In case you missed this memo while watching CNN bash President Trump in every story or opting for Fox News’ overt love for the President in every story, let me remind you that SPORTS MATTER.

They mater because they generate revenue.
They generate jobs.
They generate passion.

Now with the return of the National Football League, National Basketball Association, National Hockey League, and Major League Baseball—all at once it seems—sports will generate billions in advertising revenue. This is exactly what the country needs. And right now.

At the four-month mark where every major professional sports league went on hiatus due to COVID-19, the return of live sports is just what we all need. Live sports signals an important return to normal for the country and spark a television advertising sales marketplace that was left in a disparate place. During the last full season, each sport played, the NFL, NBA, MLB and NHL produced nearly $7 billion in ad revenue for networks across the United States. That’s not to mention the billions produced overseas and the remaining parts of North America.

Don’t think that sports matter? Here is exactly how much national ad revenue the big four sports leagues added to the networks’ gross sales during their last full seasons (*according to Kantar Media):

• NFL—Regular Season: $3.3 billion, Playoffs: $1.3 billion
• NBA—Regular Season: $528.2 million, Playoffs: $877.5 million
• MLB—Regular Season: $144.7 million, Playoffs: $338.5 million
• NHL—Regular Season: $35.9 million, Playoffs: $102.2 million

Seth Winter, EVP of sports sales for Fox Sports says that “the reopening of live sports is “a very symbolic and real indicator of the move forward to whatever the TV ad industry’s new normal will be post-pandemic.”

Jo Ann Ross, president and chief advertising revenue officer, ViacomCBS domestic advertising sales says that, “There is a thirst and a hunger for live sports.”

All you have to do is look at the few live sports that aired recently to demonstrate how thirsty advertisers and audiences are for any sort of live sports:

• UFC 251—1.3 million people purchased the event on pay-per-view That’s among the highest in the sport’s history. UFC has generated this many buys only four times previously with the the most recent coming in 2018, when Khabib Nurmagomedov defeated Conor McGregor at UFC 229. That event generated a record 2.4 million buys.
• The Match: Champions for Charity golf tournament, which aired on May 24 and featured Tiger Woods and Peyton Manning vs. Phil Mickelson and Tom Brady drew 5.8 million viewers across TNT, TBS, truTV and HLN. WarnerMedia reported that this telecast was the most-watched golf match in cable TV history. The WarnerMedia’s ad sales team sold every spot a month in advance with the expectation of this type of outcome. 
• When NASCAR races resumed on Fox one May 17th, over six million viewers made it the most-watched NASCAR Cup race on any network (outside of the Daytona 500) in 2018.

All of this comes of devastating news that U.S. advertising revenue plummeted 31% in May due to only those few events take place due to the pandemic. What makes this worse is that the Standard Media Index reports that majority of major ad categories reduced their media spends drastically—by 10%-20% or more. Only pharmaceutical manufacturers spent more in May than they did in the same 2019 period.

Two media companies saw ad revenues deteriorate as a direct result of the absence of NBA games when the playoffs take place in May, broadcast by Walt Disney’s ABC and ESPN and WarnerMedia’s TNT. WarnerMedia saw ad revenue decline by 45.5%, while Disney saw it tumble by 39.6% for the month of May.

First up is MLB on July 25th followed by the NHL on August 1st. I can wait to see what advertisers have in store for us…

Michael Jordan: The gold standard of sports advertising.

The post Sports Are Back to Save the Ad World appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

Okay, so where am I?

It was time to go north of the border to help out with some family things, but also to continue to doing research and interviews for my Kontinental Hockey League book. This time my travels took me once again to Montreal, Canada.

Maybe you don’t know Montreal. Maybe you think it’s that crazy city in that crazy provence that wanted to cede from Canada. Maybe you don’t care at all. I do, because Montreal is the Mecca of all hockey. The home of the greatest concentration of championships in the National Hockey League. Anywhere there’s hockey finds me an invites me metaphorically to explore the city and take in a game. But there’s more to Montreal than just hockey.

Montreal is a city with considerable French colonial history dating back to the 16th century. It began as a missionary settlement but soon became a fur-trading center. The city’s St. Lawrence River location proved to be a major advantage in its development as a manufacturing, financial, and transportation center. Montreal was the largest metropolitan center in the country from 1867, at the time of the Confederation of Canada until Toronto overtook it in the 1970s. It stands as the second largest French-speaking city in the world (after Paris).

The city has been a immigrant destination and is widely considered to be a cosmopolitan celebration of Québécois style. Montreal remains a city of great charm, vivacity, and gaiety, as well as one of unquestioned modernity. In short, Montreal is c’est si bon.

Fans enter the Bell Centre for the Montreal Canadiens game.

Bonsecours Market in Old Montreal.

The iconic hearts sculpture outside the Musee des Beaux Arts.

Rinkside at the Montreal vs. Carolina NHL game.

Love is in the air.

The Monument à George-Étienna Cartier

Outside of Parts, Montreal has the world’s finest French food.

Unique single-wind walk up stairs line the city.

The Basilique Notre-Dame is a confection of stained glass.

The post The 43 Postcards Project: Montreal appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

“In 1958 I broke the color barrier in the National Hockey League. Every game that I played in there were racial remarks directed towards me. They would say the ‘N word’ and they would say you should be back picking cotton and what are you doing in a white man’s game. But I just went out and played.” —Willie O’Ree, from the start of “Willie”, an ESPN documentary.

Last October the critically-acclaimed Bryant McBride and Laurence Mathieu-Leger documentary “Willie” was making its rounds on the festival circuit. Now, in celebration of Black History Month, the duo has announced a partnership with ESPN to air throughout February.

If you only know Hockey Hall of Famer Willie O’Ree from his honorary puck drops at your local NHL arena, it stands to reason you’ll be outraged by a scene in “Willie” detailing a 1961 incident against the Chicago Blackhawks where O’Ree was illegally butt-ended and racially taunted as blood spilled from his split lip and nose. He was subsequently kicked out of the game and was left at a crossroads, wondering about his future. O’Ree used his exile to the locker room to meditate on his future in the game.

(c) Stephen R. Sylvanie-USA TODAY Sports

You can see the pain on O’Ree’s face as he tries to remind us that, “names will never hurt you unless you let them.” It was during those private moments in the locker room where the first black player in the NHL decided he wouldn’t let others decide when he should leave the game—and definitely not because of his skin color. He would only leave when his skills weren’t on par with his contemporaries.

The documentary chronicles O’Ree, a hockey star from Fredericton in New Brunswick, Canada from age 15. We discover that he was a fine baseball player who got a half-hearted shot at a professional contract only to be cut due to race. We also discover he is a descendant of a South Carolina slave who escaped to Canada. At some point we discover he’s kept a big secret all of these years: he went permanently blind in his right eye after his retina shattered from a puck to the face. Even Wayne Gretzky gushes how impossible it would be for him to play with one eye. Willie O’Ree overcame everything to succeed: racism, cheap shots, and a disability.

O’Ree’s breaking of the NHL color barrier coincides will the beginnings of the civil rights movement with Dr. Martin Luther King’s words leading the narrative. It’s a tough section to sit through, with archival footage of peaceful Black America protests asking for their constitutional rights while being barked down by German shepherds, fire hoses, and blindside kicks. It is especially haunting as it is juxtaposed to Willie O’Ree’s situation and the flashpoint of racial epitaphs and taunting from NHL players and fans. It leaves you angry that a man, who by all accounts is one of the kindest humans ever created, would be subjected to such vile.

For O’Ree, playing from professional hockey from 1958 until 1980 wasn’t enough to distance himself from racism. Threats followed him even after the NHL hired him as its first diversity ambassador. The documentary tells the sad tale of someone threatening to blow up MCI Center during an event with children in Washington D.C. saying their blood would be on his hands.

We are visited by Devante Smith-Pelly, who was showered by racial slurs while in a United Center penalty box, and Wayne Simmonds who endured the humiliation of a banana peel being hurled at him while on the ice. Both point to O’Ree as their inspiration to overcome these societal horrors. Lou Vairo, Director of Special Projects, USA Hockey, confirms that, “He’s [O’Ree] inspired a generation of hockey players.” The chills start to mount as the call from Lanny McDonald of the Hockey Hall of Fame comes in. Seeing that moment alone is worth watching the documentary.

You might be able to explain some of this away if some of it didn’t happen as recently as 2018. Unfortunately racism in North America is alive and well, but with more people embracing Willie O’Ree’s philosophy of kindness and perseverance, humanity still has a chance.

For this reason alone, “Willie” is a cherished film — a long overdue, solemn big-screen documentary about one of the most important builders and culture changing pioneers of the 20th century.

How to Watch

The film will be available through the month of February on ESPN.com and the ESPN App and had four airings on ESPN2.

O’Ree’s Hall of Fame Speech 

Note: This article originally appeared under my byline on Jewels From The Crown.

The post “Willie”, an ESPN Documentary appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

I believe hockey cards have supernatural powers.

This is why, in the winter of 1975, I starting arranging my Los Angeles Kings cards like players on a hockey rink on the top of my mammoth hand-me-down stereo console. And then challenged the NHL All Stars—or at least the cards I was able to collect—to a game of pickup hockey on top of the console. My “rink” was oblong and the perfect length for a fantasy game. There were even miniature nets I cobbled together from old metal tubing and bakery string from the pink boxes from the store around the corner.

This was my pre-game ritual before road games and it made the post-homework, pre-parent evening arrivals go faster. Just before the games would face-off usually on the radio (there were few televised road games back in the mid-70s), I would set the the cards out. Starters on the hardwood ice and reserves side-by-side in a makeshift bench constructed out of old quart-sized milk cartons. Then I would walk behind the bench and shift out the players as Bob Miller and Rich Marotta let me know who was on the ice and on the bench.

The cards were voodoo to me, every bit as powerful as the Six Million Dollar Man and on par with the Millennium Falcon’s holographic chess players. I knew, laid out on the stereo, with their energy unbridled, and with my calm benchside manner utilizing my Carrie-like telekinetic powers, that all of this would make a difference, make all the difference, in the outcome of the game.

I used to put hexes on Bobby Orr. I (wrongfully) took credit for his bad knees when I read about them in The Hockey News (sorry Bob). I tore up my extra Gerry Cheevers card and tossed it in the freezer before the game six of the 1976 quarter finals went into overtime. Sure enough, Butch Goring solved Cheevers late in overtime forcing a game seven. Maybe if I had a second Cheevers card for game seven things might have turned out different that year.

These days, hockey cards aren’t distributed like they used to be. You could get them at any convenience store or supermarket. You could even buy them at the Fabulous Forum souvenir stands. The full-sized hockey sticks were $7, pucks were $1, and a wax pack of Topps hockey cards were $1.25. Now, the only place I can find them are on eBay or enclosed in authenticated plastic and up for auction.*

When I was first collecting, hockey cards were about memories. You held Gil Perraeult’s card in your hand and you pictured his smooth, effortless skating and the flight of his laser-infused puck spinning towards the back of the net. You saw in the close-up shot of Bobby Clarke the steely eyes you’d gotten a glimpse of on TV weeks before, peeking out from under his shaggy locs as he racked up another 12 minutes in penalties and two more goals. The 1976-77 cards featured cartoons with fun facts. I mean how would I every know that Rogie Vachon was very superstitious and Guy LaFleur’s last name meant “flower.”

Many cards featured bad haircuts and goofy smiles. These players could be your favorite uncle who came to visit only at Thanksgiving. These guys might get you that slice of pie or extra piece of white meat. Those feelings never leave you. It’s about the way a card, for whatever reason, lingers with you, loiters in the imagination, as does some kind of magic.

I was an only child, and my parents were divorced. My dad was an old baseball guy, so the hockey fascination wasn’t something he understood too much. My hockey card addiction wasn’t inherited, nor was it influenced by dad or other family members. The great thing about dad is that he married well. His second wife worked in the Fabulous Forum’s ticket office, so we would get tickets to any Kings game that wasn’t a sellout (meaning lots of home games). When I was eight, I regularly went to games by myself (don’t worry, in 1976 this was good parenting). At the games, I knew every usher, every concessions person, and every ticket seller. I traded cards with some of them. I got a perspective of the adult world that served me well.

I’ll know former Kings winger Bob Nevin’s stats until I die. Nevin scored 64 goals, had 113 assists, and amassed 45 penalty minutes in 235 games in a Kings’ uniform. Why the obsession with a run-of-the-mill winger on his fourth NHL team? Seems he was dating a friend of dad’s second wife whom I had a crush on. It seemed like every pack of cards I opened after that discovery had his face in it. He was clean cut with a perfect jaw and wore the expression of an engineer launching spaceships into outer space. I analyzed those numbers to death wondering how Bob Nevin could land someone like her. Back then, though, all my eight-year-old self knew was that he was a somebody, and I seemed to have a shoe box stuffed to the gills with his nobody cards.

Over time, as we get older, the cards—the collecting, the sorting, the trading, the hours spent in their company and in the company of friends and family who let me think they felt their magic, too—became memories themselves.

So this year where my father passed away at 70, it wasn’t the stories at his funeral, the old photographs or the memories from his friends and colleagues that made it possible to wrap my mind around him being gone. It was a card. Back at dad’s place after the services, I stood in his spare bedroom and looked at the frames and the books on his shelves, and then I saw it, the Gerry Cheevers torn card, fused back together with that cheap, yellowed tape, perched on the shelf in front of his cigar boxes, sitting there like some sacred object on an altar. Like Dad, Cheevers looked like he was the cat who ate the canary, like he was having a last laugh, like he was giving me the business and up to something.

I took the card down off the shelf and carved up a milk carton and placed him on the bench this time. And then I paced around the bedroom listening to the Kings game in somewhat of a trance. Missing dad. Feeling good and bad at once. Knowing everything was different. Feeling somehow, just for a moment, as if it were all the same.

* – Here are some beauties up for auction this month. But please, don’t bid against me!

The post Cardboard Magic appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

Repping the great Ilya Kolvachuk at a KHL game will earn you mad props. © Michael Lloyd

I took a wild trip to Moscow to get up close with Russian hockey. I wound up meeting Igor…read on!

While we wait for the boys to return from the combination All-Star break and mandatory five-day bye week to continue their #PlayoffPush / #LoseForHughes games, here’s a little excerpt from my KHL Moscow trip.

By now, most of the loyal Perspectives readers know a few things about me.

1. I don’t like the interim Kings coach (professionally, not personally).
2. I’m not a sportswriter (…okay let the jokes begin…at least I’m passionate about giving you 1,000 words of weekly contrarian opinion).
3. I made my living for the last 30+ years in the marketing and advertising worlds.

So why the buildup today? I felt it was important to let you know these things before briefly jumping into my intrepid journey in Russia covering the Kontinental Hockey League for an upcoming book I’m writing about sports marketing in Europe.

When the call came in October to travel to Moscow for a few days in and around Red Square to visit the periphery of the current CSKA Moscow team, I was a little hesitant. “Why” you ask?

Well…

Back in the nineties, Romania called. Literally, the country called. The economic development minister guided me over to CSP UM Timişoara, an also-ran in the Romanian Futbol League. I was signed to a nice six-figure contract to lay out the marketing plan and roll it out to the country. Long story short, after selling out the first (and last) game due in large part to my advertising campaign, the Romanian mafia who financed the club asked me to leave “Godfather-style” and promptly bankrupted the team.

At the time, the appeal of Europe for media and marketing was growing by leaps and bounds and it definitely makes sense. If you know your stuff and you can deliver smooth ideas and polished programs, you’re all set for a cushy life. It worked out for some. For me, that was my only attempt to “make it” in Europe.

So when my book editor arranged for a flight and a visa to Moscow, who was I to say no? I mean, who could refuse such an assignment? After all, this club was the home of all of those legendary Red Army players who dominated the world scene before the collapse of the Soviet Union: Slava Fetisov, Pavel Bure, Alexei Kasatonov, the KLM Line (Vladimir Krutov, Igor Larionov, and Sergei Makarov), Sergei Federov, Boris Mikhailov, Vladislav Tretiak…I could go on and on. They all played there.

Over the years, the KHL has earned a reputation as a wild and crazy place replete with heat-packing team owners, paper bag cash payments for players and staff, intense eight-week training camps, and a penchant for creating scandal you might expect only from a Netflix movie. This notwithstanding, since being founded in 2008 under the tutelage of Russian President Vladimir Putin, the KHL has solidified itself as the world’s second-best hockey league.

So, after securing a commitment to gain entry into Russia and very little else, I hunkered down into research mode. My research uncovered 25 teams spread across eight countries and two continents. I discovered a league that possesses a trove of talent most North Americans have never heard of and never will see. My goal quickly began to gain some sort of access to left winger Kirill Kaprizov and goalie Ilya Sorokin. In case you missed it, Kaprizov dominated at the 2018 PyeongChang Olympics, notching nine points (5G, 4A) in six games played, while being the darling of KHL hockey. Sorokin was drafted by the Islanders as an 18-year-old. Through 34 games backstopping CSKA Moscow, he sports a 23-6-3 record with a 1.25 GAA and a .937 save percentage to go with eight shutouts.

I jumped on the international Stubhub site to grab a pair of CSKA Moscow tickets for the December 28th game versus defending Gagarin Cup* champs Ak Bars. I quickly charged the $78 for the tickets in first seven rows, including fees, and even though Citibank put a fraud alert on my card for 48 hours because of the Russia charges, I was feeling pretty, pretty good.

* – Speaking of the Gagarin Cup, much like the Stanley Cup we all love and revere, the KHL has its own sweet story for their championship trophy. The KHL hardware is named for cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin. He’s the first human to venture into space and was proclaimed as the “hero of the Soviet Union” by Nikita Khrushchev. Gagarin died in a plane crash nearly eight years after his space odyssey. He is entombed at the Kremlin.

I arrived to Moscow on Christmas Day (I know, I know; how Rocky IV of me) and after a VIP tour of the Kremlin, Red Square, and St. Basil’s Cathedral, along with a trip to Saint Petersburg, it was finally game day. Nothing could slow my enthusiasm. Not the snow or three-degree temperatures or even a snobby cab driver who lectured me about the “corrupt league where the banned doctors practice.” Misjudging the right time to get there, I was at the CSKA Ice Arena well ahead of the 7:30 match time, beating even the most of the security staff.

CKSA Ice Arena

Just to the west of the parking booth and gate was the one open door: the media entrance. There were cameramen and suited talking heads meandering through, so I decided to put my international press card into play. It came in handy here as I flashed it liberally to get through to the hallway leading to the locker rooms. This is where my plans to interview Kirill Kaprizov and/or Ilya Sorokin hit a brick wall. No, not a real brick wall, but rather Igor.

Who was Igor? He was simply a human that was thicker and stronger than any brick wall. Each bicep had a circumference that was easily more than my skull and his hands looked like could they crush my skull just like The Mountain did to the Viper in Game of Thrones. Nonetheless, I didn’t memorize five questions in Russian for my interview to be turned away by Igor.

At first, Igor laughed at me and scoffed at my international press card that dated my current salt and pepper style by at least ten years. Then he had me frisked by his colleague, who was easily the most terrifying man whomever guarded a hockey arena.

As soon as I tried to out-clever the duo, the conversation kicked in.

“Listen Mr. Michael,” he growled, “I don’t care how far you travel to meet our great players. No CSKA (pronounced “siska”) Moscow media card. No blonde hair. No cute smile. No enter my arena. Only Cowboy Reagan has chance to get here.”

To which I replied, “Reagan has been dead for years. Are you saying a dead man has a better chance than me to get in?”

That produced three giant belly laughs that lasted well over a minute. I earned some goodwill and bought myself some time but alas, no locker room entry and interviews were forthcoming. Seems that Igor was (purportedly) former KGB and didn’t catch on with the FSB (which succeeded the KGB). He knocked around the nightclub scene and even called in some favors to work security detail for some high-ranking dancers at the Bolshoi before landing on the hockey scene. Now he calls the KHL home and takes his work more seriously than anything he ever did at the KGB.

What I did win was a new friend in Igor and some ridiculous stories of the early KHL and Russia Superleague days.

During the 2004-05 NHL lockout, Ak Bars put together a squad that included 11 NHL players; among them were Ilya Kovalchuk, Dany Heatley, Alexei Kovalev, Vincent Lecavalier, and Brad Richards. “Here we try win championship for mighty Kazan’s 1000th anniversary,” Igor recalls. “We have giant payroll. But you know what they don’t have? There were no towels, locker room attendants, or drinks after games. Maybe that’s why lost in the first round of the playoffs.”

I learned about the practice of bazas. It’s a cultural thing where teams bunker down in desolate, rural buildings before important games and playoff series. Igor explained: “One club I was with put us in middle of nowhere. Mr. Michael, this is not a figure of speech. This baza is not on fancy Google Maps. As matter of fact, no map was ever created for this. It was an old, crumbling factory that have dormitories for workers. It was 35 kilometers from anything. Anything. Except forest. Forest was for training and there was tree for all of us. The coaching staff make everyone climb a tree before breakfast was served. Even staff.”

I dared to ask him why he’s been with so many clubs (this is his seventh in 15 years). “Many teams are very late in paying people,” Igor reports. “They would go months without paying us and then they would pay in plain box in cash. Of course there would be ‘taxes’ already taken from the cash. For players, this is fine because they don’t live payday to payday. But us ex-KGB guys need regular payments. You wonder if you ever get paid.”

As 7:30 approached, Igor reminded me that I wasn’t getting in. We had a good time trading NHL and KHL stories. We exchanged contact information and Twitter handles. He helped me bypass the giant staircase leading to the security entrances. I was safe after all having been patted down better than any TSA in the world. It was time to see what the KHL game was actually like.

Every aisle, in every section, has two cheerleaders with pom poms. During stoppages they all perform in sync with each other in perfect synergy.

I wound up sitting next to Anatoly who, as a former official at the United Nations, was a former season ticket holder of the New York Rangers. He was there in 1994 when the Rangers won their first Stanley Cup in 50 years and he was in Kazan in 2017 when Ak Bars won the Gagarin Cup. I was told that the principal dissimilarity between the NHL and KHL is the pressure of the season. At only 60 games, there are few nights, if any, where you can take the night off. Teams don’t have the luxury to give away wins (worth three points when earned in regulation). Ownership fires coaches left and right. “Everyone is George Steinbrenner here,” Anatoly brags.

The style of play grabs you from the start. The surface is Olympic-sized so the players can move around and you can feel the skill. There’s very little dump and chase. You can see the roots of Russian hockey on display at all times. The spirit of the legendary Anatoli Tarasov, “the father of Russian ice hockey”, lives. He taught his players what he learned observing the Bolshoi Ballet, transferred it to hockey, and gave rise to creativity so the improvisational could flourish.

Tonight, CSKA Moscow hardly let AK Bars touch the puck for two periods, outshooting them 30-8 and tripling their attack time. If they couldn’t carry the puck into the zone, they would regroup three, four, five times before entering the zone. Each pass was crisp, hitting the tape without error. It all about puck possession.

And the fan experience?

“It’s wildly entertaining,” says Anatoly. “The fans are fun to watch. Cheerleaders are fun to watch. The kids bring signs and hold them up through the game, all game. There’s booster clubs left and right with special cheers. People aren’t sitting on their hands, they’re really into it. Also CSKA has not one, but two mascots—a horse and a star.”

As the horn sounded to end the final period, CSKA Moscow cruised to a 4-2 win. Maybe I witnessed the future 2019 Gagarin Cup champion here tonight. And my would-be interview? I guess I was scooped:

Note: This column originally appeared on Jewels From the Crown, January 28, 2019

The post Behind the Curtain: A Peek at the KHL appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

Note: Part I can be found here.

Part II.

I’m back from the holiday break and what did we learn (or were reminded of) between the trading freeze and today?

• Drew Doughty is an All Star.
• The Kings have fantastic goaltending and goalie coaches.
• Willie D. has no idea how to build team chemistry.
• The players have goal songs. 
• Jack Hughes is still in play!

While I was touring Kontinental Hockey League country (column coming next week), my inbox was filling up from those of you who had their own bad fan experiences. So before I get to the worst 10 fans of all time, here are the top email selections from you, the readers:

• Shirt off guy. Sometimes in the upper upper 300s.
• The visiting fan entourage who starts chanting their hometown chant.*
• The guy who gets ice cream all over himself and doesn’t realize it.
• Sharks Fans who call Kings Fans “bandwagoners.”
• The Creepy Dance Cam Guy.
• The guy who thinks he’s a hockey scout.
• The former college player.
• The guy sitting 600 feet from the ice who screams at the refs and actually thinks they can hear him over 100 db of Bon Jovi and crowd noise.

* – The only time this actually works is the Freeway Series where Kings fans invade the Honda Center. The “Go Kings Go” is two to three times louder than “Let’s Go Ducks.” Ducks fans may actually be the worst in all of sports. But that’s another column altogether.

And, now on with the countdown…

10. Too Many Beers Guy

Here are the warning signs:

A.) He’s typically a college freshman who hasn’t really figured out the whole drinking thing yet;
B.) He’s usually the shortest guy in his group;
C.) Every TV timeout, he hops up for another round;
D.) He almost always returns to his seat carrying two beers and spilling them all over the place;
E.) He enters a glazed stupor by the second intermission.

9. The Puck Father

You know this guy. He’s near the team benches — near the spot where the junior equipment folks throw out the pucks before the players emerge for warmups — practically pleading for pucks and holding his kid up in the air like a hostage.

8. Check-in Guy

Check-in Guy brings his kid to the game and feels the need to call home during every period to check in with his wife. The first call usually unfolds in a sequence like this:

”Hey honey, it’s me…” (Translation: I just wanted to thank you for letting me come to the game.) 

”I can barely hear you!” (Indeed, it’s tough to hear when you’re sitting in an arena with 17,000 other people.) 

”We’re at the game!” (Always said with an inflection, as if it’s an amazing feat to be able to call someone from a hockey game.) 

”It’s great!” (He wouldn’t know if the game’s good or not, because he just sat down and couldn’t allow a few minutes to pass without calling.) 

”Uh-huh, yeah he’s right here.” (It’s important for the wife to know that her husband didn’t lose their child.) 

”I’ll let you talk to him…” (To prove it.)

Every subsequent call pretty much sounds the same. On the bright side, this guy also leaves early because it’s a school night.

7. Stoned Aggressive Guy

He’s a distant cousin to the Too Many Beers Guy. These guys are prepared to offend everyone within earshot of their seats. They’ll catcall your girlfriend, daughter, or sister. They’ll drop random F-bombs. They’ll spill beer on you. They’ll use their middle finger until it hurts. Usually you can spot the SAGs right away, sometimes even before the game starts.

6. Instagram Mom

The first of two callouts to the ladies in my top ten goes to the Instagram Mom. She’s the mom who suddenly decides that she needs to get a picture of her family during the middle of a period so she can post it real time on Instagram. Bonus points are earned here if she’s oblivious enough to ask somebody else in the section to take the picture.

Photo by Jonathan Kozub/NHLI via Getty Images

5. The Obnoxious Guy Rooting for the Visitors

Look, most of us have cheered our home team in an enemy arena; however, there’s a huge disparity between supporting the visitors and provoking the home fans, amirite? The Obnoxious Guy usually wears some form of opposing paraphernalia (usually a sweater, sometimes a hat), shouts out unintelligent nicknames for his players, claps his hands repulsively, curses and flashes his middle finger towards the ice, and does everything imaginable to exasperate people in his section. He blossoms when he does it.

4. Flirty Fans

Hockey has a spectacle where some women make “Marry Me” or double-entendre signs directed at players and stand at the glass during warmups, garnering a lot of attention on social media these days. You see that a lot on the Eastern time zones, not so much in the West.

3. Work Buddies

Listen, going with work buddies is excellent team building and camaraderie. But pick your seatmates wisely because three out of five of your work buddies have no interest in the game and we all suffer. They’re sitting in the company seats. Sometimes wearing suits or a blazer over jeans. They’re nursing a single beer over two periods. They’re discussing work-related projects. They still think Canadians say “Eh?” every two seconds. They’re not afraid to tell a story from that other hockey game they went to eight years ago and they definitely plan on leaving before the end of the game to “beat the traffic.”

As an added punch in the stomach, they usually have great seats. The world just isn’t fair. Don’t confuse this guy with Game Date Guy. Game Date Guy brings his budding relationship to her first hockey game and tries to show her why hockey is the greatest game on earth. That guy is just plain awesome.

2. Cotton Candy Guy

This is the guy who orders something from a strolling vendor during a critical penalty kill. He doesn’t just order, he stands up to take his wallet out and decides if it’s going to be a twenty or a ten he is going to pay with. He remains standing, unaware, until someone gives him the “DOWN IN FRONT!” and forces him into the half-standing, half-crouch position. Goodness gracious, sakes alive, I hate this guy.

Odd Fact #1: This guy is always firmly planted in the middle of a row, which means everyone needs to pass both the cash and the purchased item back and forth. If you want everyone in your section to hate you with every fiber of their being, start here.

Odd Fact #2: Cotton Candy Guy usually pulls double duty as Check-in Guy. If you ever notice Check-in Guy at the start of a game, buckle up for the vendor/wallet fiasco at some point. Trust me here.

1. Cell Phone Guy

The guy sitting on the glass right behind the goal who talks excitedly on his cell phone and executes those “Hey, look at me!” waves during every scrum behind the net. Cell phones at the game is the worst phenomenon of the technology century, especially the dude who wants to showcase what he can do to disrupt the game experience from his $750 seat.

That wraps up the top ten. I am sure I missed some, so feel free to write in with your own. In the countdown world, I think I’m supposed to quote the immortal Casey Kasem and remind you to “Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.”

The post The Worst Fans in Hockey—10 through 1 appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

Number 14 – Big Hat Guy (c) Dan Hamilton-USA TODAY Sports

It’s time for a break from criticizing the Kings, so I turn my gaze on some fans instead.

I started this column a few weeks back by previewing and revealing the Number Five Worst Hockey Fan: Obnoxious Loud Guy. Today, I look at the worst fans, numbers 20 through 11. Full disclosure, I’ve probably morphed through being some of these guys in my 45 years watching puck all over North America. I’m on version 4.0 of myself. It’s a better place.

Now, on with the countdown…

Oh wait. Before I get to the worst 20, I’d be remiss not to cover the Honorable Mentions:

• The guy who gets his kid a souvenir stick before the game and lets them spend the entire game banging it against the back of your seat. (Bonus points when they whack you in the back of the head once or twice.)
• Foul-mouthed dude in the middle of a section filled with kids.
• Dude wearing a sweater with his own name on the back.
• Guy sitting in the first two rows who stands when there’s a fight so he can see better and instead blocks your view.
• Guy on the glass who bangs the glass during that same fight.
• Dude who challenges players in the penalty box.
• Without further ado, here’s the first installment of my worst fans in hockey countdown.

20. Restless Leg Couple

The couple ten seats into a row who leave and come back repeatedly, each period, every period, and then struggles with their footing as they inch by with drinks without lids.

19. Dude Who Sits in Your Seat / The Guy Who Is in the Right Seat and Row, But Wrong Section

You know the guy who sneaks down into your seat when he sees a patch of empties. He’s made himself comfortable — even brought his food with him and/or left his empty wrappers in your foot space. Arenas use assigned seating and have ushers for a reason. This guy should be ranked higher but the pain typically only lasts for a second.

18. Jealous Dude

This is the guy who thinks the entire stadium is looking at his girlfriend. Jealous Dude does not want you looking at her. And no matter what happens, even if you’re clearly not looking at her, he’s still glancing around with one of those Robert DeNiro Looks from Taxi Driver all over his face.

17. Back of Bench Dude

The guy sitting near the opposing team bench who yells insults, usually unfunny ones, at every player on the bench. This guy is polite in every aspect of his life but turns into a Vegas standup guy after knocking back a few. Unfortunately for all of us, he’s not remotely clever and stumbles out insults like, “Hey, Dumba, did you lose your magic feather?” He’s bombing out there and doesn’t care. Every time I sit near Back of Bench Dude, I’m always angry he didn’t bring his sitcom laugh track.

16. Phonetic Guy

This guy needs to pronounce every Russian or Slovak or Czech player’s name the way a native speaker would say it. You know, the know-it-all American who digs out his acting class Eastern European accent to pronounce “Artem Anisimov” or “Tomáš Plekanec” when shouting out the names of those respective players. Phonetic Guy is the same guy who turns around and corrects you when you unknowingly screw up a fact.

15. Big Shot in the Cheap Seats

We have a saying when we go to StubHub searching for the game: “Do you want good seats or in the building?” The wallet usually dictates “in the building.” I mean, just being there is a treat. Way in the upper upper 300s, there are some interesting characters. Like the fool sitting right in back of you telling his bros about the struggles of being in upper management but bragging about the “great seats that he got from work.” He’s in denial somewhere.

14. Big Hat Guy

Hey big hat guy! Give us a chance to see the game. Save the Babushka or your derby-shaped Kangol for your trip to the snow. Inside the arena, don’t act oblivious that you’re blocking my view. You definitely are and it isn’t the slightest bit cute. I hate that guy.

13. Guy with Glass Seats Who Brings His Young Kids and Doesn’t Take Away Their Electronics

I don’t know, it just bugs the living hell out of me. It’s worse on television when there’s a big play and the kid can barely lift their eyes up to see what just happened.

12. Bad Parents

Yeah, yeah, I know where you think I’m headed. Think again. Bad hockey parenting is where you’re a long-term Kings fan who let’s their kids make their favorite team choices. You’ve seen the beaten-down father wearing a Dustin Brown sweater while his kids sport their Ducks or Sharks sweaters. That’s bad parenting, plain and simple. As soon as they are born you have to drill the sports bias into them. You have to go all Manchurian Candidate Fan on them, brainwashing at will.

11. The Dude Who Wears a Sweater of Someone Who Isn’t on the Team

Okay, (most) retired players are exempt here. So are the warm-up jerseys you won in the Kings Care Foundation silent auction, or even a game-worn sweater.

This actually happened: Three weeks ago at Staples, I spotted someone wearing a purple Kings, number 28 Oleg Tverdovsky, sweater. I swear. Apparently his “other sweater” was in the wash.

Now, pay attention Kings fans, because Guy Number 11 will probably be pretty relevant come the 2019 trade deadline: Once a someone is traded away, don’t wear it to the stadium. Don’t burn it or throw it away either. Wear it at home when you are cleaning or watching a game on the NHL Network.

That’s it for this week … we’ll continue the countdown soon. What fans do you think will make the top 10?

This column is from my Perspectives From The Cheap Seats slot on Jewels From The Crown.

The post The Worst Fans in Hockey—20 through 11 appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

Note to reader: Due to unbridled anger scheduling conflicts, I was forced to write the inevitable “John Stevens has been fired!” column on October 20th. That was after the Kings were embarrassed by Buffalo and Stevens uttered the now famous, “I have to be honest. I don’t have an answer at this second.” Yes, actually I wrote this two weeks before they relieved him of his duties. Further, please excuse my insolence when reading. I know John Stevens is maybe the nicest guy in hockey and he had a quiet hand in the two Stanley Cups the Kings won, but for goodness sakes the wheels really fell off on his watch. I refused to be silent when it’s already been bad enough watching him botch my beloved team since the game against Dallas on the final day of the the 2017-18 season. Really, that was the beginning of his end. So Coach Stevens, I want to say that we wouldn’t have these two Stanley Cups without you. You were a great assistant coach. Truly, thank you! To all reading the column after the firing, I appreciate your understanding.

And now, without further ado, the future Elmer Ferguson Memorial Award winning column, “See Ya, JS…”

When we were leaving the Sabres game, a couple of Kings fans were walking ahead of us and humming the words “Lose for Hughes, Lose for Hughes, Lose for Hughes, Lose for Hughes,” almost as if they were chanting the words to a top 40 song.

So much for Champions of California Hockey.

Not only is the defense gone, not only do we only have one playoff win since Brownie raised the Cup the last time, but our fans are singing the names of potential lottery saviors eight games into the season. And if that’s not bad enough, my daughter (the girl who can see a rainbow and sunshine in almost any loss) wasn’t even remotely appalled.

”It’s like they were inside my mind,” my son said with resignation. “I say we trade everything not nailed down and keep Stevens for the whole season. Let’s go for Jack Hughes.” That’s when he sent me this video:

I found that comment mesmerizing: Not that my son wanted to trade everyone not named Drew, Quick, Dustin, or Anze, but his unbiased confidence that keeping John Stevens gave the Kings the best opportunity at finishing with a high lottery pick. Honestly, what more do you need to know? If we’re gunning for Hughes next spring, either we could be unashamed about this mission, fire John Stevens and hire Bob the Security Guard from Lot 1 … or we could keep Stevens and guarantee six more months of blowout losses, defensive breakdowns, motionless offense, clueless excuses and an NHL coach juggling lines every few shifts like he’s forgotten how to coach at all. Unfortunately for Hughes lovers, Rob Blake and the Kings owners imagine that their team still has a chance — and they might be right, given the lack of team success in the Pacific Division this season — so Bob the Security Guard from Lot 1 is out.

And so is JS.

JS must be breathing a sigh of relief. In private, at least.

He spent the playoffs against Vegas and this season coaching with the same look that I used have when I was working up the courage to ask the cute waitress out when I was in college. On opening night, his team looked disjointed and lost as they wandered to an overtime loss as his players seemed to refuse to shoot the puck all game. That was followed by a predictable nail biter win against Detroit (!), a miserable game against Winnipeg (16 shots on goal), a shutout against Montreal, wretched losses to Ottawa (!) and Toronto, then an ugly 7-2 loss to the New York Islanders (with the entire Kings team getting lustily booed at the end of the second period).

JS followed-up the Islander game by calling out the team for lack of effort and saying all the things that indicates the team had quit on him. Then tonight, he pulled out his “I don’t have any answers” line tonight after pulling his goaltender with almost five minutes left and down 4-1. Ugh, I’ve never been so upset at a Kings coach. For those of you unaware, the Kings have had 23 previous coaches, so there’s a lot to choose from.

[Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, the John Stevens era!]

Meanwhile, all of the Kings pundits and journalists I respect were doing their rationale trying to figure out “what’s wrong with the Kings?”, with tweets that easily could have been written about Sharks, Ducks or Capitals. You see, it’s not hard to tell when your coach stinks. You typically know when your players are constantly saying things like “We just need to sustain that intensity for three periods,” “We need to play the kind of defense we’re capable of playing,” “I think we’ve got some soul searching to do,” “We’ve got to figure some things out,” and my personal favorite, “We can’t seem to score first,” (which is a specialty of John Stevens’s coached games).

All of this athlete talk is a huge misdirect. Every word of it. Players from well-coached teams never say these things. If those quotes look familiar to you, or if those tweets look oddly familiar to others that have been written about your own team, then your coach is underperforming and needs to be shown the door.

So why did the Kings retain JS last summer, you ask? Maybe because there wasn’t an available coach out there who was noticeably better. Except the guy who just won the Stanley Cup and was a free agent (OMG, we could have had Barry Trotz). If you owned an NHL team, would you pay three people to perform the same job for you? Especially when the players and the media purportedly admire and respect your coaching? Of course not. It’s easier to cross your fingers and hope he improves, right? What followed that Vegas sweep in the playoffs was inevitable: JS spent the preseason tinkering with lineups until team chemistry was shot. If JS didn’t have a master plan last season, he certainly doesn’t have one this season and it’s only getting worse.

Look, it’s never fun to write that someone should lose his job. By all accounts, JS is a tremendous fellow — that’s the main reason both local columnist and the radio guys kept spinning his B.S. and enabled him to go this long without the criticism he’s earned. Even this week, after these Buffalo and Islander games, the writers who understand hockey and all its subtle nuances endorsed JS and collectively absolved him of all blame.

[Note #2 to the readers: This is the end of the pre-written column and fast forward to yesterday.]

Boy, that escalated quickly… I mean, that really got out of hand fast.

This was the talk at home on Sunday — a Ron Burgundy-type reflection on some swift action from GM Rob Blake. Many wanted John Stevens gone, but few thought they would do it 13 games in. My daughter wrapped it up nicely while she took a break from Dapper Days at Disneyland: “Everyone thought Rob wasn’t going to do anything, but he has great awareness of the issues on the team and a win wasn’t going to derail what he thought would ultimately make the team better.”

Note #3 to the reader: Now that JS has actually been fired relieved of his duties, I’ll say something nice about the interim coach and point out that his best quality is that he’s not John Stevens.

When Willie Desjardins steps behind the bench for his first game as Kings interim coach, it’s worth mentioning that he coached Team Canada to a bronze medal in the last Olympics with former King Ben Scrivens as one of his goaltenders. He’s well respected in coaching circles and anyone who can coach a team to a championship in Medicine Hat is legitimate in my book.

Welcome aboard Willie D., our 25th coach.

The king is dead, long live the king.

The post EMERGENCY HOCKEY COLUMN: See Ya, JS…Welcome Willie D. appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

I mean who would make such a video in this sexually harassment-fueled climate? All we read and hear about are inappropriate men doing rotten things to women around the context of work. Harvey Weinstein, Charlie Rose, Bill O’Reilly, Kevin Spacey, Al Franken, John Lasseter…this list is endless…

…and then there it was…the culprit was the Anaheim Ducks!

Full disclosure: As a life-long Los Angeles Kings supporter (44 years and counting), nothing pleases me more than Anaheim ducking is all up.

So there I am jaw dropped as I watch the news report of perhaps the worst example yet of tone deaf companies—and the individuals who work for them—perpetuating something that should never exist in the media in 2017…take a peek:

Okay, so where am I?

I’m waiting by the phone hoping Michael Schulman, the CEO of the Anaheim Ducks, dials my ten digits so we can discuss their brain burp. I mean, I feel for Schulman because how many people at the Ducks are going to get fired? I say this is because I can’t remember the last time a major sports team making this kind of advertising mistake. This should have been an easy empty net of a happy birthday message to their parent league (more on that later). But, no, they had to be clever.

As a reformed misogynist, every time I see something like this I say, “stop and take a look around at everything that’s happening in all of these industries in the world.” If you don’t think this is serious, look at the punishments people are receiving for their actions. Currently, the penalty is ejection from your workplace. They might not get everyone immediately, but, take someone like Louis C.K. and what they got him on. The people who make decisions on his projects are thinking out loud themselves…

“Uhm, Louis, this movie you were going to be in? Yeah, no, we aren’t worried about that making this real any longer.”

“Hey, you have some movies on Netflix? Not anymore!”

Kevin Spacey was supposed to star in J. Paul Getty, Part 2 and Sony said “nah, no need, Kev, we will just re-shoot every scene you were in and still get the movie out on time.” This is what ejection from the workplace looks like.

There’s a lot of dreadful advertising out there, especially for sports team, but most of it fades into the superficial tapestry of suburban life. You disregard it and move on with your day. But this is a downright affront to the intelligence of anyone with an operational brainstem.

Somebody somewhere had to sit in the Orange County office and say “How are we going to make a real statement for the National Hockey League?”

“I’ve got a great idea…”

And someone else had to say, “Wait a minute – what if we ignore all of the headlines out there and make a video skit that screams sexual harassment?”

And then the first someone probably built on this thought with something like, “How about we pick the guy on out known for pranking people so we will have an ‘out’ should some of the overly sensitive demographic object?”

At which point high fives were exchanged and comps were briefed into a designer with an online extension learning degree, access to an Better Call Saul-like video crew, and a deep appreciation of how women were treated at the office in the 1960s.”

But here’s the most distressing part. The Ducks brass had to buy into this. Someone in charge of an actual marketing department had to say to themselves “You know what? I think this is going to work. We slap this baby all over social media and everyone without access to basic news is going to be hunched over laughing and re-watching it until it goes viral. We’re going to turn our Internet feed into the embodiment of how Don Draper and Roger Sterling treated their staffs in Mad Men.”

So did Anaheim wind up calling? Nope, they decided to issued a non-apology and evil wins again:

Here’s how the smart NHL teams wished the NHL a happy birthday:

–>

The post ANAHEIM DUCKS: You Should Have Called The Media Guy! appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

First off, if you didn’t work with me in New York (yes, most of you are gone—yes, really gone), that headline will mean absolutely zippo to you. You’ll have to read the book that I hope to finish by 2018.

Okay, so for now there’s some grey area. Now onto the countdown, uh, story…

It is true…

…I once fired an official NHL hockey puck through a tempered glass window in a fit of work rage inspired by an editor of a trade magazine with bricks for brains. Those of you who do not appreciate the fine art displayed on ice nightly from October through May every year, might not comprehend that throwing a six-ounce vulcanized rubber disk, sized one-inch thick by three inches in diameter is no easy task. (Read about how hard it is from the nerds here.) I whipped it through the window hitting the smokers outside with shards of glass and a heavy dose of rage. I did it in one motion. This was one of those incidents you hear about where someone has a huge rush of adrenaline and lifts a Cadillac. This temporary strength came out of anger, and I’m usually not that angry a guy.

I am not naming the characters involved. My prerogative. Nor will I deny or confirm the many conjectures I know are coming. Sorry, but I’m taking the high road. In the book I’ll probably name names (and there are some decent names in this mix).

I was an up-and-coming Media Guy still doing public relations, dialing for product placements and column inches. I was a moderate-sized agency working a train wreck of an account and capitalizing on my newfound success getting magazine covers for a computer with a 25 megabyte hard drive. Yeah, I know you have a phone with 64 gigabytes — which is about 2600 times bigger than that dinosaur — but back in the late eighties that was big news. Yet I digress…

Sometimes pucks hit nothing. Photo by Darryl Dyck/The Canadian Press.

I was expecting a big product review to be dropping to further solidify my expected key to the executive washroom. (Yeah, back in the late eighties that was still a thing.) Imagine my surprise, when after holding for a full hour to verify facts, the writer of the big review decided that my client would not be in the review. You can also imagine the fever that built from there. Had this happened today I would have mentally blown an arctic breeze up my sphincter and cooled down. But I was younger and more inexperienced. (This is why you hire seasoned pros to run your advertising and marketing departments. Respond, don’t react.)

So I just seethed. This writer was know for taking gifts, cash, and girls for the right feature, but I was playing it straight. Taking my client out? Well, for me, that was the final straw. I slammed the phone down nearly breaking it. Not getting the reaction I desired from from mini-fit, I hurled the puck towards the window.

Seeing and hearing the glass shatter felt great, by the way. At the time I was doing it I had no idea this was a feat of Herculean strength. I might as well have been firing my Nerf basketball at the trashcan in the the corner of my office as I usually did. Even after I did it (and the faces of my colleagues revealed true horror) it didn’t seem like any big deal.

My department manager wisely decided that I should have the afternoon off. I was not clearly going to be of much help that day. He equipped my with a bottle of Jim Beam and sent me back to corporate housing for the night.

The next day I returned to the office, creeping around corners, hoping not to be noticed. Before I reached my boarded up office, the agency’s managing director called me in and the conversation when something like this:

MY BOSS’S BOSS [pouring himself a 9:05 A.M. cocktail]: I was looking for you yesterday because I heard what happened.

ME [gulping with obvious forehead perspiration]: It was unfortunate…

MY BOSS’S BOSS [interrupting]: …you know, I’ve been thinking…yesterday will be your last day in that department.

ME: [more sweating]

MY BOSS’S BOSS: We need passionate PR people like you here. Most of the staff on that floor would take the failure and move on with their day. Not you! You care! You cared enough to let the entire agency feel your rage. Your rage of failure. [hands me the 9:05 A.M. cocktail] I see big things for you. Cheers!

The culprit.

And with that cheers, I was promoted to Sr. Public Relations Manager above my old boss, reported to my new boss, i.e., my boss’s boss.

I should mention that a few weeks later I was out with my new boss on a daily basis at client luncheons drinking my liquid meals, three vodkas at a time in a ritual that demanded a strong liver and a gift of the gab. I had both. I lasted three years before going to Australia to work at the National Gallery…

More to come in the book.
Save up.
Buy it in 2018, or 2019, or 2020.

Final thought: Throwing that rubber disk is not something I’m particularly proud of (which is why I rarely bring it up). And even though it’s easy to get very emotionally attached to a project, issues should not be cause for losing your mind. It’s much easier to say now when I am pushing fifty. Back then, I had a mean slapshot.

And now for my next trick…

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The post The Infamous “Hockey Puck” Incident appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.