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.

My Los Angeles Kings* flamed out on their way to the Stanley Cup. Shoot, they didn’t even make the playoff this year. Nothing left to cheer for in the 2017 playoffs except every team playing the loathsome Anaheim Ducks. Attention NHL: let’s get this done ASAP.

Needless to say I’m a little depressed after watching this season. So many reasons including the Bob Miller, the vaunted voice of the Kings is retiring after 44 years and then the team’s decision to fire the coach and the general manager right after the season ended.

To say I need a stiff beverage is definitely an understatement.

For once, I have to tell you that this column is written for more for me than for you. And so, if you don’t want to read my catharsis about a sports announcer, I forgive you. Come back later for a new column or re-read an old Oscars column. Today, it’s about a beloved voice that impacted me in ways too profound to truly describe…

Bob Miller is special for many reasons. None of which most would ever understand. In my sports universe, Bob was there for almost every high and every low. Bob Miller announced 3,353 Kings games, closing with this unscripted speech:

For those 44 years and nearly 4,400 games, Angelenos have been hearing those passionate words come floating out of that voice: the most passionate, most welcoming, most knowledgable voice in the sports universe. And if it feels as if this voice has been a part of your life forever, well, it probably has.

He has been as much a presence over these last 44 years as the cool ice mist and the sparkling spotlights that hover above the broadcast booths where he has spun his magical web of hockey tales. So how am I supposed to comprehend life after Bob, life after hockey’s most iconic voice exited the booth for the last time?

When Bob first walked into the Kings broadcast booth, I was just a kid who was allowed in Jack Kent Cooke’s office stuffing season tickets into envelopes. I went to so many games in the early years, that I only heard his voice on away games and home games that were sold out (those were the games I couldn’t go to for free). In a game that featured non-stop motion and a rubber disk you could never see on a 1970’s TV he drew a verbal picture that guided my hockey senses for nearly four decades now. It was one particular instance that forever engrained him into my life.

It was April 22, 1976. My Kings were overmatched against the Big, Bad Boston Bruins (yeah I hate alliteration too) playing game six at home trying desperately to force a deciding game seven. Try as we might, there was no ticket to be had for me. Staying at home wasn’t something I was used to doing when the Kings played. After all I had been to about 100 games in three seasons. With the game NOT on television (imagine this today), I sat cross-legged in my dad’s Inglewood apartment as I listened on my Toot-A-Loop radio, staring intently as if I was willing Bob’s voice from the device. The game ventured into overtime and the playoff torture was on. Each shot resulted in a heart attack for this eight-year-old. Late into the fourth period of the game, the magic happened and I can still hear the words exploding from the AM dial:

So how do I capture the magnitude of Bob Miller, the meaning of Bob Miller, the majesty of Bob Miller? I guess it is not with my words, but with the words of the people who have known him best and whose company he has shared:

To some of you reading this, you’ll say, “it only sports.”

To me…to many…Bob Miller was the steady voice showing us the way. First, through decades of failure. Then through a pinnacle of success. He was the cadence of my life. The one steady force I could count on to get lost with after a bad day or celebrate on a good day. Surely, there will be someone decent, maybe good, maybe great, to replace him over the airwaves. But that all rings hollow right now.

I’ll miss you Bob.

Hockey will never be the same.

#ThankYouBob

AD OF THE WEEK/MONTH/WHATEVER


Panasonic was the trail blazer of the gadget mobility path. Making electronics smaller and smaller was a big part of the second-half of the twentieth century. The the Toot-A-Loop could transform from a loop that (kind of) fit around your one’s wrist into a shofar-like horn contraption, and yes, it was also a radio.

The Cooper Hewitt Museum explains “Simply by twisting the swivel joint at its thinnest point, the radio opens out into a snake-like ‘S’ shape with a bold, circular station selection dial at the top and the speaker grill at the bottom.”

In print ads, Panasonic emphasized how crazy such a radio was. It was no gray box. No, it was “as much fun to look at as listen to.” While I opted out of the color model — I went white — the device that predominantly delivered Bob Miller voice during hockey games was beautiful with smooth, interesting curves. Good times…!

Toot-a-Loop Radios – great ads. Great sound. Better with Bob Miller.

The post #ThankYouBob appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

I’m at the beautiful Beverly Hilton standing on line to pickup my credentials for the Golden Globes on Sunday. Geez, there are a lot of people here. Are they giving credentials to every Mom Blogger on the planet? Wait, they are giving a credential to me so I should just shush.

So, as the line winded near the beautiful valet rotunda in Beverly Hills like some kind of surreal Dr. Seuss a was left with the rare treat of waiting and wondering.

What ever happened to those extinct delights of everyday life?

One might call them the disappearing Ws. Before the technological age that is now omnipresent and so integral of our lives (and has become our lives ) we waited. And the wondered. You waited in line…at the bank…the DMV…the checkout counter at Macy’s. We were ultimately lost in our own thoughts. There were no iPhones or smartphones or LED news crawls to mindlessly occupy us like we were toddlers searching for a pacifier or a six year-old needing the distraction of something shiny.

Nobody just stands and waits anymore.

Back then you might just might idle conversation with your linemates while waiting. People used to ask, “Excuse me do you have the time?” Now everyone has the time, all of the time!  People would say, “It sure looks like rain, eh?” Now

we’re two clicks from a detailed seven-day forecast on the Weather Channel app that comes standard on every Apple mobile device. Challenge someone to wait three minutes in line without touching their iPhone. Ninety seconds in, they’ll start fidgeting like some sort of heroin addict. Shame.

It is because of the smartphone and the Internet and its instant access to all that we have also forgotten the wonder of wondering. The phrase “bar room conservation” harks to a time where friendly debate took place because some questions were not instantly knowable:

“I wonder who sculpted Mount Rushmore?” and how long that took for someone to divine an answer.

“I wonder who won the Stanley Cup in 1942?”

“I wonder who was behind all those groundbreaking Esquire covers of the sixties and seventies?”

Now there are undoubtedly readers that already click clicked and accessed that info in seconds. Is that really fun? You can’t even make a decent bet anymore. Everybody can know everything instantly. How boring is that?

Who’s doing that crossword puzzle? You or Siri?

Actually intelligence is crashing through the floor because everyone has artificial intelligence. Pre-Internet you would have set the room abuzz if you were the one person who knew Mount Rushmore was sculpted by father and son Gutzon and Lincoln Borglum. The entire international education community system will gradually disintegrate as it dawns on people the magic wand is right in the palm of their hand.

I had a colonoscopy the other day. It was performed by a nine year-old with a do-it-yourself surgery app. (Well, not really, but it sure seems like it’s coming. Yet I digress…)

Any idiot can know everything now. The only thing that can’t be Googled is how to regale in the fine art of small talk while you wait, and wonder.

And with that little rant, I’m next; time to pick up my credentials.

Well worth the wait.

See you on the red carpet this Sunday.

The post Standing in Line: The 2016 Golden Globes appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

Starting in 1973, I was sucked into the thrill of hockey and the not-so-great Los Angeles Kings. Dad’s second wife worked in the ticket office at the Fabulous Forum in Inglewood. That meant that any non-sellout game was available to attend. And why wouldn’t I? Hockey moved at a different pace than any other live sport. It was frenetic and filled with a strange combination of athletic skill and fighting.

Dustin Brown, the only Kings captain to hoist the Stanley Cup.

The players could hear you scream and the you would yell at the referees with two-part chants. One section yells, “HEY REF…” and the other section finishes with, “YOU SUCK!” Yeah real high brow. But even in the seventies, we kept it classy, only sarcastically singing a goalie’s last name when we were ahead. The small crowds–8,000 to 12,000 a night–were personable, nice, knowledgable. Most were transplants from one of hockey’s Original Six cities and were helpful to a five-year-old.

In the 39 years leading up to the start of these playoffs, I can easily say that the Hockey Gods were not kind to the Kings for reasons too lengthy to list here. Even the dreaded Anaheim Ducks won a Stanley Cup before my team. This 2007 Ducks victory forced me to self-impose my lifetime ban on hockey should the Ducks ever win before the Kings. My lifetime ban wound up being three full years until the 2010 playoff sucked me in while serving as a groomsman in Ottawa. Four tough losses later and I was hooked again.

But then this team sneaks into the playoffs as the last possible team and then eviscerates everyone in a sure deal with the Hockey Gods.

With the exception of that Marty McSorley illegal stick game, this erases all of the pain. Those outside the Kings family made up fake curses, we were called losers, mocked our legacy of failure, and even questioned our sanity levels. There was always hope. We always believed Despite my lifetime faith, I kept the faith; we kept the faith. We kept passed this this team down to the next generation, hoping it would be worth it.

And today it was.

The last two months (to the day) were the most fantastic ride of our sports lives: Twenty games, sixteen wins, one championship, a Zamboni full of memories. Like our friend Andy Dufresne, we crawled through 500 yards of sh*t-smelling foulness and came out smelling like roses on the other side.

Tonight’s champagne, which has literally been on ice since 1993 never tasted so good.

Here’s a little something I wrote for the NHL:

The Los Angeles Kings, competing in their 44th NHL season, captured their first Stanley Cup. The Kings joined the Anaheim Ducks (2007) as the only California-based champions and West Coast winners since NHL clubs exclusively began competing for the Stanley Cup in 1927. The Kings finished the 2012 Stanley Cup Playoffs at 16-4 (.800), tied for the second-best championship run since all rounds became best-of-seven in 1987. The Kings were the first NHL club to take a 3-0 lead in games in all four series, went 4-0 in overtime and went 10-1 on the road, setting an NHL playoff record for the longest road winning streak in one postseason (10 games). The Kings become the first #8 seed since the conference-based playoff format was introduced in 1993-94 to capture the Stanley Cup. Conn Smythe Trophy winner Jonathan Quick went 16-4 with a 1.41 goals-against average, .946 save percentage and three shutouts.

This just about sums it as up…here’s looking at you, kid:

The post A Gift from the Hockey Gods appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.

The rest was history with the Canadiens winning the next three
games and winning their bajillionth Stanley Cup. I swear the maintenance crew
at the Forum spent years scraping off the bits of my skull and grey matter
glued to ceiling of those hallowed hockey halls. 

“Hey Wayne? Why don’t you have more Cups?” “Uh, because of Marty…”

Why? 


Because my brain exploded
as I screamed “NO” spelled with 7,000 O’s. When Marty was out-thought
(not a hard thing to do with McSorley) by the brain trust of the Bleu Blanc
Rouge (that’s Blue, White and Red in English). It was then that every Habs fan in section 116 gloated knowing that the Kings would be losing that game.

Yeah, I was there…

“Geez, there’s been a whole lot of sensationalism, actually
a huge degree of sensationalism, and I know there hasn’t been a whole lot of
honesty. ‘Did I have an illegal stick? Yes! Did I stand up after and say,
‘Listen everyone, I had an illegal stick?’ Yes! The things that have transpired
since then, I don’t think there has been a lot of honesty.”

The post The Ghost of Marty McSorley’s Stick appeared first on Media Guy Struggles.