Seventeen years ago “Mighty Ducks” turned me into a hockey fan. That’s officially over half my life. Very odd for someone who was born and raised in Texas and a sport that was born and raised in Canada. Before Norm Green moved the Stars to Dallas about the only thing the countries of Canada and Texas had in common was a love for beer and the ability to produce a good bull rider. Now, there is absolutely no doubt Texas is THE predominant hockey state in the South and kids are growing up in Dallas loving the Stars just as much as the Cowboys, Rangers or Mavericks. There are two main reasons for its popularity: the Stars have produced Dallas’ only championship in 14 years…and Mike Modano.

Meeting Modano for the first time, 1994

Although it was pretty much apparent at the end of this season that Modano was more than likely not returning, the Stars officially sealed the deal yesterday. So it’s time to say goodbye. When it came to the growth of a sport, Modano was twice the hockey ambassador to Dallas than Gary Bettman only wished Sidney Crosby was to the United States. Our appreciation for the game, mine specifically, is about 90% thanks to him. In 17 years I’ve only had two actual legitimate favorite players, Mike Modano and Jamie Langenbrunner. The others (such as Petr Buzek) were total personal infatuations and took on a stalking life of their own. So basically, Modano will forever be King of Hockey in my world and in this neck of the woods. I call mutiny if 9 isn’t hanging from the rafters of American Airlines Center before the first puck drops next season.

Modano wants to keep playing and should he do so, seeing him in another jersey won’t be anything less than weird and heartbreaking. I want him to be happy, so a fresh start (as with Marty Turco) just might do the trick. I agree with Mike Heika, “a happy Modano would be fun to watch“.

I know this isn’t officially goodbye, as much as Mike loves Dallas, it’s more like see you later…just not on our ice in our colors. All I ask, for the love, don’t go all Favre on us, Mo.

December of 1998 I wrapped up my first semester of college and took a week-long trip to see the boys in Kalamazoo. I think I even arranged to take two finals early. Remind me never to lecture anyone on organizing priorities.  BTdubs, I wish I could remember where I got the money to do all of that crap, I don’t think I even worked that year. Leftover graduation money perhaps? I need to figure it out, cause here I am 11 years and several tax brackets later and haven’t been on a real vacation since March 2004. Anyhow, I digress.

I was 18, didn’t drink (seriously), innocent as could be (no, really) and was a smitten kitten over at least four or five of the K-Wings (all Stars property). Petr you know about, the rest are still playing – two in Europe, one in the NHL and one belongs to an NHL team but is in the AHL in Texas (go figure).  None of them were saints. Hell, I’m pretty sure the Devil himself created one of them, somewhere between the strapless bra and Facebook. I’ve no doubt he invented all three with the intention of torturing womankind. Devil Spawn and his BFF (the one now in Texas…are you keeping up?) were inseparable evil. If I hadn’t been oozing with Southern Belle goodness, I would’ve been walking into double trouble on NUMEROUS occasions. I labeled them a “you’d either wind up dead or pregnant manwhich”. However, on top of the goody two-shoes-ness, I also had older, wiser friends looking out for me. MANY of them. And with magnifying glasses.

A must read for any young female hockey fan!

As an early Christmas present in ‘98 my friend Janelle gave me a book called “Crossing the Line” with strict instructions to read it before I stepped foot back into Kalamazoo. This book is BANANAS. Should my future daughter ever utter the words “Mom, me and my friends are going to Kings practice”, after I refrain from stroking out, I’m gonna be like “you’re grounded from hockey players until you’re 30 and read this book. Now.”

No one will dispute the fraternal nature of a locker room, whether it be hockey, football or cricket for all I know. There is too much raging testosterone and too many uncovered penises in one small space (and too much alcohol consumed off the ice/field) to do anyone any good. However, I wish I was a good enough writer to put into words the bond, brotherhood and unwritten code amongst hockey players. While doing some digging for this post I came across another book, “Men at Play: A Working Understanding of Professional Hockey“, which I’m ordering toute suite. I hope it can spell it out better, I only know what I saw. Some of these guys were born and bred to play hockey. They were ripped from their homes (MOST of them by choice) not too long after their voices changed to be immersed in the system. As if high school isn’t hard enough, right? “Crossing the Line” is a no holds barred, balls out examination of how junior hockey impacts such vulnerable, wee lads.

The entire hockey world was slapped in the face when Sheldon Kennedy announced he was abused by his junior hockey coach.  This week Theo Fleury, one of the WHL’s most notable exports, admitted he was sexually abused by the very same man. So although Canadian junior hockey is a staunch tradition, fabulous to watch (I’ve been to a handful of games) and produces some of the best players in North America, if not the world, the system leaves it’s marks. As if those two examples aren’t horrific enough, the culture can affect not only the players themselves, but also the girls and women around them.

Side note, Devil Spawn’s team is examined at length in “Crossing the Line”. Coincidence? Yeah…not so much. And don’t get me wrong, Readers…I still love me some hockey players!!! Bless their hearts.