You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The NHL all star weekend.
Music City has been transformed.
Six foot tall hockey pucks are on the sidewalk lining lower Broadway.
Banners proclaiming the greatness of the NHL fly in a warm wind swirling around the Bat Building shimmering over Tootsies and the other eager beer joints.
The NHL is coming.
It’s going to be a clash of cultures.
Ice and country music.
72 hour of Honky Tonks meet hip checks.
Punch in NHL excitement on your GPS and Serie is sure yell Yee Haw.
NHL and Music city; it’s a rare cosmic alignment where Lower Broad meets the Broadstreet Bullies.
This weekend country twang dances with slap shots and icing calls.
The NHL all star game is in Nashville.
It’s going to be 60 degrees at face off on Sunday.
Canadians are going to infest our city like lint on the underside of a hammock.
Foul mouth Yankees from north of the Mason Dixon line are going to bring their bumptious ways to our Southern City and belch up cold beer and faceoffs.
This city of cowboy boots and guitars is going to get a frosty facelift this weekend.
It is amidst this back drop that I find myself down at the Music City Center for the All Star Weekend set up. That was Wednesday. The exhibit is scheduled to open to the public in 30 hours. I am getting a sneak peak.
Most of the fun stuff is still in boxes being toted around the Music City Center with fork lifts.
“I just want to show people what they can do,” I say to my NHL handler.
She points to the Bridgestone exhibit closest to us.
“It’s a slap shot contest,” she says.
“I’m in!”
I’m not exactly dressed for the NHL experience. I am wearing cowboy boots and a long black trench coat.
I look more like a Columbine terrorist than a reporter who is doing a fun piece on the NHL.
“Put the puck on the synthetic ice,” the man says.
I look at the square plastic on the floor.
“You mean the white formica?”
“Yes. That’s formulated by NASA. It’s designed to approximate ice.”
I smile.
“OK. Sure,” I snicker.
I put the NHL puck on the NASA designed ice and stare at the camera.
“This is going to measure my slap shot.”
I stand over the puck and measure my shot.
I’ve never played hockey. I have no idea how to swing a stick. I assume that I can’t just swing like a baseball bat. I’ve tried that in golf and all it ever yields is a penalty stroke.
I reach back like a trip hammer, the NHL stick poised over my shoulder.
I stare at the circular black puck on the perfectly formulated plastic ice.
It’s a target as rich as a baboon’s ass.
No way I can miss this, I think to myself.
With the stick poised, ready to strike, I feel the kinetic energy of my body moving to my hips, my shoulders and wrists.
I am a Newtonian diagram of vector ratios and acceleration.
I start my swing. There is a power surge, a shift of momentum, moving to the stick that is poised to blast a puck down some fake ice.
I can see the NHL people lurking in the back. They are smiling, curious, wondering who is this cowboy, trench coat wearing wild man before them.
I glance slightly at the goal. It’s huge. Shooting the biscuit in the basket will be as easy as throwing a rock into the grand canyon.
I start my swing. I am a baseball player who uses the same swing for golf, bowling and fishing. It doesn’t matter what sport this is. If I am going to swing, it is going to be a single laced into the gap.
I start down on the black spheroid with the big NHL logo.
I feel the wooden stick face connect with the hard rubber.
The puck explodes forward on the floor and in the time it takes the prom queen to refuse a 9th grader a dance, the puck strikes the back of the net.
I am pleased and turn to the man behind me.
I am smiling.
He is laughing, like a carnival huxter.
“How was that?”
My camera man moves toward us to capture the moment.
“31 MPH,” he says shaking his head.
“31 MPH?” I cannot believe my ears.
The connection, the kinetic energy, the physics involved in this mighty swing, and 31 MPH is all I can muster.
“How does that compare to a school girl?” I query with a smile?
“A school girl would have done 40mph, maybe 50mph. You should be embarrassed,” he squeals.
I agree. It is embarrassing.
The people behind him are holding their faces as they laugh.
“Try it again,” he says.
Good idea, I think.
I put the little black puck on the square of NASA formulated ice.
I reach back, allowing the kinetic energy of Newtonian physics to fill my power fulcrum.
I transfer my weight and feel the arc of physical properties transfer to my wrists.
Suddenly the wooden stick is a battering ram of energy in my hands.
I begin my strike force down.
I am a SWAT team going through a door. I am a bull rushing through the bloody streets of Pamplona. I am a rocket booster discarding my 1st stage of spent fuel.
I feel the wooden stick slap the black rubberized puck.
It’s a black hole of condensed molecular integrity.
The connection between stick and NASA ice and puck is forceful.
I feel my molars quiver, my cavities scream “Where do we get out?”
It’s like a run-a-way armored car racing down hill and slamming into a Catholic school full of angry nuns.
You can feel the power, the intensity, the hail Mary’s whistling from the collision.
BLAM.
The puck strikes the back of the net.
But this time, the strike feels different.
It’s as if something let loose, like a portion of the physical connection exploded into the great Einsteinian beyond.
I hold up the stick and see that the wooden face is shredded like chicken noodle soup.
There are more splinters on this stick than the frayed disposition of the Republican Party.
I hold up the stick so my camera man gets a good shot of it.
“The stick broke!” I shout.
I can feel the smile on my face. It is taking over my jaw like facial manifest destiny.
My camera man is laughing as he focuses on the sad little splinter in my hand.
I turn to the NHL man.
“Anyone ever break a stick?” I shout.
I wait for the carnival ass clown to respond.
He smiles.
“nobody has ever broke a stick,” he says matter of factly.
“Nobody has ever broke a stick,” I parrot back to my camera.
I am beaming like a rainbow after a downpour on a tropical island.
I hold the stick, frayed and splintered.
If it was alive it would be weeping.
I eye ball it for a moment and then I drop it.
The stick hits the NASA synthetic ice with a thud that echoes in the cavernous hall.
I look in the camera and say “Thank You good night!”
I walk out of frame laughing.
My cameraman holds the shot for a moment and then doubles over laughing.
I see some of the NHL staff behind the ass clown. They are wiping tears from their eyes.
I know this is a good moment.
And so it goes as I walk from booth to booth interacting with the NHL Experience.
I will put 90 seconds on TV later that afternoon.
I don’t think there is one fact in the entire news segment, yet it’s 90 seconds of TV gold.
I am pleased.
Earlier in the morning my boss hollered at me. “Go down there and show me something fun.”
Mission accomplished.
Thanks NHL 2016.
Life’s Crazy™