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.

Okay, so where am I?

Happy New Year from the desk of the Media Guy Struggles!

I’m currently on assignment in the former Communist Bloc countries covering the Kontinential Hockey League. It will be a fun series of articles once I am done. For now, I have been all around Russia and in subsequent days I’ll take some vacation (?) in Bulgaria and Romania.

I’m a little nervous about Romania, considering the last time I was there I was “asked” to leave the country by the local mafia I wound up working for at the time. In case you missed my article back in 2011 (and I know most of you did), here’s a tip of the hat to the first time I was tossed from the arms of Bucharest. Could be a good book in this column. (Hint hint, Penguin Books USA!)

Yet, I digress…

I was asked today, of course, what my New Year’s Resolutions will be.

I went with the usual: a) workout more, b) be more patient, and c) drink less coffee. I also went with the unusual: Get people to stop asking others, “So, How’s Life?”

Small talk ain’t easy. Making an attempt at it takes perseverance and some courage. I mean you have to work with people so small talk is critical to your success and it’s not easy.

“So, How’s Life?” is comparable to asking children how their day was. Common replies include “same-same,” “the usual,” and of course, a rushed pirouette out of the room.

It makes sense. The infinite possibilities are brain busters, and the dialogue concludes before it could begin.

Just because everyone does it, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a great idea. In fact, the contrary is probably true. If everyone does it, it probably stinks. As evidence, I present college loans, buying cars fresh off the assembly line, and cheating on your taxes.

Look, I fumbled the small talk routine all the time, too. It’s simple to autopilot this stuff. But if you give a little extra sweat equity, you’ll find that your relationships at work and at home will flourish.

THOUGHT-INDUCING QUESTIONS TO ASK NEXT TIME:

• What was the best part of your weekend?
• What was the worst part of your weekend?
• Would you rather have the ability to spot every lie, or never be lied to again?
• Brutal weather today, right?
• What movie should I watch next?
• Trump, huh?
• Why do you reheat fish in the microwave?
• How old were you when you lost your sense of smell?
• What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?
• Do you even understand what I’m capable of?

Give it a whirl and let me know how it goes.

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There’s no truth that I am in Romania looking at the Bran Castle looking at a way to make Dracula’s home a summer retreat if I am ever allowed back into the former Communist state. In 1897, Bram Stoker’s described a dream vacation house—a historic castle that offers 360-degree views as it “sits on the very edge of a terrific precipice.” This nature lover’s paradise offers plenty of privacy because “as far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops,” and “here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.” them famous to accompany their riches and somehow wipe away a few of their abuses aimed as journalists and (gulp) media people. However you slice it, it will cost you in the neighborhood of $60 million Euro.

And, I may or may not be in San Francisco waving goodbye to the sport’s most beloved voice. Yes, the poetic golden voice of Vin Scully is officially retired from baseball (see his tour de force in the 1988 World Series below.).

One of my biggest thrills in the photography world was the ceremony renaming Stadium Way to Vin Scully Avenue, on the official address where where Dodger Stadium sits overlooking Los Angeles. Now, after 67 years poetically reporting baseball games, he turned his microphone off. He will be missed. I could try to sum up his career, but the New York Times, sums it up the best…

“Vin Scully’s final game on Sunday was something close to a miracle in sportscasting — an 88-year-old man performing a solo act, conversing with us for more than three hours, keeping track of the game while telling stories, invoking memories and reminding us that he did this single job for 67 consecutive seasons. 

“How many men or women his age have ever performed so ably, so publicly, with no safety net? Think of two announcers often thought of as baseball’s greatest before Vincent Edward Scully succeeded them. 

“Red Barber, Scully’s mentor, was 58 when he was fired by the Yankees. Mel Allen was 51 when the Yankees broke his heart by dismissing him. Imagine if they had worked for 30 more years — would they have maintained their abilities as Scully has? Would they have been as fortunate as Ernie Harwell, who retired at 84 but would have been able to work as long as Scully has? 

“Scully’s working alone was a gift to all of us. He could carry games by himself, as he proved every day. 

“And oh, that voice, so melodic and with a pace ideally suited for baseball.”

Okay, so where am I?, you ask again…what I can tell you is that the flight attendants on Air Berlin are delightful…especially in business class and they make a mean vodka tonic. My non-stop flight from LAX to Düsseldorf literally flew by and my private pod give me a nice rest after only sleeping one hour the night before I flew to Germany and prior to waking 30,000 steps a day inside the history-laden country. (More on Air Berlin and Germany itself later this month…)

When I was wine tasting in the Rheingau, it occurred to me that it’s been over a year since we caught up with Daniela, our favorite flight girl (again that’s want she likes to be called – don’t shoot the messenger fellow Fempire builders), with an update on the latest in air travel…

Daniela says kisses from the cockpit.

FLIGHT GIRL DANIELA: I know you are all exciting about the business class seat on your Air Berlin flight. But what you probably didn’t know was that airplane seat have come a long way. The early ones were made of wicker and yet people forget and complain constantly about their seat. Sheesh, they should be sitting on straight wicker — spoiled brats!

MEDIA GUY: Are there better seats than others? How can non-Media Guy nab those spots for themselves?

FGD: I get bribed on nearly every flight with chocolates or homemade baked goods: “I’d love it if you could find me a better seat,” they say with a wink-wink. So where are the best seats? If you’re lucky, you may get an economy seat that allows for a slight recline feature of a few inches or legroom in bulkhead seat or emergency exit row. Yes, we can upgrade you to business class or first class after the airplane’s doors close. No, we don’t do it very often, partly because on some airlines we have to file a report explaining why we did it, partly because there has to be a meal for you, and partly because the forward cabins are often full. Who do we upgrade? Not the slob who’s dressed in a dirty tank top. It helps if you’re extremely nice, well dressed, pregnant, very tall, good looking, one of our friends, or all of the above.

MG: Doesn’t the blue and glue-green tones of the plan interiors soothe the savage airline traveller?

FGD: Every detail in a commercial aircraft cabin is intentional. The typical hues you speak of are chosen with color psychology in mind as these tones are universally reputed for being universally liked and calming. It doesn’t always work on cranky passengers, though.

MG: If I’m stuck in economy, how can I get served sooner?

Don’t act like you’ve never seen a therapy turkey going through airport security.

FGD: Jiggling you’re your glass of ice at me won’t make me dash to the galley for a refill. In fact, it makes me want to scream. Service usually starts at the front of the cabin,. Some airlines vary the service depending on whether the flight is flying east versus west or north versus south. For premium cabins, some airlines actually let you pre-order meals on their website. The front-to-back service can add to the disadvantage of sitting in the rear. When I ask you what you’d like to drink and you ask me “Well, what do you have?” I want to answer “Not a lot of time.” But you wouldn’t like that.

MG: I’ve been hearing a lot lately about what not to wear on a plane. What’s your thought?

FGD: I realize some of you have been in Europe for two weeks, you’ve only packed so much, and you’ve run out of clean pants and shirts. It may be tempting to throw on something that more or less passes the sniff test and head off to the airport. But remember: Odors are intensified on a plane, where passengers are cramped in close quarters and stale air is recycled throughout the cabin. The perfect seatmate is one who doesn’t smell like anything. To

Have a single drink and keep those shoes on!

achieve a zen-like lack of scent, be sure to reserve a clean outfit for the plane ride home. And go easy on the cologne. Better yet, don’t wear any. Scent is subjective. You may adore the delicate bouquet of Armani, but your seatmate could find its aroma noxious. Me too!

Speaking odors, your feet should be as unobtrusive as possible to everyone else (so don’t prop them on top of a seatback, or wriggle them into the gap between the wall of the plane and the poor person in the seat in front of you who just wants to lean against the window without getting a faceful of your bare toes). Put your shoes back on before you go to the lavatory (because ew). And finally, if you know you’re prone to smelly feet, be considerate and leave your shoes on.

More from the Media Guy and Flight Girl Daniela:
Nicki Minaj took my seat in business class, plus a visit with Flight Girl Daniela!
Daniela:::Deux
Flying the Friendly Skies

Vin Scully’s call of Kirk Gibson’s 1988 World Series historic home run:

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The allure of Europe for media and marketing certainly makes sense; there are so many markets looking for smooth ideas and polished programs. Unfortunately, sometimes taking your talents to the land of the Euro isn’t as cushy as it sounds.

Romania’s Arcul de Triumf, a replication of Paris’ Arc de Triomphe.

It seems that only a crazy person would pass up being paid to work in a profession you love while traveling around another country, the entire time being treated like a king as the local companies treats their new marketer with love.

Unfortunately, sometimes Europe it isn’t always as cushy as it sounds. The high-profile big wigs that have shows on Bravo, MSNBC and the like will undoubtedly be fine, of course, but the regular Joes and Media Guys of the world — marketing pros who aren’t sharks despite being able to put ‘grizzled vet’ and ‘award winner’ on their resume — could be in for a rude awakening when they reach their European destinations.

This isn’t groundbreaking news, obviously, but it’s difficult for the average Media Joe (in this instance, yours truly) to imagine a U.S. ad man not being treated like royalty across the ocean blue. For those of us, I’m here in the nick of time to catch everyone up on the possible perils of pond crossing. Let’s hop into the time machine shall we?

It was just a few years back. I was lithe and young, at least in mind and soul. 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. When the AirFrance business class ticket arrived, little did I realize that caviar and filet mignon was the last luxury I would experience in my Chevy Chase-like European Vacation.

I arrived to what I thought was a nice location in the Bucharest City Centre at Heliade Intre VII and Doamna Ghica. Elevators broken, I dragged my bag up to my apartment. The $4,000 door gave way to a glorified utility closet, no more that 14×14 square feet with a Murphy bed and the shared bathroom down the hall. The busted television meant that the poster of Nicolae Ceauşescu and the “Guide to Transylvania” were my sole source of in-room entertainment. For this I left the bright lights of Hollywood and Los Angeles?

Part genius and part formula, I crafted a marketing plan in record time and received instant approval. The first two games drew incredible crowds and per cap spending for the patrons skyrocketed. That bonus clause in my contract was sure to kick in.

Here’s the rub though. I was never paid anything close to my contract signing and after weeks of complaining and threats of going home early with my Air France tickets, I did get a note — famously scribbled and tacked to my apartment door — saying that my first and only paycheck would be given to me at Herastrau Park at sundown. Although it had Lindbergh Kidnapping written all over it, I accepted the meeting, strictly following the directions and leaving my copy of Agentia de Investigatii Media on the stoop turned to page seven.

Despite Herastrau Park (aka Parcul Herastrau) being walking distance from my apartment, I opted on the cab ride with the large “wait-for-me-tip” to the driver who returned the favor by reminding me that “the park isn’t as friendly as you might think.”

My meeting spot was scheduled under the Arcul de Triumf which is a replication of Paris’ Arc de Triomphe [note to self — figure out why Romania needs a replica of the Arc de Triomphe and why the United States needed a replica of the Statue of Liberty]. I walked to the Arc down a long tree-lined driveway I couldn’t help but get a chill as I viewed the grassy knoll. All I was missing was a book depository and a wife with a hat.

Yet I digress. This was my first clandestine meeting where I may or may not get paid, instead possibly winding up as dinner for the park fish. I waited an eternity in the 22 minutes it took to be greeted by Anders Prigoana. During our short time together I would learn he was the infamous go-between that delivered payments to contractors of the futbol team and the money people who hired “talent” at their whim.

Anders was a gracious bully and the absence of color in his wardrobe was the traditional attire for a meeting of this sort. Armed with cigars and stories, he informed me that the two-inch thick manila envelope he waved continually would be all they could afford to pay me. Quite frankly, he confided, the money train had dried up for his bosses. He also shared a story of my predecessor (just in case I wanted to escalate my desire to collect more of my worthless contract).

Herastrau Park in the 1990s.

His told me they found him in his trunk…five bullets in his head. The cool October air had kept his body from rotting. He knew he wouldn’t have lasted long because he just couldn’t keep his mouth closed; a little too hotheaded for his own good. All the while his bodyguards followed, making a solid wall of human flesh and muscle behind him.

He finally handed me the envelope and the now-paranoid Media Guy felt like all eyes were on him and knew that there was $7,000 in British pounds there. That was a big sum of money over there and Anders was clever when we told me that just about anyone would turn in their brother for only $500 pounds. When he turned to leave, I thought I’d caught a hint of a smile on his lips.

Time to bolt. I took off right back to the cab and straight to the hotel where I pushed the bureau so the door couldn’t fly open. That was a long night in my Murphy bed room wondering who might be looking to snatch my cash. As soon as morning hit, I zipped to the bank and wired the money home. The next day I was tucked safely in my business class seat sipping on a vintage French wine paired with caviar and toast points.

My parting relief was the local newspaper headline, “Despite Record Crowds, CSP UM Timişoara Declares Bankruptcy”.

A trip of a lifetime – albeit a little lighter than I expected in my wallet – ended with a job well done.

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