. Don't laugh. GREAT sports have pucks. However, pucks require ice, so this sport will have to settle for "good". We're trying to keep this simple and realistic. Ice is neither. Plus, if I create a great sport, it will be hard to give up once hockey has returned.

-That reminds me, someone in the kitchen at work over the summer was making meatballs. They asked the head chef "how big do you want these balls?" to which the chef replied, "they've got to feed a lot of people, so I'd say we need them to be pretty big". I laughed my ass off, to the amusement of everyone. Usually at work, jokes make me chuckle a little bit and move on. Big balls, however, made me giggle like a 5 year old watching Barney. Do 5 year olds watch Barney?

Barney will not be a part of the sport. Neither will big balls. We will use a small croquet-sized ball.

-Shitty sports (tennis, golf, chess) are individual competitions. Awesome sports (excluding basketball) have teams. This will be a team sport. Rafael Nadal is not welcome.

-There will be full contact. This is not some stupid "tap and it's a foul" game, like basketball. This will probably involve ambulances and visits to the OR to remove pieces of things lodged in other folks. After all, bleeding for the sake of recreation is what sports are all about. If you thought they were about "fun," go play tennis.

-For maximum bloodletting, there will be a stick of some sort, which may or may not be used to hit the ball. It could just be used for protection or as a weapon. I haven't decided.

-Finally, most professional sports leagues have complained at one time or another about the problems posed by "human error". This sport will remove human error completely, as it will have no referees. Calls will be based on an honor system, like any other pick-up sport. That way, if a bad call is made, it's not an error, it's just someone being a dick.
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I have taken all of this criteria and put it into my computer, the very cost-effective and efficient Lenovo Thinkpad or whatever its name is. The end result is in. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present to you the sport which will deliver us from the doldrums of the NHL Lockout:

Rhinoceros Polo.

It will be played 5 players to a side, depending on rhinoceros availability. Statistics show that there are about 17,000 white rhinos alive today, which isn't quite enough to fill up Mellon Arena. There are about 4200 black rhinos left. I think that it will be best to use black rhinos, because we could breed them and help bring them back from the brink of extinction, which would look great on our college transcripts.

Rhinos possess notoriously bad eyesight, which will eliminate human error completely, since 1. they are not humans (though Kate Smith, the former singer of "God Bless America" at Flyers games looked like one) and 2. their bad eyesight will suck so much that they will merely run around in circles, which will put the blame on them instead of the people dumb enough to be playing such a ridiculous game.

Finally, since rhinos have horns and whatnot, they will provide the full contact action required by the people of America.

Come to think of it, why not just watch the NFL? This idea sucks. I just wanted to draw a picture of myself playing polo on a rhino, and decided to come up with a story behind it.

Housekeeping Stuff

Ok, so here are a bunch of administrative things.

First, I totally dig saying that I'm in charge of administrative stuff. It makes me feel like this is a real thing, and not just a creation of my own.

Second, I apologize for ignoring this blog almost completely. Aside from my extremely heartfelt reflections on the Lokomotiv Yaroslavl tragedy, I haven't updated this blog since my personal rant against petting zoos (and more specifically, goats. I hate goats). Again, I hate goats. I know I'm not supposed to acknowledge the things I wrote in parentheses, but I really don't like goat. I don't like their cheese. I don't like their faces. I don't like their radical forms of government, which threaten to overthrow all that we, as Americans, hold dear. Goats suck.

Third, if you're checking out my blog and don't know about www.Jobberdy.com, check it out. It's a really interesting concept, created by people who comment on the Pensblog (www.thepensblog.com). The idea is to create a sort of forum for the users of the blog to generate their own content, and have their voices heard. Random thoughts about the lockout? Covered. Photoshops of Sidney Crosby? Check. I'm looking forward to writing my first post there, and when I do, I will link to it. Right now, I'm considering several ideas, and when one of them works out, I'll let you know.

Finally, thanks for reading and being patient. I've been busy with other things, and I pushed this to the side. I promise I'll give it my best attempt to make you laugh a little bit soon.

Reflections on Lokomotiv Yaroslavl

Today (yesterday, by the time you read this) is the anniversary of the plane crash that claimed the lives of the KHL team Lokomotiv Yaroslavl.

Why do I care?

"Care" isn't even the right word.

Why do I obsess? Why do I watch every moment from every team in the league, to the best of my ability? Why do I read every tweet, from Bob McKenzie to Adrian Dater, and everyone in between?

I fucking love it.

I would censor myself, but it wouldn't have the same feel. It requires that level of sincerity that would make some uncomfortable. Deal with it.

I listen to podcasts, I research games from the past, I find out how hockey changed and why the hell it happened. I can't get enough.

It's the same reason why just a few minutes ago, while reading again about the tragedy that nearly overcame a Russian hockey team, I began to tear up uncontrollably.

Yes, everyone, save for one crew member, died in that flight. They say that the plane crashed due to pilot error. Apparently, the pilot used the brakes in an inadvisable manner, causing the plane to fail to properly take off. I refuse to blame an individual for the incident. Mistakes happen, and though in this case, many lives were lost, I cannot find it within me to blame the pilot. The flight was made many times before, and this time, it failed. The pilot lost his life. Blame is to be given only when the negative repercussions do not affect those responsible. As it is, the man responsible paid dearly, and is to be remembered equally for the tragedy the occurred, not vilified. I cannot fly a plane, and I cannot pretend to do so. Therefore, with the family of the lost pilot in mind, I cannot blame him. I hope that nobody else does.
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A bumblebee is not made to fly. It does not know this, so it flies anyways. The same could be said for the flight that resulted in the loss of 44 people. Many of them were hockey players, all of them were people who deserved long, happy lives. The flight never should have happened.

Some people rushed to blame the KHL for providing an unsafe means of transportation. Others rushed to blame the airline, itself, for not accounting for all possible failures. I am not here to do either. I am here simply to reflect on the men who lost their lives in the pursuit of something they had wished for as kids. These men died in the midst of "living the dream," as it were.

Having been disassociated with the hockey world for a few years now, I can see things in a more panned-out manner. As a senior in college, one thing I see a lot is the other hockey players my age, discussing the idea of "living the dream". It is, to me, the most beautiful thing that hockey can bring to a person. Living the dream.

This idea is one I've known for years, even knowing of it back when I still played. To live the dream is to play hockey, to score the goals, to lay down hits, to dangle, to have sick flow, and to pick up chicks like nobody's business (seriously, a thoroughbred hockey player dominates any football player you know). You can even be gongshow to the max and still live the dream. Simply put, playing hockey past anybody's reasonable expectations is living the dream. Nobody believes in you. They want you to give up, to quit.

The hockey player says no. Many people play hockey, but few are hockey players. To play is one thing. To live it is another. I hope that people recognize my passion and realize that, as much as I lacked the skills, I cared more than can be quantified. I felt and still feel the passion.

That is why I cry when I think of Lokomotiv. Aside from a few NHL role players (players without considerable skill, who slipped into a specified role to help their teams win), I did not know the team by name. But I knew them as people. It doesn't take a long career of junior hockey, semi-pro hockey, and professional hockey to know them. They were players not given another chance in the NHL, who could have gone on to other careers, but who said "no, I'm going to keep doing what I love". I respect that more than anything.
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On September 7, 2011, at around 4:05 Russian time, the plane crashed. Along with the plane went the lives of 43 individuals. Right winger Alexander Galimov initially survived the crash, despite burns to over 90% of his body. Overcoming his grave injuries, he summoned the strength to call to rescuers, "brothers, I am Galimov". He succumbed to injuries a few days later, despite a courageous effort to stay alive.

His words still resonate with me. "Brothers, I am Galimov". I cannot put into words the feeling that resonates within me at the reading of those words. Is it strength? Compassion? I don't know. I read it, and the strength and courage of that man sticks with me. He could have remained silent and waited for the end, but instead, he fought on, declaring himself, refusing to go.

Kind of like the team, itself.

Despite an announcement stating that Lokomotiv Yaroslavl would not be participating in the upcoming KHL season, the team continues on. Former NHL players, as well as international players have pledged their allegiance to carry on in the name.

It is not a pity team, nor is it a memorial team. It is a hockey team, looking to win a championship. A true hockey player does not wish for someone to grieve for them after their end inevitably comes, whether early or on time. Hockey players live in the moment, vying for a win, and nothing more. It is Lokomotiv Yaroslavl. Not Lokomotiv II, or anything like that. It simply is what it is.

Remember those who lose their lives doing what they loved. Do not remember them simply because of what they did and why they lost their lives. Remember them more for the fact that sometimes, people meet their end, and at their end, they have no extra time. No time to make up for what may have been lost before their end. No time to right wrongs. Instead, they have only what has been accomplished up to that time. I believe that the people who died in the crash probably died at the happiest point in their lives. Grown-up men, playing a kids' game for money.

How much sweeter does it get?
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Always remember:

Vitali Anikienko
24
Mikhail Balandin
31
Gennady Churilov
24
Pavol Demitra
36
Robert Dietrich
25
Alexander Galimov
26
Marat Kalimulin
23
Alexander Kalyanin
23
Andrei Kiryukhin
24
Nikita Klyukin
21
Stefan Liv
30
Jan Marek
31
Sergei Ostapchuk
21
Karel Rachůnek
32
Ruslan Salei
36
Maxim Shuvalov
18
Kārlis Skrastiņš
37
Pavel Snurnitsyn
19
Daniil Sobchenko
20
Ivan Tkachenko
31
Pavel Trakhanov
33
Yuri Urychev
20
Josef Vašíček
30
Alexander Vasyunov
23
Alexander Vyukhin
38
Artem Yarchuk
21