Commenter Rocket writes about hockey because sometimes we forget to do so. This week, he delivers an ode to one of our favorite movies: "Slap Shot." Rocket? -----------

They say that if you love what you do then you never work a day of your life. I mention this because I want to make clear that I am not complaining about my profession. I cannot imagine doing anything different.

That being noted, it's not all wine and roses when you spend your days building an anti-Stu machine. For instance, the early prototypes have not proven fruitful. And, it requires a lot of time spent alone in my underground lair. Again, I'm not complaining, but there are a lot of aspects to being a misunderstood (some of the less compassionate of us would say evil) genius that are not immediately apparent at first blush. One drawback is the loneliness. That was why I was extremely heartened to find out that a (relatively) local theater was going to show Slap Shot on the big screen. For reasons I will never be able to understand, I was unable to talk Rockette into attending the screening with me. So, I headed off to the theater, once again alone. "No, no, you stupeed when you do that. Just some English pig with no brains…" I started playing hockey when I was 4. I played my last meaningful game when I was a senior in high school. Hockey has always been a presence in my life and I honestly don't remember a time before I was aware of Slap Shot. "That reminds me, Reg. I was coaching in Omaha in 1948 and Eddie Shore sends me this guy…" I have no doubt that I was at a disturbingly inappropriate age when I first saw the film. I also have no doubt that I have seen the movie enough times that I could quote it from beginning to end, even the non-hockey parts. "Do you want to know how it happened?" "No, that's OK." "No, that's all right, 'cause I have to tell it in court anyway." Like the vast majority of youth hockey players, I eventually had to come to grips with the fact that I wasn't going to be able to make a career out of the sport. Fortunately, I had some success and was able to play for long enough to occasionally get my name in the paper. Unfortunately, by the time I had to finally accept that the dream was dead, hockey had been the defining characteristic of my outlook and personality for so long that when it was gone I was lost in my own lack of an identity for a lengthy period of time. Long enough, in fact, that it still causes me embarrassment to think about it to this day. "Dave's a killer!" "Dave's a mess." Alas, time, as they say, heals all wounds. I eventually found another purpose in life and moved on. But, as any ex-hockey player will tell you, the game never fully leaves your blood. As terrific as building the anti-Stu machine is, it will never feel as appropriate, as natural, or as real as wearing a pair of skates and being on the ice. "That…is a very deep cut." Additionally, I will never not love Slap Shot. I cannot speak for the hockey youth of today, but back in my day Slap Shot was as integral to the sport as the sticks, pucks, pads, nets and ice. If you were a hockey player you KNEW this movie. You did not just know of the movie, or had seen it once or twice. You KNEW it. Front to back. I remember teammates, before games, arguing over which Hanson Brother had which number (it was before the interwebs, kiddies). I remember trying to piece together the background song the team and fans were singing as they were checking into the hotel when the Hansons were arguing with the guy at the front desk because the guy wouldn't let them all stay in the same room and Reggie Dunlop was trying to have a conversation on a pay phone. "They convicted Oglethorpe." I mildly grumbled as I alternately followed the GPS and weaved through unfamiliar terrain and traffic to find the obscure theater in the unknown city. But once I was in my seat all of the minor unpleasantness (including the fact that it was a reasonably atrocious print of the film) quickly melted away. An old friend had decided to visit and I was not about to let any little things get in the way of a good time. "Oh this young man has had a very trying rookie season, with the litigation, the notoriety, his subsequent deportation to Canada and that country's refusal to accept him. Well, I guess that's more than most 21-year-olds can handle..." As I've gotten older and seen the movie countless more times, each new viewing tends to spark a new thought that I've never had about the film before. This time, in a silly little theater that felt like the edge of nowhere even though it was in the middle of a city, it occurred to me that we most likely have Slap Shot to thank for the major expansion into the South that the NHL endured in the 90s. Although the expansion had already started before Gary Bettman became commissioner, I now believe that someone told Bettman – previously one of the higher-ups of the NBA – to watch Slap Shot to gain a sense of how hockey people thought and felt and lived and breathed. I also now think that Bettman was likely unimpressed with the film as a whole, but that his ears perked up during a certain Denis Lemieux soliloquy. "I say, 'Who own the Chiefs?'" "What did he say?" "Oooownza, oooownza. I don't care who own the Chiefs. I hate it here, make me sick. My halleriges puke every time, blaagaa, like that, puke." "Well, you're a goalie, you're supposed to be like that." "Somebody own the Chiefs. We go to Florida, and I get the money." Maybe my Bettman theory is right, or maybe not. All I know is that for two hours in that theater I got to spend time with a good friend; with someone who knows me, who understands my sense of humor, and my passion for the sport. As the years have worn on I have also discovered how surprisingly deep this friend is. There is a surprising amount of wisdom behind those coke bottle glasses, leisure suits, and fashion shows. "You see this quarter? It used to be a nickel." So, thanks, Slap Shot. You've reminded me of my first love, given me a few laughs, and you've just made the long nights in the lair that much more bearable. Maybe we should get together more often. But even if we don't see as much of each other as we'd like, I want you to know that I'll never forget you. And to the RandBall readers out there, you might like my little story about my trip to see a thirty-five-year-old movie in an obscure theater or you might hate it, but know this: "I tried to capture the spirit of the thing."