Top 10 Reasons Why A KISS Football Team Rules

10. Regardless of the action on the field, you're guaranteed to see at least one person spit blood. 

9. Paul Stanley will smash a guitar over the head of the opposing team's starting quarterback at a strategic moment of each game.

8. Halftime of every game will consist of a 20-minute drum solo. 

7. Since placekicker's are a bit spacey to begin with, the LA KISS kicker will always wear one orange shoe and one red shoe. 

6. When was the last time you ate a KISS hotdog on a KISS bun while drinking a KISS beer? Oh and all arena food is cooked by fire-breathers.

5. The LA KISS offense will not run the shot gun formation, rather the much more badass Love Gun formation.

4. Although slowed somewhat by platform turf-shoes, the studded leather uniforms will make the KISS players much harder to tackle.

3. Not only will the t-shirts rule, the t-shirt cannon will be attached to the headstock of a smoking Gibson Les Paul. 

2. Paul Stanley will belt out all in-game announcements over the public address system. "That's a KISS first down!!! Lemme hear ya!!! Awwww-right!" 

And the number one reason:

With Gene and Paul involved, the cheerleaders alone will be worth the price of admission. All the girls will be Hotter Than Hell, wear the number 16 and have Nothin' To Lose.

I don't know about you, but sign me up.

George Jones

George Jones died today evidently. When I was 14 my Twin City team was in Blacksburg, VA for a soccer tournament. The hotel where we stayed was filled with other teams from all over the Southeast...including girls teams. Some of these young women had caught the attention of myself and Martin Hunt who I was rooming with. Needless to say, there was lots of posturing, giggling and parking lot shenanigans...much to the chagrin of the father of the main girl I had set my sights on. He let us know, in no uncertain terms, that he would bash our faces in if we came around to their side of the motel again. This directive was overruled in my brain by raging boy/man hormones, so about 30 minutes later Martin and I found ourselves in a mad, panicked full sprint through the parking lot, chased by this man. I ended up in the motel lounge...probably pale, out of breath and babbling something about having my face bashed in. Martin was nowhere to be found. Long story short, two hefty male bar patrons escorted me back to my room. En route we encountered the face basher who was scraped up and soaking wet from head to toe. During the chase his portly, middle age-yness had caught up with him and he'd tripped and fallen head first into a mud puddle. I found this rather amusing but was still so terrified by this raging man that I dare not show it. The bar patrons had to physically restrain him from getting to me and they personally assured him that if he touched me he'd have to answer to them. (Note: this was the second time I'd been rescued from certain pummeling by strangers...see my Thunderbirds blog post) His anger then turned to a weird, whimpering southern whine as his focus shifted to his ballcap, which he blamed me for ruining. He held it up for us to see, I swear I could almost see his eyes well up. It simply read, "George Jones".

Jesus, Vatican Square Garden confirm Benedict's Retirement

Pope Benedict XVI and the Vatican Fighting Catholics will part ways as of February 28, 2013— an event that seemed fated once the holy franchise acquired Carmelo "The Second Coming" Anthony, an immense talent whose individual praying style clashed with Benedict's spread-the-salvation offense.

The tension between The Pope and Anthony has been building for 13 months, since Anthony arrived in a controversial trade with the Dublin Protestants. It reached a crisis point over the last two weeks, as the Catholics lost 8 of 10 games, while Anthony bristled over his role and lack of ornate headwear.

Finally, on Monday morning, The Pope asked to meet with Jesus and with The Holy Ghost, the Vatican Square Garden chairman. Benedict asked Jesus if he would be open to trading Anthony before Thursday’s 3 p.m. trading deadline, according to a person briefed on the meeting. When Jesus said no, The Pope offered to resign.


“I was surprised,” the Son of God said at a news conference before Monday’s game. “I wasn’t sure exactly what he was saying. So I asked to clarify, ‘How f#%ing stupid are you Benny? I mean, ME! What do you really want to do?’ ”



The decision stunned The Pope's friends, as well as the Catholics’ players, a majority of whom were loyal to Benedict and believed strongly in his system. Many were angry and disappointed, believing that the figure head may be being pushed out.

“The vast majority of our team wouldn’t be in the situation we are without Benny,” said one player, who asked not to be identified because of the The Vatican's charged political atmosphere. He added, “If God Almighty gets behind Benny and gives him a two-year extension, this doesn’t happen.”

Holy Trinity, LLC characterized the parting as mutual, but the decision to walk away “was absolutely his holiness',” according to a Vatican Square Garden associate.

The Catholics were 18-24 as of Monday morning, and in danger of missing the holy playoffs. Their schedule for the final 23 games is brutal, which could only have exacerbated the tension between the figure head and the star savior.

Benedict never fully sold Melo on his offensive system, which is predicated on player movement and the premise that whoever is open saves a soul. Anthony thrives in isolation play — the antithesis of The Pope's philosophy — and he is most comfortable as a primary soul-handler.

“It’s an unfortunate situation,” Anthony said after the Fighting Catholics’ 121-79 rout of the Jerusalem Trail Blazers. “There’s no bad holy blood between myself, Benny, the guys on the team or anything like that. We respect Benny's decision. He said he did what was best for the church at this point in time right now.”

Asked if he was to blame for The Pope's resignation, Anthony said: “Sh#t, I don't know. I just go out and pray. I pray my ass off every time I walk on that court, but I can't walk on water."

The Catholics style will presumably be tailored more to Anthony’s game now that Benedict will be gone. The Fighting Catholics are expected to conduct a broad search for a new Pope. Phil Jackson will top the wish list, although the chances that he will come out of retirement, or want to wear a robe in public are slim.

Benedict was in the final season of a four-year, $24 million contract. He leaves with a record of 121-167, a mark that largely reflects the Fighting Catholics’ messy rebuilding process over his first two years. His best season was in 2010-11, when the team went 42-40 — their first winning record in 10 years — and made the holy playoffs. They were swept by the New Jersey Devils in the first round.

Cottage Squeeze: Does My Ass Look Fat In These Tights?

In a recent Facebook status update, I asked the women of the world to please have the courtesy of checking a four-way mirror before venturing out into an innocent, unsuspecting public wearing tights. Doing so would give these women at least a basic frame of reference for how they picture their ass looking in tights vs what it actually looks like.

This status update ignited a firestorm of comments (mostly in agreement) and handful of personal messages. The gist of the personal messages was that I have a warped female body image and that I should die. Allow me to answer the body image accusation. I do not have a warped female body image.

Who wouldn't spread marmalade on Nigella's muffin?

Ok, so if it's proof you desire I offer the stunningly sexy Nigella Lawson as an example. No one can accuse Nigella of skipping a meal, but I find her utterly irresistible. I mean wow, in the words of Briscoe Darling, she "twangs my buds". So don't accuse me of only having my head turned by the svelte, blonde goddess. But (pun intended) I do not want to see Nigella cram every inch of her ample British backside into a pair of Under Armour compression pants. Does she have the right to? Legally, yes...in the interest of public decency, no.

I'm speculating here but I believe the majority of these incidences - women cramming their squishy thighs and lumpy butts into human sausage casings - are due to temporary, weight-loss inspired insanity. Here's what I mean. A woman drops a few lbs by dieting or working out and she feels empowered...rightfully so. I get it.

Yes, go out and buy some jeans that aren't tailored to also serve as an emergency shelter. Yes, buy some sexy new undergarments that you don't confuse in the laundry basket as bed linens. But don't get cocky. Don't let this new sense of empowerment cloud your judgement. Just because compression workout gear, yoga pants, and spandex are readily available for purchase doesn't mean you should take the plunge.

So if skin-tight leggings are in your wardrobe do us all a favor, get yourself a four-way mirror and size things up. There can be no gray area here...it is a hard yes or flabby no. Here are examples of both:

YES

NO

It's pretty simple ladies. Do the right thing. If you're unsure, ask a friend. And order a pair of those boots while you're at it.

Oh, and guys, the same goes for us. No sleeveless shirts or plum smugglers without a proper self evaluation. That's it for now.  

MM&M presents The Year In Sound: The Best of 2012

Each Christmas since 2003 I've put together a collection of the year's best songs (as deemed by yours truly of course) for friends and family. It's become somewhat of a tradition and from what I gather, people seem to dig my selections. I decided that this year I would go public with my list and publish it here with YouTube links to all the songs. If you'd like a copy on compact disc just let me know and I'll hook you up.

Believe me, I don't view myself as some sort of musical guru but my life is and has always been a constant quest to find new music to obsess over. In the process I occasionally unearth a few underground gems. I use the term underground loosely as, just like everything in life, it's all relative. To some people reading this, Black Keys are about as underground as The Rolling Stones...but to others they are hundreds of miles below the surface of modern pop radio. So if you're reading or listening to this list and trying to gauge my indie cred, forget it. I'm too old to worry about any of that nonsense and besides, every shred of my indie credibility was lost at a James Taylor concert on New Year's Eve 1999 in Raleigh, NC. Yes, because of my ex-wife (full blame goes on her) I rang in the new Millennium in an arena filled with 14,000 loafer-wearing, fifty-somethings listening to a pasty, old bald guy whining some drivel about fire, rain and going to Carolina in his mind. I watched the needle of my coolness meter drop faster than Facebook stock. Anyone care to share a ringing-in-the-new-Millennium story worse than that? I dare you to come up with one. I still bear the emotional scars.

How do I determine my selections? Easy, I keep a running, chronological list throughout the year of all the songs that make an impact on me. Rules? There are no rules. You'll notice most of the cuts are new releases but occasionally an older song comes along and knocks my socks off and when it does, it makes the list. 2012 was a particularly good year and a handful of great songs ended up on the cutting room floor.

So without further adieu, here's that was in heavy rotation for me in 2012 (just click the link to open the song):

Nada Surf - Jules and Jim from The Stars Are Indifferent To Astronomy
Best Lyric: "I've never felt such a pull before I'm hypnotized, I'm destabilized."
Notes: A real comeback record for what could be my favorite band of all-time. I got to see them end their 2012 tour a couple of weeks ago in NYC with my daughter. She grew up with Nada Surf as the soundtrack to countless drives to school and soccer tournaments. It was an unforgettable night and an amazing show. Allison knew every song, including this one.

Black Keys - Money Maker from El Camino
Notes: I saw Black Keys in Charlotte in 2011 opening for Kings of Leon. The ticket was free (thanks Brannon Helms) and the Keys were great...as were opening act The Whigs (see Best of 2011). Kings of Leon solidified themselves in my mind as completely worthless, overblown posers. I watched one song, vomited in the bushes and left.

First Aid Kit - The Lion's Roar from The Lion's Roar
Best Lyric: "I'm a goddam coward but then again so are you."
Notes: Something wonderfully haunting and Led Zeppelin IV-ish about this tune. Maybe the flute-y, mystical vibe? Does anyone remember laughter?

fun. - All Alone from Some Nights
Notes: From the ashes of one of my favorite pop bands, The Format, sprang fun. The entire record is a study in clever, harmony-filled, hook-laden pop. Also my vote for album cover of the year. fun. Fact: The band claims that Some Nights is not a concept album per se, but admits that the compositions really came together after the title of the album was settled on. The title was inspired by how one's personality can change on a given night. Sounds like a concept to me. Either way, it's fantastic.


The Shins - No Way Down from Port of Morrow
Best Lyric: "Dig yourself a beautiful grave, everything you could want. Maybe those invisible slaves are too far away for a ghost to haunt."
Notes: Another redemption album for a great band who had fallen off my map over the last few years.

The Book of Mormon - Hello! from Book of Mormon: The Original Cast Recordings
Notes: I can't convey how much I love this soundtrack. I tried and tried to get tickets to the matinee of this show on Broadway on my recent trip but it had been sold out for months. Tickets the day of the show for the bloody matinee were going for $1000 each. Watch this live version of Hello! from the 2012 Emmy Awards and you'll understand why. But $1000? Jesus Christ! (of Latter Day Saints)

Brendan Benson - Light of Day from What Kind of World
Best Lyric: "You'll never know my love, that sweet release of death."
Notes: Brendan Benson re-emerges from the shadow of his high school pal Jack White with a pretty solid album. Its initial luster began to fade on repeated listens but this fantastic track ended up making the cut. Think McCartney meets Townshend - especially the latter at the 0:45 second mark when it sounds like Pete's tele ripping those rhythm guitar exclamation points.

Electric Guest - Awake from Mondo
Notes: This is one of those one-off tunes that really hit me for reasons that I can't quite pinpoint. But that's the beauty of music I suppose. I found myself compelled to leave it off the list but it kept slipping its bass line and girl-chorus vocals on my tongue like a little cube of acid-laced sugar.

Jack White - Freedom at 21 from Blunderbuss
Notes: This was one of those albums that you had to listen to for about a week to finally "get it". Jack is not everyone's cup of tea, but give him a chance. His songs and melodies have a way of creeping in through the back door of your brain and plopping down on the couch of your psyche like an annoying teenage brother.

Keane - Silenced By The Night from Strangeland
Best Lyric: "If I am a river, you are the ocean. Got the radio on, got the wheels in motion."
Notes: If you ever want proof of my direct British roots, either have a conversation with my mother or put this song on. There's more pasty, British romantic melancholy jammed into this 3:31 than you can wrap your mind around. Being the hopeless romantic (with a penchant for melancholy) that I am, no wonder this song is one of my favorites of the year. Yet another comeback album as Keane's last two releases made me want to turn in my membership to the British Melancholy Appreciation Society and Brooding Club.

The Fire Apes - 'Cause You Don't from A Life In Letters
Notes: I stumbled across this fantastic tune thanks to my pal Olivia Frain. She had posted it on Facebook and knowing how great her taste is, I gave it a listen. I downloaded the entire album immediately and it did not disappoint. Fans of power pop, if you have not heard the Apes you need to recognize.

Angus Stone - The Blue Door from Broken Brights
Best Lyric: "Her cotton candy sugared lips does make the boys fall to bits. But when she walks you best behave. You best be ready to fall into her grave."
Notes: More flute-y, atmospheric goodness! The textures in this song and all over Broken Brights are a thing of beauty.

Tenacious D - Rize of The Fenix from Rize of The Fenix
Best Lyric: "Bossanova is a beautiful dance."
Notes: I did not include this song on here solely because Jables and KG make me laugh til I cry...it's also because this song rocks on about 20 different levels. Once again, a nice return to form for the D. Pick of Destiny was pretty awful on the heels of their eponymous debut full-length...and the movie was borderline unwatchable. The song 39 deserves honorable mention on here...so if you're a D fan and you haven't heard it, click here. Bruce Springsteen fans beware...Mr. Black channels him pretty well and he writes better songs to boot.

P.S. Want to laugh til you vomit? Butt Baby will do the trick. My friend Lee Reavis (Lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee lee) watched me laugh so hard watching Butt Baby he thought my head might explode.

Redd Kross - Stay Away From Downtown*
Redd Kross - Winter Blues 
from Researching The Blues

Notes: Not much to say here folks...hand Redd Kross album of the year, song of the year* and every other accolade you can come up with for Researching The Blues. It's been 15 years since 1997's Show World and I was beginning to think the sentimental choice as my all-time favorite band was never going to release any new material. Return to form? How about with a fucking vengeance. 10 songs, just over 30 minutes of absolute perfection. Consider the entire record a part of this year's "Best of"...no shit.

The Sheepdogs - Feeling Good from The Sheepdogs
Notes: Nothing super special about this one. It is after all, as the title explains, about feeling good and it captures that sentiment nicely. Think Gary Glitter meets Sloan meets Sam Roberts. Who is Sam Roberts? He's worth a Google that's for sure.

Rival Sons - Manifest Destiny Pt. 1 from Head Down
Notes: The Rival Sons are the real deal. Even Ed Bumgardner says so, so there. Yes, they wear their love for big '70's riffage on their polyester and velvet sleeves. Yes, they have a drummer who channels John Bonham. But Lenny Kravitz derivative, phony, re-hashers they are not. They are huge in Europe, but of course, dopey Americans prefer to listen to complete shit. For the uninitiated, I suggest starting with their eponymous EP. One listen to "Get What's Comin" and you'll just know. As for this track, it's 8 minutes long with a "When The Levee Breaks" vibe...the last 5 minutes or so is trance-inducing guitar wizardry that you simply don't hear anymore. Any song where you can hear the guitar player switching pickups on his guitar between phrases and then launching into the stratosphere is fucking fantastic in my book. When I say trance-inducing I'm not kidding. On my lunch breaks this fall I'd sit in the sun and listen to music. On at least two occasions during this song I either blacked out or was transported to a galaxy of guitar hypnosis. The beautiful instrumental "Nava" leads into this song and I consider them a set, so I'll include it here.

The Sword - Apocryphon from Apocryphon
Best Lyric: "Enthrall to the demiurge. We are awake escape."
Notes: Headbanger alert! Turn this bitch up to 11 kids. Once again, these Austin, TX riff-mongers are the real deal. The singer and guitar tones remind me a bit of Sabbath's Volume Four and that's a damn fine thing. When I heard this band for the first time I couldn't help but think about my brothers in volume and riffage, Fling Hammer super studs Matt Brennan and Morris Mitchell. The drummer is almost as badass as Matt and as Morris said about them, "Any band where the guitar player plays an Ibanez PS10 is cool as fuck in my book."

Gary Clark Jr. - Ain't Messin Round from Blak and Blue
Notes: Leave it to NYC to provide me with an eleventh hour addition to this collection. I heard this while Christmas shopping in the Big Apple and had to immediately stop in my tracks, Google the lyrics to find out who it was. Just try to:

1. Not like it.
2. Sit completely still while listening to the entire song.

Soul Asylum - Cruel Intentions from Delayed Reaction
Notes: I'm kinda breaking the rules here and not going chronologically with this one. But it seems like such a nice closer to this collection. Who better embodies the "Year of The Comeback" than Soul Asylum? This album was probably heard by about 5 people but it had some truly inspired moments. Forget "Runaway Train", "Black Gold" and all that corporate shit they put out in the mid '90's that fucking ruined this band. Remember 1988's "Hang Time" and (most of) 1990's "...And The Horse They Rode In On". I was lucky enough to play a few shows with these guys in 1991, right before the flood gates opened up for them. At the time they were my favorite band on the planet so getting to open for them in front of crazed, sold-out clubs was total orgasmic joy for me. The singer/songwriter, Dave Pirner, was a bit of a recluse and I only had one real conversation with him prior to our show in Memphis. He walked up to me and told me he really liked the Fender Telecaster I was using. For a small white man he had the deepest voice I've ever heard. It was somewhat freakish and I remembered being startled by it. I think it actually had a calming affect on me when I was face to face with my hero, humanizing him somewhat (ask me about meeting Paul Stanley this year if you want a good laugh at my goofy ass). Anyway, we had a nice chat about my band at the time, Hardsoul Poets and the design on our t-shirts which he thought was really amusing. I remember he really liked when I told him of the colossal nerdiness of the guys in Toad The Wet Sprocket. Especially the story of Mike Mitschele and I going on their bus to "party" with them, only to end up watching them eat apples. Fast forward to 2012...this song is really fantastic. I think Dave should write more songs like this and do a lounge tour. I'll see you in the front row.

Charlotte Bobcats: Not On Your Fucking Life

I'm a sports fan. I would even go so far as to consider myself a rabid sports fan (less any foaming at the mouth, hydrophobia, etc). When it comes to sports there's not much I can't find interesting or entertaining enough to watch or attend. NOTE: NASCAR is not a sport and if you have an issue with my saying that, put down the bag of pork rinds and write your own damn blog. Anyway, I can even find Major League Baseball entertaining during the final round or two of the playoffs. This is surprising because baseball is typically no more engaging than watching a bowl of goldfish swim around for three and a half hours.

Bottom line: I like sports. I've paid good chunks of hard-earned money to attend sporting events all over the country. The NHL Winter Classic in Philadelphia last year is a prime example. I have season tickets to (as I do my best Rodney Dangerfield collar-pull) Wake Forest football games. I've gone to countless New York Rangers games from Atlanta to Raleigh to DC to NY, collegiate games at Alabama, Clemson, UNC, State, USC...as well as minor-league baseball and hockey games all over the Southeast and as far away as Las Vegas.



Bob Johnson - Arrogant Jerk



Right down I-85 in Charlotte, the place of my birth...there exists an NBA team called the Charlotte Bobcats. If you were unaware of this team's existence, I'm not surprised and I apologize for letting this emaciated, pathetic Bobcat out of the bag. Ignorance is bliss as they say. I'm profoundly sorry that I have brought the knowledge of this piece of shit basketball franchise into your world. You were far better off before. Not only are they the single worst team in NBA history (fact), the derivation of their name is stupid and arrogant. Named for former owner Bob Johnson, they should have just gone with the Charlotte Johnsons...at least that would make me smile. And they could have had a hairy, withered, flaccid wang as their logo.

These lazy, overpaid, worthless millionaires lost a game a couple of nights ago by the score of 114-69. It was 64-24 at halftime. They scored as many points as a typical girls high school team. What the hell. This got me to thinking...what would it actually take for me, a huge sports fan, native of Charlotte, to actually attend a Bobcats game. My immediate, knee-jerk, gut reaction is "not a goddam thing in this world". But after contemplating the possibilities, maybe. Insert Jim Carrey's Dumb and Dumber line here: "So you're telling me there's a chance!"

So here goes, this is my minimum offer to anyone who would like to have me watch a bunch of wealthy, arrogant thugs walk around for an hour and a half (occasionally breaking into a full jog and clanging an orange ball off a metal rim while simultaneously congratulating themselves and thanking god for making them play good):



The only thing worth looking at



1. All expenses paid, round-trip limo ride from Winston-Salem to the arena. Drinks must be provided. I'm not talking Coke and Gatorade here folks, top shelf cocktails only.

2. Pre-game dinner at a steakhouse of my choosing in downtown Charlotte...drinks and tip included.

3. A pre-game visit to the owner's box to meet Michael Jordan. During this meeting I will taunt him into wagering a large sum of money that his team won't lose by at least 30 points.

4. Courtside VIP seats to a "game" featuring either the Los Angeles Lakers or Miami Heat as the Bobcat's "opponent". In close proximity to the Bobcats cheerleaders please.
5. Seat-side service of complimentary snacks, drinks and beer
6. The understanding that I only have to stay until halftime or until the Bobcats are trailing by 30+.

Too much to ask? Probably. Hopefully. But if the unfortunate day might come that I might actually have to witness this colossal waste of money and resources in person, I will make the most of it. Until then, What time is that jai alai match on ESPN 12 tonight?

What’s The Word? Long Live the Carolina Thunderbirds

For those of you that have been around me for more than five minutes, you know my insatiable passion for all things ice hockey. Given the current NHL lockout (insert expletives here), I thought I would dabble in a bit of local hockey nostalgia.

Coincidentally, it happens to be the 30^th anniversary of the Carolina Thunderbirds 1982-1983 Atlantic Coast Hockey League championship season. Who were the Carolina Thunderbirds? If you’ve asked this question, you probably did not live in Winston-Salem from 1981 through 1991. A time when flowing locks of hockey hair (a.k.a the mullet), big fluffy moustaches and blood stains were as much a part of a hockey player’s uniform as were his skates. Want a quick course in minor league hockey from this era? Get your hands on George Roy Hill’s irreverent, vulgar and hilariously realistic 1977 movie, Slapshot. Starring Paul Newman and based on a true story, this movie is generally regarded as one of the best sports movies of all-time. It even has a little known, direct tie in with the Carolina Thunderbirds that I will mention in a bit. Prior to pressing play you’ll want to evacuate all children under the age of 17 from earshot. Then you can spend two hours laughing until you pee yourself - just like Nick Brophy!

The Carolina Thunderbirds were not Winston-Salem’s first pro hockey team. That honor belongs to the Winston-Salem Polar Twins (1973-1977) of the Southern Hockey League. Yep, the Southern Hockey League. Even the name reeks of shoddy ice and a cold, hard punch in face. My father, a recent Canadian immigrant, was an off-ice official for the Twins and I vaguely remember going to games with him. Bundled up in hat and coat, squirming in the red wooden seats of the old Memorial Coliseum, I remember being mesmerized by the whole experience. Of course I was equally excited by the antics of the team’s two polar bear mascots as I was by the action on the ice, but hey I was five.

The Polar Twins played teams with names like the Greensboro Generals, Roanoke Valley Rebels and the (I’m not making this up) Macon (clears throat) Whoopee. The Rebels used to skate out for the pre-game warm-up waving a huge Confederate flag and making the occasional obscene gesture to the seething, jeering crowds of the home team. Cue Skynyrd’s Saturday Night Special, stuff a few mini bottles of Rebel Yell in your pocket and get ready for some southern-fried hockey. This was not an era of family entertainment. It was an era of cold, smoke-filled arenas with short-tempered players and patrons. Being five years old and going from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood to this screaming, board-checking, fist-flying, goal-scoring frenzy was true sensory overload. I remember HATING the visiting teams and their players. The games felt personal…even to a child.

I was seven when the team folded in the winter of 1977. I remember going to the rink with my dad to watch a practice and getting the news. It’s difficult to pinpoint memories from that age, but the drive home that night was something that has always stayed with me. Lying on the back seat watching tall, moonlit trees pass by with a distinct sense of fear and melancholy. My first real taste of  “all good things must come to an end”? Maybe so.

It wasn’t until the late fall of 1981 that hockey made its return. You have to remember that back then, especially in the southeastern United States, hockey wasn’t on television. Unless of course, there was a miracle happening on the weird, Smurf-blue ice in Lake Placid, NY. Do you believe in miracles? YES! Hockey was on it's way back to tobacco country. I fully credit the 1980 USA ice hockey gold medal for generating the interest needed to bring a team back to the Coliseum.

The Winston-Salem Thunderbirds were embarrassingly bad that first season, winning only 14 of 50 regular season games in the recently founded Atlantic Coast Hockey League. But to me the “T-Birds” as they came to be known, were larger than life. That inaugural campaign fueled and reinforced a ravenous passion and devotion in me for not only the Thunderbirds, but for the sport of ice hockey as well.

Despite the fact that three of the seven teams folded before end of the season, the ACHL regrouped, added new teams and soldiered on. Attendance was solid given the poor results on the ice, and the scrappy T-Birds earned another season to win over the Camel City. And win they did.

One notable change that second season was a new name and logo, goodbye Winston-Salem, hello Carolina Thunderbirds. The biggest transformation though was on the ice. The T-Birds dominated, winning an astonishing 51 of 68 regular season games on their way to an undefeated post season and a runaway ACHL Championship.



The names still resonate through my mind like the chiming of a victory bell: Dave Watson, Mike Brisbois, Randy Irving, Peter Dunkley and goalie extraordinaire Yves Dechene, just to name just a few. But my favorite Thunderbird, Michel Lanouette, had the flowing locks of a young Jaromir Jagr and (seemingly) the speed and scoring touch of Alex Ovechkin at his best. Lanouette was electrifying and unstoppable that year, posting 41 goals and 44 assists in 61 games. He notched 14 points in eight playoff games as the T-Birds swept the hated Mohawk Valley Stars four games to none to clinch the championship.

Fans packed the Memorial Coliseum for every game that season. Crowds of 3,500 to 4,000 fans a game was not uncommon. The old arena wasn’t pretty, in fact it looked exactly like an overgrown version of Gomer Pyle’s quonset hut. But gaw-a-haw-lee, what it lacked in style it made up for in atmosphere. Game nights from back then are truly some of the treasured memories of my youth.

Handwritten banners taunting visiting teams and players hung from every corner of the building. Cow bells, horns and the fan led call-and-response chant of “WHAT’S THE WORD? THUNDERBIRDS!” bounced of the concrete floors and echoed through the lofty rafters of that wonderful old building. By the start of the third period, a thick, sweet-smelling fog of cigar smoke laced with the aroma of fresh corn dogs hung about thirty feet above the ice. It shifted and swayed, gently responding to subtle wind currents generated by the fast-moving action below. Most games I attended by myself. I’d beg and plead with my mom to let me do odd jobs around the house so that I could earn the $4.50 I needed to get in to watch my heroes in the red, white and black. She’d drop me off at the box office with explicit instructions: “Be careful and call me right before the third period starts.” We had the timing of our pick-up ritual down to a science.

One game in particular comes to mind where I blatantly disregarded my mother’s “be careful” rule. I would typically buy a seat in the upper regions of the arena and move around to different seats closer to the ice during the game. I preferred to sit at the end where the T-Birds were on offense as I was (and still am) a goal-minded fan. Yes, the fighting could be exciting, but for me the blast of the red goal light, the deafening roar of the crowd and the player’s sticks raised in primal celebration really floated my boat. For some reason at this particular game I decided to plant myself right behind the Erie Golden Blades’ bench. As in most games, a fight broke out on the ice. Evidently this must have been a particularly testy match, as while the fight was raging on the ice, the fans in my vicinity began engaging the Erie players and coaches in a very heated verbal exchange. Being 12 years old and possessing a somewhat non-threatening voice and limited expletive vocabulary, I did what any red-blooded, die hard T-Birds fan would do to get my point across: I spit over the glass.  

I first realized that this was a grave error on my part when the juicy little projectile cleared the glass. I could feel the eyes of the Golden Blades’ bench transfixed on its trajectory like awestruck spectators watching a rocket scream through the stratosphere. Well, Houston, the Eagle has landed…right on the head of Erie head coach Jim Mikol. Uh oh. The image of what happened next is still deeply ingrained in my psyche. In one quick motion Mr. Mikol procured a stick from one of his player’s and proceeded to hoist it high above his head and then smash it down tomahawk-style against the top of the plexi-glass directly over my head. Fury and ferocity like this is typically limited to nature documentaries of charging, psychotic rhinos. Good old-fashioned nostril-flaring, red-faced rage. This man wanted to MURDER me and I deserved it. It turned me from bratty 12 year-old to cowering, whimpering child in an instant. Then, when he began to scale the glass I believe I blacked out for a second. Thankfully, the crowd and in particular two large, blue collar guys who looked ready to beat the living daylights out of any Canadian in a suit, were on my side. Cooler heads prevailed and the coach was corralled by his players and assistants moments before he made it over the glass to beat me to death. I emerged from under the seats with my protectors at my side feeling empowered by a renewed sense of community and victory. That lasted about three seconds as one of my defenders grabbed my arm hard, looked me dead in the face and said, “You’re one lucky kid. Next time you spit on anyone I hope they give you exactly what you deserve. Now get outta here.” He shoved me towards the aisle and I spent the next two days shaking. Lesson learned.

The Thunderbirds thrived for years and had a devoted legion of fans who stuck with the team through good and bad. Between 1983 and 1991 T-Birds fans witnessed two more ACHL championships, the inaugural ECHL Riley Cup Championship, a losing season, and two league changes. But unfortunately, loyal fan support and success on the ice couldn’t save the Thunderbirds. In my opinion, end came when the city demolished the Memorial Coliseum and constructed the current building. No offense to Lawrence Joel, and the “new” coliseum is a top-notch venue, but the soul, spirit and heart of minor league hockey was lost when that building came down. The Thunderbirds were exiled to the LJVM Annex for the 1989 - 1990 season, what was to be their next to last.

I saw the writing on the freshly painted walls when I brought some of my college buddies home for a game shortly after the team took up residence in the Annex. As I walked through the doors I immediately knew it was over. This tiny arena seemed completely devoid of anything hockey. With its gray plastic seats, gigantic pastel art-deco wall hangings behind one of the goals, it was an absolute nightmare. It looked like an ice chalet for children, designed by an old woman with bad taste. I tried so hard to get into the game but it was an exercise in futility. Visions of tall trees whizzing by in the silver moonlight flooded my brain. The team moved to Wheeling, West Virginia the next year and took a part of me with them.

I moved back to Winston a few years later and wholeheartedly supported every failed attempt to bring a hockey team back. The Mammoths, IceHawks, T-Birds, Polar Twins and Cyclones all suffered short, quick deaths…choked out by pastel wall hangings in a lifeless, silent and empty building. I even reached out to the management of the Cyclones before they began their first season in a desperate attempt to give them some tips on what the team needed to do to succeed. To their credit their coach/GM actually called me and had me in for brainstorming session. But they were on a shoestring budget, handcuffed by the management of the Annex and could only do so much. I think I took my daughter to one game that first season and never returned. It hurt me to watch it.

Could hockey come back to Winston-Salem? Maybe, but it would never live up to my memories. And for God’s sake, if it does, please don’t let whoever named the Winston-Salem Dash within 500 feet of the planning sessions.

So now seems like a good time for my little known tidbit about the fantastic Thunderbirds/Slapshot connection. In one memorable scene from the movie, the team’s bus driver is shown bashing the side of the bus with a sledgehammer. When asked why, he simply responds, “I'm making it look mean.” The Thunderbirds used the actual bus from the movie for several seasons, complete with dents. You can’t make this stuff up, folks.

At this point I’ve happily resigned myself to occasionally breaking out my Thunderbirds t-shirt on special occasions and wearing it with pride. So if you see me sporting it sometime say hello and relive your favorite Thunderbirds memory with me if you have one. I’d love to hear it. Oh, and don’t tell my mom about the spitting incident.