BACK IN THE BOOTH

Never has talking about and describing a hockey game felt so awkward.

Last night's 6-4 victory (with a 2-0 shootout loss) ...?... was the first opportunity for the broadcast team to cover this New NHL and it felt about as comfortable as sandpaper gonch.

Of course I'm speaking purely for myself. Ralph and the production truck may have a completely different take.

To me, with all the penalties, a different style, a lot of mystery prospects in uniform, and enough rust on my delivery to cover a tin barn, I felt it came across rather unvarnished, even for a preseason game.

The penalties were expected, but my god!

The style of play when the teams were at full strength resembled non-contact shinny.

The Oiler roster was littered with too many Marc-Antoine Pouliots, Marc-Andre Bergerons, and various other three name French Canadian prospects.

And my insight probably fell somewhere between elementary obvious, and hurried nothingness.

When I arrived home my wife asked me how it went. I struggled a little to find the word or words to explain (why would home be any different than the broadcast) and then it hit me. There was no plot.

Usually a hockey game has a plot.

And the broadcast follows that plot as it unfolds.

This one had the plot of a 60s stag film.

But hey, the Stars won, people seemed to have fun, and the powerplay acted like an elephant gun. (Where was that platinum-lipped poetry last night?)

So like a brown bear emerging from hibernation I'll shake off the fuzzies, work on getting my motor skills back up to speed, take stock of my surroundings, and perhaps kill someone and eat them.

That should give me plenty to talk about Friday night when the Red Wings come to town.