The Friday Five - Part One

In an effort to encourage more regular blogging, and to give me something to ramble on about, I have decided to begin a weekly column called 'The Friday Five' (theoretically to be done on Fridays, to keep the name more than just clever alliteration). Every Friday, I'll address a Top Five of something Pittsburgh related, or, if I'm in a bummy mood, a Bottom Five.

Today, in an effort to remind our poor, injured Pittsburgh Penguins of the greatness they possessed last season, my Friday Five topic is: Top Five Greatest Moments of the 2009 Stanley Cup Playoff Run.

#5: Orange Crushed and Shushed:
In Round One of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, the Penguins faced one of our arch enemies, the Philadelphia Flyers. Those of us who have been following the 'Guins for years understand this rivalry (admittedly, the words 'Keith Primeau' still tend to make me throw up in my mouth a little), and this year, it was especially important for us to flatten their playoff hopes and dreams: defeating them in the 2008 Eastern Conference Finals was what led us to our soul-draining loss of the Cup to the Red Wings, and just a few weeks before the 2009 regular season ended, we were not even contenders in the make-it-to-the-playoffs race, much less the actually-bring-home-Lord-Stanley one.

So, of course, our hot-streak Pens tore into the first round with a 2-0 lead over the Flyers after playing on home ice to start the series. We split victories in the next two games with them, but were poised to take it all away if only we could win that coveted fourth in game five... which we wound up losing in a pitiful shutout, 3-0.

Two days later, we were back in Philly, set to finish the Flyers off once and for all. Unfortunately, our game play was more than a bit lacking, and the Flyers scored two goals within a minute of each other to take the lead going into the first intermission. Just four minutes into the second period, Philly scored again on a Power Play opportunity off a Crosby penalty, putting us down 3-0 again. The frustration was obviously getting to the guys, and the threat of a Game Seven looming on the horizon was intimidating. But then, in what seemed at the start to be a reckless idea, our very own Superstar picked a fight with the Flyers' much-larger Daniel Carcillo. Immediately, the commentators jumped on the poor decision - you're down 3-0, why start a useless fight, this is just the Pens reacting badly to being scoreless in five consecutive periods...

If you've seen the fight, you know how it goes: Max didn't exactly come out on top while the fists were flying, but as he was being led to the penalty box, amid overwhelming screams from the Orange Crush fans, he looked up, helmet askew, playoff beard already mangy, and put his finger to his lips, shaking his head and shushing the entire city of Philadelphia.

Fourteen seconds later into play, Evgeni Malkin sent the puck to Ruslan Fedetenko, who put it nicely in the net, and the rest is history: we scored five unanswered goals to knock the Flyers out of the playoff race and send us on to Round Two. All that from one little shush :)

#4: LeTang Saves the Day:
Round Two was off to a rough start. Playing another one of our classic playoff rivals, the Washington Capitals, we lost both of the opening games on their ice. It was like Young Hockey Stars on Ice, Geno and Sid out there sharing the same playing ground as Alex Ovechkin (better known to the sign-wielding fans of the Igloo as "Oven-Chicken"), and the sports stories each day were debates over which of the three was truly the best. With our poor start, it looked like we were about to get it handed to us by the Other Russian.

I mention this Game Three with a special sense of affection: I came home from the gym the morning of to a grinning husband who had managed to score Igloo Club seats to surprise me. What surprised me more was the price: $500. With as poorly as we'd played the previous two games, I was a nervous wreck that we were going to be throwing away our home-buying deposit money on an almost-elimination. How on earth could we possibly pull it off?

But, I knew one thing was certain: if we sold the tickets and skipped the game, we would almost definitely win. My grandmother was, after all, a Murphy, and the application of Murphy's Law is a genetic trait that never misses a generation. So I agreed to go, decked out in my new Miro Satan t-shirt on the rainiest day of the spring.

After standing outside of will-call for twenty minutes in the torrential downpour, we were finally inside, now turned from soaking wet fans into total ice cubes - three rows behind the ice is a great view, but DAMN is it cold! I was still ecstatic, as Miro was finally back in the lineup, replacing a flagging Petr Sykora.

But as the game began, our spirits began to flop. The Caps took an early lead in the first period. It looked to be more of the same, but halfway through the second, it was again Fedetenko who took the initiative and got the scoring started, on an assist from LeTang and Max. In the third, amid cheers of "MVP", Geno gave us the lead for the first time with a Power Play goal. It looked like we were going to get our money's worth with a win, when suddenly, with less than two minutes to go, the Caps evened the score.

The truth is, from that moment on, I think I may have taken approximately three breaths. I'd gotten a cup of coffee from the Dunkin' Donuts stand inside the Arena, and all I could do was hover over it and try to remember to inhale and exhale. Regulation ended, and we headed into a full intermission wherein I could barely even make conversation with my husband, I was so nervous.

I sat as patiently as I could, the entire arena almost silent through the overtime period. 17,132 pairs of eyes were locked on the puck, waiting to see who was going to slip it behind the opposing goalie first. Finally, at just over eleven minutes into the period, it happened. I don't even think I saw where the puck went, I think I just saw LeTang's arms raise, and I knew it: we'd scored, and we'd taken down the Caps. The win gave us enough to push on and get three straight: although we stretched the series to seven games, we defeated the Caps in a crushing 6-2 victory, moving on to the Eastern Conference Finals, and proving to the hockey world that there is only room for two young hockey icons, and there's only room for them on the Pens.

#3: The Sweep:
The first two series were so excruciatingly long and stressful, you would have thought you were watching the Steelers and not the Pens (I'm serious, if anyone wants to explain why our sports heroes feel the need to keep us on the edge of our seats constantly... well, I'm listening :). And then came the Eastern Conference Finals, against the Carolina Hurricanes.

This series was an interesting match for several reasons. First, we had split the four game series in the regular season with them (one of our losses being the only one I saw live in the 2008/2009 season). Secondly, former Steelers coach Bill Cowher was now suddenly a Hurricanes fan (and of course, Ronnie Francis, a former 'Guin and North Hills resident, is their coach). And then, of course, was all the 'Staal on Staal' action.

I understand that it's exciting for brothers to be playing against each other in the Eastern Conference Finals and all, but quite literally, if you'd taken a shot every time an announcer mentioned 'Staal on Staal,' or 'the brothers facing off,' or every time they showed footage of them playing hockey on the pond outside their house as children (and I'm not kidding, there's a drinking game for this purpose), you'd have alcohol poisoning by the end of the first game. The announcers eat this stuff up :)

So, after a very close win in Game 1 (3-2), we were set for another six- or seven- game series, after which we'd be so exhausted we wouldn't even care that we were about to kick the pants off of the Red Wings (ha). But then, as if Badger Bob himself had pulled some strings in Heaven, we swept the 'Canes after three more easy-peasy wins, where we beat them by a margin of at least 3 goals each game. It was time to rejoice: we were headed back to the Finals to take that which was rightfully ours.

#2: The Save:
Game Seven, Penguins v. Red Wings, in the house that hockey built, Joe Louis Arena. In a final game we didn't think we'd be seeing (we'd started the series down by two games, as we had in the previous year), we had managed to secure a 2-0 lead with goals in the second period by Superstar himself, Max Talbot. We were holding down the lead well into the third period, starting to get that 'maybe we'll win this thing after all' feeling that we'd all gotten in the final, hard-fought games against Philly and Washington.

Then, with just over six minutes remaining, Detroit's Jonathan Ericsson cut the lead in half. Panic set in, but we managed to hold things down until the final two minutes. You could see each of the Pens watching the clock between plays and while they were on the bench, willing the seconds to tick away before they got into any trouble.

With 1:12 remaining on the clock, the Wings pulled goalie Chris Osgood and brought out the extra attacker. Fleury stood tall in the goal, facing shot after shot after shot, and standing up to each of them. Then, with less than five seconds remaining, Fleury, in the top left of the goal crease, makes a pad save with his right leg, pushing the puck out to Nicklas Lidstrom. Lidstrom easily centers the rebound and shoots it, with plenty of net space open behind Fleury. Every single Penguins fan has their heart in their throat for one moment...

And Fleury sticks his body out, arms tucked neatly at his sides, falling onto his right shoulder on the ice, the puck hitting his chest and falling away harmlessly out of reach of the goal. The horn sounds, and time has expired. With Fleury's magnificent save, the Penguins had beat the Detroit Red Wings and won the Stanley Cup. You can watch the majesty here.

#1: Lifting the Cup:
Which brings us to our final greatest moment of the 2009 Stanley Cup Playoffs run: Sid lifting the Cup, and Geno lifting the Conn Smythe Trophy. I was so excited during these moments that I took a picture of my TV. My husband and I were jumping around the house, calling our parents, running up and down the hallway yelling 'OMG WE WON THE CUP!!!' (okay, maybe I was the only one doing that), and then, we took a moment to sit calmly in front of the TV and see these two greats accept the best awards they could hope to get. The look on both of their faces, well, you know how I cry every time I see footage of the Immaculate Reception? It's like that. Every time I see a picture of Sid hoisting Lord Stanley, or Geno tilting his cheek up to the side of his MVP trophy, I get a little teary-eyed, like these were the boys I've watched from their rookie seasons, finally bringing Lord Stanley to his rightful home in the City of Steel.

Ahhh, even typing this now is making my heart feel warm. Pens, this city loves you, and we'll stand by you while everyone's recovering, and we'll be right here cheering you on once the whole team is healthy and back to business!

On Heartbreak... I Mean Baseball

(author's note: I apologize for the huge amount of time between posts - we were buying a house, and then painting it, and then moving into it... but I'm back now!)

On the day after a crushing Steelers loss (I am considering taking Dick Lebeau out of my will after that horrific lack of defense in the fourth quarter!), I have chosen to reflect on another thing that breaks my heart - one that, in fact, has been breaking my heart for approximately seventeen years. You got it: it's our Pittsburgh Pirates and their inability to have a winning season since the year my husband moved to the Steel City. (Not that he has anything to do with their failures... I think ;)

I've been a baseball fan on and off pretty much since birth. I've been able to get away with being a casual fan for some years of my life because in Pittsburgh, being a Buccos fan is not quite the essential thing that being a Steeler fan is. People will forgive you, for example, if you forget who Jim Leyland is. If you were to enter Posvar Hall on Pitt's campus for the first time and ask why there's a home plate in the middle of the ground, you would get a reasonable explanation and a look of, 'it's okay, you weren't born yet, you couldn't be expected to know what Forbes Field was.' Never would a lack of knowledge or interest in Pittsburgh baseball get you banned from the Thanksgiving dinner table such as would, say, admitting you have no clue who caught the Immaculate Reception.

I seriously recommitted myself to baseball in the spring of 2006. My husband and I had just met and started dating, and one of our first dates was a baseball game - these fantastic seats one row behind the opposing teams's dugout, right along the first base line. It was the first time I saw Ian Snell pitching, and despite his shoddy record, he quickly became my favorite (of the several games we attended that season, he pitched two and got the win in both). We still had both Wilsons at that time, Jason Bay and Freddie Sanchez, a slew of new players that showed promise, and of course, one very old player (unlike the man himself, aging Jeromy Burnitz jokes never get old!).

From that first game on, we were devoted to our Buccos. M and I were still in college, and more than a little broke, so we grabbed up free tickets whenever anyone we knew was giving them out. If we couldn't be there in person, we were watching the game on TV. For the first time in my college career, I upgraded my cable package so we could get FSN and access to almost all of the baseball action. I even listened on the radio if I was working and couldn't watch. We made it to enough games that we felt as though the can't-play-'Here-We-Go-Steelers'-in-tune saxophone guy on the Clemente Bridge was a part of our family.

In fact, in 2007, when we were preparing for our move out west, I got an automated phone call from Jason Bay and Jack Wilson, telling me just how very much they wanted me to be a season ticket holder. The call brought a tear to my eye - how much I was going to miss the fireworks after a home run, disputing ball v. strike on every questionable pitch, watching endless replays of the single amazing diving catch of a game, and evaluating which pair of baseball pants was the most flattering on each player! What would I do, three-thousand miles away from the Pirate Parrot, Oliver Onion, and the FSN crew's endless discussions of pie and argyle socks??

I decided that rather than keep up with the Pirates from afar, which would only bring me a sadness in my heart, I would become a Dodgers fan. What I didn't realize was that despite the fact that the Dodgers had a winning team, an even lower percentage of Los Angeles citizens cared about them than the percentage of Yinzers who followed the Pirates. I tried, in vain, to pay attention to the local team, but in reality, the only Dodgers game I made it to was their showdown in April 2008 against the Pirates. Our Buccos lost, of course, but M and I had the pleasure of listening in on the conversation of the displaced steel workers behind us, who were debating whether or not they'd ever be able to move back to the land of black and gold (the end result was that while they missed watching Steeler games with lunch instead of breakfast, they more importantly did not miss shoveling their driveways).

When we came back to Pittsburgh, I was determined to be a season ticket holder. The moment tickets to the home opener went on sale, I was logging in to the Pirates' website and purchasing ours. We had seats in row Y. When we got to the game on the rainy early afternoon of April 13th, I thought, "Well, at least it's not the very last row!" After climbing to our seats, we realized that there is no row Z.

The Buccos won that game - we crushed the Houston Astros, 7-0. Our starting pitcher, Zach Duke, pitched a full game, and Adam Laroche had a home run. The season was looking bright! We were feeling on top of the world - the Steelers had won the Superbowl, the Pens were headed for the playoffs, and the Buccos were finally going to have a winning season!

If you don't live in Pittsburgh or follow baseball, I will tell you how this story ends: the Pirates trade my two favorite players in a single move (shortstop Jack Wilson and pitcher Ian Snell) and our other star player (Freddie Sanchez) later that day. In the interviews on the radio, Wilson and Sanchez were both close to tears. Freddie was interviewed first, before he knew he was also being traded, and he said something along the lines of, 'I don't know what I'm going to do without my best friend with me anymore.' Later, they interviewed Jack, and he was heartbroken, talking about how much he loved this city and had wanted this team to really turn it around.

Since they've left, and despite the replacement of Nate McClouth with an even better outfielder, Andrew McCutcheon, the Buccos have gone 16-38. It is quite possible that, after the remaining seven games, we will have lost 100 games or more this season.

So, the question remaining is, why do I insist on keeping the love alive in this abusive relationship with the Pittsburgh Pirates? Why do I get pumped up at spring training each year, if all they're going to do is give me another losing season (we're at seventeen in a row, for those of you keeping score at home)? Even after my two favorite players get sent away in a single move, why do I put myself through the torment of learning to love the new guys on the team?

Why? Because I'm a Pittsburgher. I'm a Pittsburgher, and that means I'm stuck with the Pirates, good or bad. For better or worse, this is my baseball team. Like that alcoholic friend who only seems to call you when she's down and out, but once in awhile, the two of you take on the town and have a fantastic time, I can never just turn away a 3am drunk dial from my Pirates. Who knows, they may score seven runs in a single inning to come back and take the game away from their opponents! And yes, they may go through three pitchers in the first five innings, but the very next game, McCutcheon could make a leaping grab to save the game in the top of the ninth! And Matt Capps could blow a double-digit lead, but Jesse Chavez... wait. Nevermind. Poor example. :)

My point is this: through the good and the bad, I've got to be there for my Buccos. We were there for our Penguins in 2002 when they went 27-44-6, and they repaid us by bringing home Lord Stanley in 2009. We stood by our Steelers when Neil O'Donnell threw the game-ending interception in Superbowl XXX, and they've since won two more Lombardi trophies. And maybe, just maybe, if I sit in the stands and yell 'Believe in yourselves!' loud enough to my Pittsburgh Pirates, they'll hear, and suddenly remember how to play baseball, and then we will really, honestly, truly, for certainly, be the City of Champions.

(I just hope it happens before I'm as old as Jeromy Burnitz.)

Sunset Over Lawrenceville

These pictures are not from tonight, but I wanted to share them anyway. I was making a last-minute liquor store run on Butler Street, June 13, just before 9pm, and this was the sky above Lawrenceville. Just perfect.

Reminder to Mother Nature: The Arts Festival Is Over

So, in case you weren't in the county last night, I should inform you that the city flooded. It honest-to-goodness flooded, during this impressive thunderstorm, slightly post-rush hour. It flooded so badly that concrete steps were transformed into miniature waterfalls, cars were floating away near Winchester Thurston, and some poor lady was forced to wade through waist-deep water to cross an intersection on Shady Avenue, whereupon she informed us that we were probably going to have to turn the car around.

(I should warn you here that what follows is only going to be fond memories of the flood. I am not going to cheapen natural disasters to presume that they don't have the capacity to devastate and cause loads of damage, but I'll leave it up to the Pittsburgh news stations to bring the bad news and the scary numbers. Instead, to lighten the mood, I'll bring you a cheerful take on monsoon-like rain in the Steel City. Okay, disclaimer over.)

I was fascinated by this flood. I am quite the weather aficionado, which is probably one of the reasons that Los Angeles and I never quite got along. And for someone who obsessively checks the Weather Channel, Pittsburgh is an ideal place to live. Once, when I was a child, we had such a terrific ice storm overnight that not only did 1) we have a totally surprising snow day from school, but 2) the neighbor's beagle slid from their front yard the entire way across the space between our houses and into the very bottom of the hill that was our back yard. Imagine my surprise when I was off from school and also needed to assist in an emergency pooch rescue!

But while we all have our favorite snow stories (Blizzard of '93, anyone?), flood stories seem to be much less common. Okay, yes, the Mon Wharf floods all the time, and I remember at least a few times when the 10th Street Bypass has overflown with the Allegheny River, but I'm talking things on a larger scale. I'm talking Charleston, SC style floods, where the only thing you can do is take off your shoes and marvel at where all that water is coming from.

In fact, I just Googled 'notable Pittsburgh floods,' and aside from the ones I am going to mention, the only thing that comes up is from 1937, when the Ohio River apparently went overboard in several different states.

In my life (including last night), I can remember two significant Pittsburgh floods. Well, three, if you count our fifth grade production of "Penn's Woods," a creative Pennsylvania history play that involved a reenactment of the Johnstown Flood where we dumped a gallon jug of water on top of some Lego houses. But that one did not have the same awe-inspiring moments of my first *real* Pittsburgh flood. It was that first true flood that forever endeared me to four inches of rain per hour.

The first gigantic flood was a result of Hurricane Ivan, in September 2004. At the time, I was in grad school and working three jobs, one of which was teaching a high school color guard. Every Friday night, I was stuck attending high school football games instead of joining my classmates for weekend happy hour. You see, the administration had chosen to give our class the worst Friday schedule ever: we were in class from 8:30am straight through until 4 or 4:30. Conveniently however, Mad Mex in Oakland began their happy hour at 4:30pm.

If you've never been to Mad Mex, 'happy hour' in 2006 meant 22 ounce margaritas were only $6.00. To put this in perspective, in Los Angeles, a single-shot well vodka drink would run you about $4.50. What better way to kick off a weekend of heavy studying than a brain freeze from 22 ounces of frozen raspberries and tequila??

But never for me. No, instead, I was braving rush hour traffic on the Liberty Bridge to go watch seventeen year olds try to act like NFL stars for several hours and hear the school's fight song played over, and over, and over (the team went undefeated and made it to the WPIAL playoffs, which managed to extend the season from rainy to snowy). Our entire class was sitting at the bar, unwinding and chowing down on nachos, while I was leading flag warmups on the track.

And then, the fateful day: September 17, 2004. Hurricane Ivan had been raging about in the south, as hurricanes are wont to do, but it was just beginning to travel up north. I was sitting in our OTC Medications afternoon class, dreading the trip out to the South Hills that night, because even though we deal with it all the time, Pittsburgh drivers are notoriously bad at navigating in rainy weather. Suddenly, my phone rang - it was the band director!

The anticipated rainfall was so bad that they actually postponed the football game that night!! SQUEE! I could barely contain my excitement for the remaining two hours of poison ivy self care.

As soon as class let out, I ran to the door like a puppy excited for her first snowfall. And there, outside, was the most torrential downpour I'd ever seen!! The rain was coming down in sheets! By the time I made it the entire way down the hill to my apartment, my pants were soaked up above the knees, and my Birkenstocks were doing that slimy-feeling-thing that they tend to do while wet.

But never one to pass up a cheap margarita opportunity, I dropped my bookbag inside the doorway of my apartment and ran (in the rain) the two blocks to Mad Mex, where six or so of my girlfriends were waiting at the huge round table in the back.

(You know it is a sign that you are supposed to be at Mad Mex when your large group manages to secure that back table.)

We ordered a round of margaritas and nachos, and started the process of tracking down our significant others and families. However, flood-panic had set everybody's tend-and-befriend instincts into overdrive, and the Verizon cell phone lines were jammed (to say nothing of the fact that landline phones were almost definitely out in all areas of the city). I finally got ahold of my parents, who were safe and sound.

By the time our second order of nachos arrived, we decided we had no choice but to wait out the storm at Mad Mex. The second round of 22 ounce margaritas was ordered, and then the third order of nachos... And finally, as the sun was beginning to set, the rain had slowed enough that we were all able to (after remembering how to ask for the check) cash out and go back to our respective homes. I was warm, dry, and asleep by 7:30 that evening.

Ahh, college. And Pittsburgh weather, saving the day in its own backward way.

So last night, when the power went out three times while my husband and I were completing the mortgage application for our new house, and we wound up having to use our broker's laptop screen to generate enough light to see where to sign, I could do little but laugh and shrug. As we were twice rerouted on our drive home from Squirrel Hill, I pointed out each mini lake with an exclamation of, 'look at THAT one!' And as we ran from the car to the back door, all I could think about was where in Bloomfield we could go to get huge, cheap margaritas while we watched the rain fill up the streets...