It’s Not The Size Of The Dog In The Fight, But The Size Of The Fight In The Dog…

Okay so here’s the deal. For SEVERAL days now I have been trying to compose something intelligible about the Olympics. I have started several drafts, updated countless results and profiled numerous athletes. But now, ten days in, I have come to the conclusion that attempting to write any kind of comprehensive or lucid account of the games whilst they are still ongoing is just shy of impossible. It’s not gonna happen. I just can’t do it. It’s all too much. There’s too much happening. It’s all too exciting. To be honest, I’m so enthralled I can hardly cope.

I’m just in awe of the whole thing. The stadium is magnificent. The enthusiasm is infectious. The pressure is on. The support is overwhelming. The competition is fierce. I’m totally enamoured with the athletes. All of ‘em. The determination. The dedication. The ridiculous physiques. The hours and months of training we didn’t see. The glorious wins and the crushing losses. The favourites and the dark horses. The injuries, the disqualifications, the record breakers, the close calls. They’re better than me. They’re younger than me. I want to see their twitter pictures. I’m even finding myself coming close to emotion at every medal ceremony I witness. Doesn’t matter what anthem is being played, if the medallists are welling up, I’m playing too. I do realise what a ridiculous person I am, but damnit it’s all just so feckin’ inspirational.

Will, Kate and their ever-present third wheel, everyone’s favourite royal, Harry the rascal, have been in attendance at several events, as has David Cameron. Paul McCartney was at track cycling. Bill Gates was at the tennis semi-final. David Beckham has been at the football. Bar Rafaeli cheered on Phelps at the swimming. Even Michelle “Tha Bomb” Obama came over to continue telling everyone to quit being so damn fat.

But this is all so new and unexpected. Three months ago I was wholeheartedly agreeing with my London-based cousin who ranted about the commuting issues she was expecting to face when the hysteria descended. In January, my beloved Christmas ads were replaced with patriotic, Olympic hype from across the Irish Sea. As the Budweiser Clydesdales were put out to pasture for another year and the Coca Cola lorries disappeared over the snowy horizon, we now had Fairy telling us that it takes 20,000 dishes to build an athlete, Ariel telling us that it’s the colours you came in that matter, British Airways commentating an international luggage race through the airport and Usain Bolt racing a bearded dude through London on behalf of Visa.

“This is all we’re gonna be hearing about now for the rest of the year.” I griped.

I hadn’t cared about Beijing in 2008 and I didn’t care now.

I do like this ad for Asics though… 

Except somewhere, sometime, somehow, I kiiiiinda started to care. And then I started to care a little more. And then it was July and I started to get excited. And then it was time for the opening ceremony and I nearly lost the whole run of myself with enthusiasm. I sat through the whole thing. It was amazing.

Since then, I have been riveted. My life has all but come to a standstill. I’m living in constant fear that I might miss something big. It’s really no way/the only way to be living. I’ve become a proper inexperienced expert, with an opinion on how everyone’s doing despite actually knowing jack shit about anything I’m talking about. You can expect to see evidence of this in the upcoming paragraphs.

The other day my brother and I were watching the Kayak Slalom. I’ve never watched a kayak competition before in my life.

“How’s yer man doing?”

“Eoin Rheinisch? He’ll qualify but he’ll not be in the top ten.”

“What’s his time?”

“1.89 something. Slow enough.”

Another evening was spent watching weightlifting with my dad… Yeah, weightlifting.

“How much does this guy have to lift now?”

“78KG.”

“And he’s failed twice so far? Nah. He’ll not do it. That left leg’ll get him again.”

“He might, you know. He almost had it last time.”

Point being? I’m in. I’m on board. I’ve got Olympic fever and I’m loving every second of it. I’m watching athletics and swimming and archery and equestrian and canoeing and weightlifting and diving and gymnastics and rowing and sailing and cycling and judo and volleyball. I’m watching it all. Except for handball. Handball is poxy.

Ireland have a team there. Course we do, bless our little cotton socks. We haven’t done all that tremendously well so far. But God loves a trier so we’ve sent over no less than 65 rosy Irish cheeks to have a go. Poor aul Grainne Murphy didn’t have a great time in the aquatic centre, losing her first race and later deciding to pull out. Leixlip canoeist, Eoin Rheinisch was doing fierce well there for a while but missed a gate in the slalom semi-finals, ending his Olympics in a matter of seconds. Aileen Morrison was our hardcore triathlete. She came 43^rd. Well done.  Kieran Behan, Ireland’s only competing gymnast (who, let the records show, was born in Laaaandan) was done after qualifications. Joanne Cuddihy placed 16^th out of 21 in the 400m semi-finals. As I type, Derval O’Rourke has managed to qualify for the 100m hurdles semis tomorrow. Even back in the RTE studios they’re like, “It’s the first time she’s run sub 10 seconds this season. This race isn’t about winning for Derval. It’s about breaking those barriers for herself.”… Well, good for her, but she’s currently 16^th overall and up against faster women like American runner Lolo Jones and Australian Sally Pearson.

Some of our Irish team. Clockwise (L-R): Swimmer, Grainne Murphy. Canoeist, Eoin Rheinisch. Gymnast, Kieran Behan. Sailor Annalise Murphy. 400m Joanne Cuddihy. 100m hurdler Derval O’Rourke and triathlete, Aileen Morrison.

Still though, while we unreservedly support every man and woman competing in green over there, we can’t be too disappointed. We never had our eggs in those baskets anyway. Nah. We don’t breed swimmers, gymnasts or sprinters here in Ireland. There are three types of athlete bred up in here. The first is the racehorse (Shergar, Rock of Gibraltar). The second is the GAA star (DJ Carey, Davey Fitzgerald, Jack O Se). And the third… Well, the third is boxers. We may not cycle all that brilliantly or have the best archers in the world but by gosh darn it we can give ya a good slap. Kevin McBride, Sam Storey, Barry McGuigan, Steve Collins, John Duddy, Bernard Dunne. Champions.

With this in mind, most of our eggs lie in the baskets of just four people. Paddy Barnes, Michael Conlan, John Joe Nevin and one miss Katie Taylor. All four Irish boxers made it through to their quarter-final matches.

Nevin, Barnes, Conlan and Taylor

Last night John Joe Nevin secured Ireland’s first medal, thrilling a nation. Bronze is his. He beat Mexican, Oscar Valdez in his quarter final bantamweight match. And he looked fuckin’ wrecked when it was over. He’ll fight again for silver on August 10^th.  Also, can I just point out one thing about John Joe Nevin; He boxes for Cavan boxing club (wayhey!!)

But yeah, these are Ireland’s medal hopes. Katie Taylor is Ireland’s own Jessica Ennis. Our face for the Olympics and our biggest bet for gold. She is the current Irish, world and European women’s boxing champion. Back home in Bray she’s been known to spar with fellow Olympic boxer, Paddy Barnes. She was also in that awesome ad for Lucozade sport with Tinie Tempah and Travis Barker. And she’ll fight today. A win guarantees Ireland’s own little fighting machine a bronze medal. It also advances her to the semi-final. A win there guarantees her a silver medal and advances her to the final on Thursday evening where a win would, of course, earn her the coveted and illusive gold.

Here she is showing what she’s made of in a spar against Paddy Barnes: 

Aside from the excitement of the possibility of a medal for Ireland, so much has been going on lads! Have ya seen much of it so far? It’s been treeeeemendous!

The first event that got me all psyched up was the Men’s Synchronised 10m Platform last Monday. Wee Tom Daley was diving with his partner Pete Waterfield (not Waterman, totally different guy). They finished in 4^th place after a bad final dive.

I love Tom Daley. Not in that paedo “phwoar” way that hoards of teenage girls or the pervs that work for Heat magazine do (he was Torso of the Week last week. He’s 18 lads. Don’t be sinners.). Nah, I like him more in a “aw, look at him there! I just wanna pinch his cheeks and carry him home in my pocket,” sort of a way. I watched that documentary on BBC a couple of weeks ago, ‘Diving For Britain’. It was about Tom and his mission towards the Olympics. Now, I don’t cry at movies (cold, black heart, remember?), but I cried watching this documentary. I know, I’m so embarrassed. BUT, like it featured his dad who was his greatest supporter and friend and went to every training session and every competition. He died last year from cancer of the brain. The documentary captured his whole illness and lickle Tom’s reaction. I defy you to watch this and not cry as a dying man talks about his fear that he might not get to see his son compete at the Olympics. My brother said this: “You’re on his twitter now? You do realise that he’s a poncy little wanker, don’t you?” But I don’t. I think he’s a lovely and extraordinarily talented young buck. He’s diving next in the Men’s 10m Platform individuals on August 10^th.

Awwww, Tom Daley. Individual 10m platform. August 10 guys.

The swimming events took place this week too. They. Were. Awesome!!! One name dominated the whole show. Phelps. Now a former swimmer, these games saw Phelps tally up his number of Olympic medals to 22, making him the most decorated Olympian of all time. I mean, the guy is just ridiculous. Thank God he’s giving up. It was like Formula 1 back when Michael Schumacher owned the whole thing. It was less exciting because you just always knew that he was gonna win it. Apparently Michael Phelp’s arms, when spread out, measure 2m across. He’d wrap ‘em around most of us twice! You also have to give love him for that time he was pictured smoking a bong. Oh Mickey, you naughty little scamp! Olympic swimmers don’t smoke weed! Silly pup!

The greatest Olympian of all time, Michael Phelps, in and, uh, out of the pool…

Friday saw the start of athletics. What the Olympics is really all about. I was all over the Women’s Heptathlon. You know why. She’s been the most prominent face of Team GB. She’s everywhere. She was on the cover of Cosmo this month. She’s staring out from magazine pages as the face of Olay. Yeah, I’m talking about Jessica Ennis. I’m not sure any athlete competing in the games right now has had as much pressure on them to achieve as this chick.

Before last week I didn’t really know what a heptathlon was. Matter fact, turns out I’ve been pronouncing it wrong my whole entire life. Hep-A-thlon. No. Hep-TA-thlon. Anyways, so turns out it consists of 100m hurdles, 200m sprint, 800m sprint, high-jump, long-jump, javelin throw and shot put. Guys? That’s seven things!

Jessica Ennis has been heavily publicised this year. She’s had the whole of Great Britain behind her. I’ve been behind her too. We feel like we know her. She’s from Sheffield. She’s got a dog called Myla, a fiancé called Andy and reckons she makes a mean lasagne. She’s relatable. Except get the fuck with that! Jessica Ennis only seems like the rest of us. In reality, when you are getting up to pee at 6am and hoping to god you can get back to sleep for an hour and a half before your alarm goes off, Jessica Ennis is probably sprinting on a track in the cold morning air. When you are griping about having too much to carry in from the car (a top personal gripe of mine), Jessica Ennis is probably working on her javelin throw. When you are struggling to climb the stairs after that really intense 45minute-long zumba class, Jessica Ennis is probably having an ice-bath after a six hour training session. When you are chowing down on a full-Irish and a packet of Rancheros, Jessica Ennis is probably eating three bananas and a bowl of porridge. She’s not like you and me. She’s an athlete. And that’s the reason she won the gold medal in the London 2012 Women’s Heptathlon in what I have decided was the greatest moment of the games thus far.

Heptathlete Jessica Ennis burst into tears as she crossed the 800m line, securing her first Olympic gold.

It was amazing. By the time the last heptathlon event rolled around on Saturday evening; the 800m, Jessica was in the lead. She won her semi-final, earning enough points to make her unmatchable. She cinched the gold and burst into tears as she crossed the line. She ran 800m, eight football fields, in 2minutes 8seconds. Yesterday I decided to run 400m, just to see. I ran it in 1minute and 54 seconds. Almost two minutes. To run half of what Jessica Ennis ran in just 14 seconds more. And I was fit to collapse after. Pathetic.

Saturday, as it turned out, was Great Britain’s most successful day at the Olympics in 104 years as they took home six golds. Jessica Ennis, of course, won the heptathlon. Then there was golds in the Men’s Long Jump. Two rowing golds. Cycling gold and then the thinnest man I’ve ever seen, Somali-born, British runner, Mo Farah won the 10,000m.  Sure it’s all happening lads!

Golds for GB. Clockwise (L-R): Cyclist Bradley Wiggins, Long jumper Greg Rutherford, Tennis champ Andy Murray, 10,000m Mo Farah, Shooter Peter Wilson, Cyclist Victoria Pendleton, Rowers Sophie Hoskins and Katherine Copeland and Heptathlete Jessica Ennis.

Ultimately though, at this point, it’s all about one guy. They call him Usain. He thinks he’s Richard Branson. But he is, in fact, the fastest man on the planet. He loves chicken nuggets, dancing and he regularly tweets pictures of himself playing Call of Duty. He said he’s 95% fit for these games. He also said that, if he feels up to it after the 100m, he might go for gold in the 200m; “for my country, why not?”.

Last night Usain qualified for the 100m finals with a time of 09.87. In the second semi-final Bolt’s fellow Jamaican and training partner, Yohan Blake won with a time of 09.85. Faster than Richard Branson and his high speed broadband. The final was at ten to ten. Eight of the fastest men in the world lined up and millions took ten seconds out of their hectic lives to see who’d take the gold. But you know who took it. You know who’d take it from the start. The Lightening Bolt ran it in 09.63 seconds, a new Olympic record (he would, wouldn’t he) and proof that his winning semi-final time was the result of him not even bothering to try.

Team mates, training partners, rivals, Usain Bolt and Yohan Blake after Bolt’s 100m win last night

He was, predictably, followed by Blake at 09.75 and then American, Justin Gatlin for the bronze in 09.79. It was EPIC! Bolt runs again in round one of the 200m on Tuesday. He’ll win it. Course he will. Look at the big gangly arms on him. No contest.

And that’s pretty much where we’re at so far. The week ahead looks good too, set to be dominated by boxing for us. We’ll see more from Usain Bolt from Tuesday. Little Tom Daley dives again on August 10^th. Dublin girl, Annalise Murphy is sailing today. She’s in with a chance of another Irish medal. With a bit of luck we might see Billy Twomey or Cian O’Connor in the showjumping final on Wednesday. We’ll have some more canoeing, rhythmic gymnastics. Taekwondo begins on Wednesday. And, of course, athletics will go on in the stadium up to Friday.

Then, on Sunday, it will all end. There will be a big-ass ceremony. The athletes will march again. There will be winners and, uh, LOSERS! Muse will play. Take That will play. London will hand over the Olympics to the next host city for the 2016 Olympic Games, Rio de Janeiro. And then… The flame will be extinguished. And I will be devastated. Because the excitement will be over for another four years.

Hold up, wait, I’m getting all melancholic for no good reason! There’s still a whole week to go! There’s so much still to come. So many medals still to be won. It’s not over yet. And to be honest with ya, I’ll probably be back here again next week doing this again.

Oh also, there are no videos of the Olympics available on youtube right now hence why I haven’t embedded any. They’re so darned protective of that shit. Sincere apologies.

Here’s Usain being Richard Branson for the craic…

Fire in The Heart, Ice in The Veins…

So…. Euro 2012 is underway in Poland. Ireland are out. Beaten by Croatia and then by Spain. We will likely be beaten by Italy tomorrow night, just as a final kick us in the balls when we’re already on our knees, sealing our place as one of the most embarrassing countries to be from in Europe. Cheers for that one. The Irish fans and their vocal support long past the final whistle at the Spain match are having their praises sung by all and sundy, except for Roy Keane, who said something about coming along for a sing-song not being enough. Personally, I could give a shit about any of it.

Here’s what I know about football: 

I tried to be into football for a while when I was younger. My brother and cousin were all about it, so I joined ’em, deciding my favourite team was Manchester United and my favourite player was Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. My cousin and I, creatively, called him “Curly Boy” because of his curly, black hair, and, man, we thought we were THE SHIT for coming up with such a hilarious and original nickname. So… that’s embarrassing for me. Anyways my affair with the beautiful game was short lived owing to the fact that I found it boring as hell and didn’t understand any of the rules. Any of ’em. None. Except that a red card meant “get off, you naughty little scamp!”

That was it. In the years since my foray into soccer fandom, I’ve dallied with other sports. I played handball for a while in National School (I even made in on to the BOYS doubles team! WHAT! WHAT!). But handball, as it turns out, is a pathetic sport and nobody plays it. Then I was an avid horse-rider for years. The highlight of my year used to be going to the Dublin Horse Show every August. And I’d always buy a pile of junk that I didn’t need; grooming brushes, pony treats, coloured whips, helmet covers, books, you name it! Alas, you don’t see much of equestrian competitions on the big screens down the local. Then I fell in with motorsport for a good while. There was a good two years where I repeatedly found myself awake at some ridiculous hour of a Sunday morning so I could watch the live coverage of whatever Formula 1 race was on (I was a Raikkonen fan.) Nothing stuck. Rugby? Too violent. Golf? Too boring. Cricket? Too British. GAA? Too familiar.

I gave up. I quit like a great big quitter. I informed the tomboy lurking inside me that she was bound to stay where she was, to be freed only by occasional splurges on Military Channel documentaries and Man Vs Wild. I dedicated my life to celebrity gossip instead. I was in an Irish Bar in Newcastle with some family last April, when our home province team, Ulster, beat Edinburgh to make it through to the 2012 Heineken Cup Final. The place was jammed with excited, chanting, raucous men, my own relations included. The buzz was electric. I couldn’t tell you what the score was. I could, however tell you that that was the day after Barack Obama made fun of Kim Kardashian at the White House Correspondents dinner. Or that Beyonce called her fake pregnancy rumours “crazy” that day. Or that LeAnn Rimes and Eddie Cibrian had just renewed their wedding vows. That’s what I can tell ya.

So, it was somewhat a bolt from the blue when, in June of last year, I discovered….. HOCKEY!!!

I was a latecomer to the 2011 NHL race for the Stanley Cup, not witnessing anything before the opening game of the finals. I was introduced to the game by my best-friend and serial cohort, who happens to be Vancouver born. The season culminated in June for a series of seven playoff games between the Boston Bruins and the Vancouver Canucks. So my best friend is a ‘Couv native. But then, I have an uncle who’s lived in Boston for the past twenty-odd years. Who was I gonna root for? I ultimately went with the Canucks after coming to the realisation that they were ruthlessly vicious, hard-as-nails and hell bent on fighting for that cup. The Canucks fought dirty throughout the playoffs and we fucking loved it. We downloaded every game the night after it had aired (because where were we gonna watch it live?) and we sat, enthralled, involved and committed.

It came down to the wire. When game seven rolled around on June 15, the Canucks had three wins and the Bruins had three wins. Game seven was the decider. And the Bruins destroyed the Canucks 4-0 at Rogers Arena, taking the Stanley Cup back home to Massachusetts and out of the reach of the devastated Canucks. Ryan Kesler bawled his wee eyes out right there on the ice. The people of Vancouver responded decidedly badly to the loss. Suffice to say, they went fucking apeshit and rioted the shit out of the city!

Canucks fan in Vancouver in the aftermath of the 2011 Stanley Cup Riot

I didn’t mind all that much. I was happy enough. Because I’d discovered a sport I could get down with. I faacking laaaaved hockey!!!

Agus is anseo an fath…

The Insanse “WHERETHEFUCKISTHEPUCK?!” Speed

Hockey moves fast. The players skim across the ice at lightening speed and send the puck even faster. The average speed of a player is around 25mph. The average speed of the puck is around 97mph. Pretty nifty. Games are three periods, each twenty minutes in duration, and there’s zero let up. I mostly learned to forget trying to keep and eye on the puck and just watch the players. Go where they go. All the glory of goals, as far as I’m concerned, has to be absorbed in the replay, seeing as I’m never actually paying close enough attention to see it do down in the first place.

Here’s Canuck centre, Ryan Kesler, goin’ hella fast at the 2011 NHL Skills Competition: 

The Violence

Listen okay, I know I said that I can’t watch rugby because it’s too violent, BUUUUT, for absolutely no justifiable reason whatsoever, the violence in hockey is kind of what makes it for me. So we know these guys move fast. But they also go hard.

There’s a tactic used in play called “checking”. Without going into an condescending and unnecessary explanation, checking, or more specifically, body-checking, involves slamming oneself into an opponent, usually the dude with the puck, and forcing him into the ringside boards. It’s fucking brutal lads.

This one time, in 1996, Detroit Red Wings player, Kris Draper, was checked from behind by Colorado Avalanche player, Claude Lemieux. He hit the boards face first. Broke his jaw, his nose and his cheekbone. Draper’s teammate, Darren McCarty was behind the board and later said he “could hear his face crack”. Noice. McCarty would later go on to launch an EPIC retaliation attack on Lemieux the following year when the Red Wings faced the Avalanches again.

A Subheading For Violence… THE FIGHTING!

Oh man, the fighting. You know, I’ve long held the opinion that soccer players are nothing but over-paid, over-pampered, helpless little paaaaansies. This I maintain. You know that  guy, Didier Drogba? Plays for Chelsea. Isn’t he notorious for faking injuries? I think I read that… Anyways, you don’t get that shit in hockey. These guys are HARD. AS. NAILS.

Fighting, in the NHL, is not only legal, it is openly encouraged and viewed as tradition. Heck, it is tradition. Fights are usually the role of the enforcers. It’s their job to aggravate the fuck out of the other guys. Some fights are premeditated by the players, some  erupt suddenly out of nowhere, some involve two guys, some involve two teams, some are professional, some are personal. But all are ferocious. Sticks are thrown down, gloves are usually discarded and players descend into a melee of fists and fury on the ice, watched by the refs, who decide when enough is enough.

This is a good ‘un: 

Hockey teams are close knit and more often than not, players are not afraid to jump into a fight on behalf of a teammate slighted. Blood is shed and the crowds go clayne ballistic for it! Decent fighters are valued by their team and revered by fans.

Hell, the Canucks won me over last year because of their infamous bad behaviour on the ice. I loved it.

The Fans

Michael Buble, of Vancouver, British Columbia, is so dedicated to hockey that he requests a local team hockey puck in his dressing room everywhere he performs. Michael Buble (who’s marriage won’t last, by the way), is so devoted to hockey that he bought part of the Vancouver Giants team.

Hockey fans are loyal and committed. And they’re involved. Part of the beauty of a hockey game is that the fans are separated from the game by just a glass board, which the players are slammed up against continually throughout a game. There seems to be a certain level of intimacy at a hockey game. Thousands of people, supporting their side and going pure wild at the very inclination that a fight might go down.

I digress again to the Vancouver riots. The second time Canucks fans had a less than docile response to a Stanley Cup loss. Yes it was a pretty substantial overreaction. Things got a bit cray, people got hurt, it wasn’t cool. But if anything marked the kinship that the fans feel for their teams, that was it. Vancouver was a city devastated. They had come so close. And they reacted, in true Canuck style; ridiculously violently.

Skill

So you want to be a hockey player? Okay, well first you’re gonna have to learn to skate. Then you’re gonna have to learn to skate backwards. Then fast. You’re gonna have to be able to stop suddenly or you’ll get busted into the boards. Now you’ve gotta learn how to use a stick, how to hold it, how to maneuver the puck. Then learn all the various types of shots; slapshot, wristshot, snapshot, backhand slapshot, sheesh. Okay, then learn how to “deke”, or trick your opponent with decoy moves. Evasive skating. Toughen up for some checking. Lose some teeth, perhaps. Learning to fight wouldn’t be the worse decision.

I just… Like, it’s definitely more than I know I’d be able to handle! Yeah, yeah, footballers are skilled too. Aye, but they’re also great big paaaansies, remember!

Shootouts

In 2005, the NHL made a controversial decision; to make tied games obsolete. The shootout was born.

It’s pretty straight-forward, if the game runs it’s time and the scores are tied, then it goes to shootouts. Each team has three players take a shot. The best of three wins the game. But what if both teams score 2 out of 3? Then it’s shootouts until one team scores and the other misses.  Simples.

It means every game ends with a clear winner. It means that tensions run high and games often come right down to it!

The Stanley Cup Itself

First of all, all the players on a Stanley Cup winning team get their names engraved on the cup. So that’s awesome.

Second of all, every player on the winning team gets a day with the cup, and he can do whatever the heck he likes with it. In 1996, Sylvain Lefebvre , of the Colorado Avalanches, used the cup as a baptismal font for his daughter. Creeeeepy. Okay. In 1994, New York Rangers forward, Ed Olczyk, took the cup to the stable of  Kentucky Derby winner, Go For Gin, where the horse ate out it. The horse… Ate… Out of the Stanley Cup. Patrick Kane of the Chicago Blackhawks took the cup to Niagara Falls in 2010. Mark Messier, Edmonton Oilers, took it to a strip club. It’s even been to Kandahar, Afghanistan. I mean, you know?! That’s aces!

Los Angeles Kings captain, Dustin Brown, with The Stanley Cup. June 2012.

Celebrities

I had to get it in there! As I said Mickey Buble is a massive hockey fan. Corey Monteith, of Glee fame, has been spotted at several Canucks games. Vince Vaughn is a huge Chicago Blackhawks fan. Snoop Dogg supports the Anaheim Ducks. Carrie Underwood is married to Mike Fisher of the Nashville Predators. Mike Myers, Justin Bieber and Drake are all Toronto Maple Leaf fans. Trey Parker (South Park) is a Colorado Avalanches supporter. Kevin Smith, of Mallrats, Clerks, Jay and Silent Bob, fame, supports the New Jersey Devils. Kid Rock, Detroit Red Wings. All the names, yo. All the names.

 

I could go on but I feel I’ve started rambling so I’mma go ahead and curtail myself ‘fore I go cross-eyed. You get the gist of what I’m sayin’ though, right? That hockey is gosh-darned awesome and I wish it was more available to us Paddys. Sure we love a bit of violence, no?

Look, Kanye West knows…