Funny story

So, the big "secret" of the Hockey Bay hounding community Monday was where the New Jersey Devils were staying. They didn't stay at any of the four hotels commonly frequented by NHL teams. Instead, the Devils stayed at the Le Meridien hotel.

Apparently, this information was as guarded as Fort Knox, with looks of surprise (myself included) when a handful of us met near the corner of Florida and Zack in downtown Tampa. Still, though, that isn't the story.

No, I have New Jersey's ageless wonder, Jaromir Jagr, to thank for that.

We saw him leave the hotel, headed out for a walk before the team paraded onto the bus for a practice at the Amalie Arena. Rather than let the opportunity to snag a future Hall of Famer, I gave chase and started jogging down the street parallel to Jagr. That alone, I imagine, was probably pretty humorous.

As I pulled even and prepared to cross the street, I looked up. Here was Jagr headed my way. I was thinking "Hey, that's pretty nice. He's coming over to sign." Must have felt sorry for me, I thought. You know, one old man to another old man.

Guess what? I couldn't have been more wrong.

When I asked if he had time to sign a few cards (shown above), he declined, telling me he would sign only before Tuesday's game. Seeing that I would be at work at that time, it was a big swing and a whiff.

The only thing I got was this story.

The Hockey Life: Tournament souvenir

Coming down with a cold at least once during a youth hockey season is a given, much like weak rink coffee and that one old referee with a personal agenda. Why? Let me tell you. Any time you bring together a bunch of children, especially those who play hockey, as well as their parents and siblings, millions, if not billions, of nasty cold-causing germs are soon lurking about.

So, as we made our way north about 10 days ago, taking three days to reach the Charlotte, N.C., area, I could feel my first cold of the season coming on. A slight cough. Scratchy throat. Increasing thirst. The tell-tale drip of a runny nose. Singularly, no cause for concern. Combined, though? Houston, we have a problem.

The big difference this time, however, was that I'd go into the tournament with a cold, rather than taking one home as a souvenir. You know what? I didn't feel the least bit guilty, too.

Far too many times, especially when Colin first started playing organized hockey, I'd pick up the sniffles at some rink. Over time, I learned to avoid touching door handles, snack bar counters and pretty much any surface below my shoulders. If this tournament meant, even despite my best efforts to stem the passing of my germs, that someone else caught a cold, so be it.

Trust me, there was far more serious nonsense that went on in Charlotte than the potential for a random passing of a head cold, but you'll have to wait for the book -- a humorous fictional account that may (or may not) draw from facts -- that's kicking around in my mind.

Either way, I digress. This is about a cold, my cold to be exact, and the ability to survive the weekend and nearly 1,500 miles of driving. Please know, though, you don't have to feel sorry. In a way, save for one unforgettable 12-hour period, the weekend wasn't as bad as it could have been.

Of course, cold medicine was a constant companion. Pills filled with an orange-colored liquid for the day, and ones filled with a green-colored liquid at night. So were numerous glasses of orange juice, consumed during breakfast hours at the hotel. If memory serves, I even took an afternoon nap. The biggest help, though, was working the team's penalty box through the four games. If I ever had a fever, I certainly didn't feel it, much like some toes and fingers.

As the tournament wore on (let's just say the highlights weren't plentiful, though Colin did put together a three-game point streak, including a nice breakaway wrister from 20 feet out that beat the goalie on the low blocker side), I felt better, even to the point of enjoying our side trip into downtown Charlotte to watch an American Hockey League game.

As always, there's more to a tournament than your team's games.

By the road home, which touched four states in less than nine hours, the cold was becoming, or so I thought, an afterthought. I wasn't taking nearly as much cold medicine. Tall cups of steaming-hot McDonald's coffee replaced the orange juice. Sneezes, thankfully, were minimal.

Since then, however, the cold has lingered. Can't say that it got any worse, but still. Cold medicine, orange juice and chicken soup are, once again, near-constant companions. I've even taken some daytime naps.

Gee, maybe I did bring home a souvenir cold after all.

The Hockey Life: Short shifts

Call me a hockey purist or a grumpy old man, but I have some issues with the "fans" who call Section 307 of the Tampa Bay Times Forum their home during Lightning games. They're loud. They're raucous. They're spirited. And, really, that's good to see.

But that's not the problem.

After sitting in that section last Thursday, in the Lightning's 4-3 loss to the Washington Capitals, it'll be a long, long time before we buy tickets in that section for one simple reason: their emphasis, to me at least, is on turning the hockey game into a soccer match rather than celebrating the beauty of the game.

Most of the chants and antics (wearing bandannas over their faces) are borrowed heavily from soccer fans, especially ones we've heard on more than one occasion, (minus the f-bombs, thankfully) from the overzealous Ralph's Mob group at Tampa Bay Rowdies games.

Sorry, folks, but if I wanted to listen to that (and I don't), I'd go to Al Lang Stadium in downtown St. Petersburg. No, when I go to a Lightning game, I'm there to watch the game, share lessons with Colin and enjoy myself. I don't want to listen to sophomoric sayings from people who couldn't tell the difference between icing and offsides.

To their credit, they would engage in traditional "Let's go Lightning!" chant as well as the "Tampa!" and "Bay!" cheers at proper times, but most of their other noise, and that's all it was, came at inopportune moments.

To me, being a hockey fan is more than making lots of noise. Cheering has to fit the game, make perfect sense and, honestly, be funny, pointed and, more importantly, original. In time, I'm sure this group will get that. Until then, though, bring some earplugs because all you'll hear is noise.

A far better example, if you will ...

During Thursday's Capitals-Lightning game, Washington's Alex Ovechkin started complaining to one of the referees about a non-call. Of course, the knowledgeable segment of the pro-Lightning crowd, as if almost on cue, cascaded a chorus of boos upon him.

Once the roar subsided, and well out of his earshot up in Section 307, I shouted this condolence: "Sorry, Ovi, but your last name isn't Crosby!"

Thankfully, it drew more than a few laughs.

An update

It's not that my plans to bring an international youth hockey tournament to the Tampa Bay area have fizzled, it's just that I haven't had much news to share. Over the holidays and between major hockey announcements, I maintained my effort. Late last week, it may have been rewarded.

Though short of getting a green light and confirmation of some much-needed assistance, I heard from the Event Development Institute, an extension of the Tampa Bay Sports Commission, that the group would like to continue our conversation of making this dream become a reality.

In the days ahead, I'll be reaching out to an organization that appears to be the final piece of the puzzle.

Given the news that Hockey Bay will host the 2016 Frozen Four and the Tampa Bay Sports Commission is considering a bid to bring the IIHF World Juniors Hockey Championship to the region, it's easy to see this youth hockey tournament serving as a complementary event.

As always, stay tuned.

Here we go ... again

If doesn't seem all that long ago, but it has been about five years, when Colin first suited up, as a 7 year old, with the Pinellas P.A.L. Stars Squirts/Pee Wee squad. Now, more than 100 games later, he's the squad's captain and finds himself, based only on his age, nearing the end of this run.

This morning, he'll take part, as a 12 year old, in his first Bantam-Midget game for the Stars, playing against kids as old as 16. It's a step up, definitely, but one he has to take as he'll make the move, should he make a travel-team roster, later this fall.

Just like his first-ever games, when his jersey fell below his knees, he'll have plenty to learn. Hopefully, his game and confidence will grow each time he steps on the ice.

On a personal note

Between a visit last week from one of my favorite journalist friends, which included taking in a Tampa Bay Lightning game, to this week's road-trip tournament, when we'll see some relatives, it's very satisfying that we get to share our hockey journey with others.

The Hockey Life: It's 'freezing' down here

Growing up in Machias, N.Y., especially during the winter, I lived for snow days during the school year. It wasn't so much about getting away from school, as we'd always have to make up those days over spring break or, later, in June. No, to me, snow days meant an opportunity to hit the ice.

Growing up in the sticks, like we did, hitting the ice didn't mean going to a rink. It meant going to a pond, lake or, in most cases, the Cemetery Swamp. The ice was seldom perfect, riddled with ridges and other imperfections, but we hardly complained. Ice was ice, and ice meant hockey.

Though those days have long since passed (we're talking the mid to late 1970s, mind you), I can't remember every really complaining too much about the cold. Sure, toes would get cold, as would fingers and noses. But it never seemed cold enough to complain or, even worse, call it quits.

Once we finished clearing the ice, using shovels or our homemade "Zamboni," a piece of plywood with a pair of 2-by-4s as poles, and started playing, we'd warm up rather quickly. Yes, I imagine it was cold, but we seldom, of ever, really felt it.

Fast forward, if you would, to the winter of 2005. We were living along the New Hampshire-Maine border, in a house on (of all ironies) Summer Street. Like most northern locales, we weren't immune from snowstorms and the occasional blizzard. My experience in growing up in the snow belt of western New York would serve me well.

There was one storm, and my memory is much more clear on this, where a foot of snow was accompanied by lower temperatures than normal. Bitter cold? Not really. Cold enough, though, to remember.

As the snow fell, I adopted the habit of shoveling the driveway about every two to three hours, letting the snow get no more than 2 to 3 inches deep. To me, it made sense to do it that way, rather than deal with the mass of snow once the storm ended. Besides, it was good exercise and, after 20 minutes or so, I'd warm right up.

By the third such shoveling excursion, I'd realized that multiple layers of clothing, even in the sub-freezing temperatures, weren't necessary. All I really needed were boots, a winter coat, mittens, hat and, get this, a long-sleeve T-shirt and shorts. Yes, shorts.I imagine the neighbors got a chuckle out of my wardrobe.

Just a few days ago, down here in Hockey Bay, St. Petersburg felt the need to cancel its First Friday event, a downtown street party held monthly, because of "cold weather." The temperature? Between 40 and 45 degrees?  I went for a walk that night. It was brisk, mind you, but nothing that long pants and a jacket couldn't handle.

Elsewhere that day? How about 9 degrees for a high in Buffalo? To the east, it was a downright balmy 12 degrees in Rochester, N.H. I won't even mention any wind-chill temperatures. Throughout the nation, as well as Canada, I'm sure the good people of St. Petersburg were viewed as winter wimps.

And, now, we're hearing a "polar vortex," whatever the heck that is, will even reach Florida on Monday, sending temperatures around Hockey Bay plummeting into record-low territory. I can only imagine what events will be closed now.

The Hockey Life: Arts and crafts

Earlier this year, about the time the grass in the front yard needed mowing, I went out and bought a lawn mower. The one we'd brought down from New Hampshire seven years ago had conked out. This purchase of necessity, though, came with an added benefit -- a big cardboard box.

After assembling the lawn mower, my attention turned to the box. I didn't want to throw it away. It didn't take long, thankfully, for a fitting use to dawn on me. Why not, I reasoned, use it as an obstacle in front of the regulation-size net out back in our Hockey Laboratory of Hockey Bay.

For a couple of months, the box, its front covered in cheap duct tape as a form of protection against pucks and the elements, worked just fine. Goalie Box, as we called it, taught Colin, to some extent, to shoot around, rather than hit, an obstacle. Learning to pick corners, like all good scorers can do, was the primary purpose. And, to some degree, it fulfilled that obligation.

Anyone who lives in Florida, or has visited during the Sunshine State's brutally hot and wickedly humid summers, is familiar with the afternoon ritual of watching towering clouds blossom into full-blown thunderstorms and then release their fury with buckets and buckets of rain. Honestly, it's how we pass time down here in Hockey Bay. If we hear thunder, see lightning and reach for an umbrella, it's usually between 4 and 5 p.m.

Unfortunately, Goalie Box got caught in one too many storms. Its top and sides sagged. That cheap duct tape, living up to its reputation, bubbled and curled. It leaned to the east, the direction from which most storms arrive, rather than standing tall and resolute. Yes, it had seen far better days.

It was a sad day in the Hockey Laboratory's history when the Goalie Box had to be retired.

For the next few weeks, an open net yawned at Colin. Sure, he'd work on his shots, but I saw him return to shooting more at the middle of the net. His work of weeks spent aiming for the corners was quickly eroding. I knew something had to be done. Quickly, too, as the Tampa Bay Jr. Lightning travel season approached us.

It didn't take long to come up with an idea. Rather than buy a plastic or canvas goalie screen -- one that doesn't seem like it would last more than a week -- the process of making one, using a more durable material, held far greater appeal. A plan, so to speak, was hatched.

A quick conversation with our next-door neighbor, who is systematically building a rental property empire, secured a scrap, but large enough for our purposes, quarter-inch sheet of commercial-grade plywood. Our neighbor, being as helpful as he could, even offered to let me borrow his jigsaw. A trip to a home improvement store, after picking up Colin from school one afternoon, soon followed. After that, it didn't take long to get started.

Since Wednesday, we've been working, in bits and pieces, on Goalie Dude. This wasn't going to be some hurried project, knocked out in a hurried fashion within the confines of a single afternoon. No, we would take our time and, once again, let hockey reinforce a bond between father and son. The purpose of our project, you see, was far from singular.

If we're lucky and the weather holds, we might complete our project this afternoon. Colin has to paint the details and designs on Goalie Dude's gear. After that, all that remains is adding some paddle targets, but, really, that can wait. Once the paint is dry, there will be two kids, including one at the ripe old age of 51, who will be eager to try it out.

What a card

With Colin off from school on spring break last week, we got out for a couple of hounding adventures. Jason Pominville, captain of my hometown team, the Buffalo Sabres, provided one of the funnier moments, so far, of the 2013 hockey-hounding campaign.

Colin, who was wearing his signed Sabres' Nathan Gerbe jersey, approached Pominville to have him sign his team sheet. Pominville, sizing him up, sensed an opportunity for a joke.

"Gerbe?" he said, referring to his diminutive 5-foot-5 teammate. "You're not Nathan Gerbe. You're taller than him. A lot taller than him."

Colin, who stands at 4-foot-9, immediately got the joke.

Next up: Buffalo's Ryan Miller

The Hockey Life: In the running?

When I heard last week that the Buffalo Sabres fired longtime coach Lindy Ruff, I sensed an opportunity to break into the NHL. Even though the team named Ron Rolston as the interim head coach, I didn't hesitate to make my play for the gig.

Here's my application letter, submitted to the team through its website:

Should this interim coach thing not work out for the Sabres this season, please accept this as a request to become the next permanent full-time head coach of the Buffalo Sabres.

My qualifications? I've suffered with the Sabres since Day 1, as a child growing up on the city's West Side and in Machias, N.Y. I played town-team hockey for the Machias Norsemen in the Arcade Hockey League in the mid to late 1970s, being among the league leaders in PIMs. I'm also the father of a youth hockey player (Peewee A level) down here in the Tampa Bay area.

I stress the fundamentals of skating, playing every shift like it's your last and working together as a team. I have zero tolerance for  any foolishness (such as bullying and locker boxing) and all displays of a lack of respect for the game would be met with harsh discipline.

My salary demands won't break the bank: $350,000-a-year salary, $50,000 in housing expenses, $15,000 in moving expenses, a $1,000-a-month car allowance, my own room on road trips, first-class flying accommodations and a luxury box, with all food and beverages supplied by the team, for all home games during the regular season and playoffs.

Thank you for your time. I look forward to hearing from the organization.

Respectfully,

Ron Saar

P.S. I'll be attending next Tuesday's game against the Tampa Bay Lightning. We can meet then to finalize the deal.

As of late Saturday, I've yet to hear back from the organization. That could mean one of two things: Given the Sabres' lackluster play under Mr. Rolston, my offer is receiving serious consideration from the highest levels within the organization; or they haven't stopped laughing yet.

To maintain my candidacy, I've created a new Twitter account: @NewSabresCoach. If you support my effort, I'd appreciate you becoming a follower.