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Didn't know what photo to use for a fantasy hockey post, so I just picked one. I hope that's okay. Hey, Marty...

Some subjects drop in your lap and you sit there with a blank Word screen going, “Where to start? Where… to… start?”

Not because I don’t have a lot to say, but because there’s just so much.

That subject this week originates over in Baseball Land, where CBS Sports is offering a fantasy baseball game called Baseball Boyfriend. The company that created the app even bought the URL BaseballBoyfriend.com for this endeavor. I really would have thought Alyssa Milano would have owned that URL already.

(BTW, I promise I’ll get to the hockey here in a minute, despite the fact that I’m sitting here wearing a Toronto Blue Jays hoodie. Don’t hate. Girl’s got to have a summer hobby.)

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Except for being massively attractive, rich, and elegant, we beer league goalie know how you feel there, Henrik.

I’m getting my goalie mask painted soon, and for a beer league goalie, that’s a pretty big deal.

Unlike pro players, you generally only get one or two shots at making your paint special because it may be the only paint job you ever get. Not because it’s crazy expensive, but it isn’t cheap either, and it’s absolutely the least necessary thing you could ever pay for in terms of goalie gear.

But because of the anonymity of the position (guys I’ve played with for 2 years, and who get an email every game day saying who’s in net, still call me “goalie”), your gear is your identification, your mask paint especially.

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I don’t like the Canadiens. More specifically, I don’t like their fans. (Not YOU of course. You’re awesome.) So, that’s where we’re starting from.

I do like goalies, however, and Carey Price is one of those, so he slips through the insidious cracks of “typical Montreal” obnoxiousness.

Still, his affiliation with a team I dislike has kept him at arm’s length, meaning I’ve watched his career somewhat clinically, more as a student of the position.

And few players provide such an interesting study in the mental challenges of pro hockey – in balancing swagger and ego with professionalism.

So, as we sit here on the cusp of Price’s third NHL All-Star Game, I thought it would be fun to look back at his roller coaster of a career that’s gone from Jesus Price to trade bait back to All-Star again.

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Owning a hockey team is SUPER FUN, right, Chuck?... Right?... Chuck?...

About once a week, I think, “Gosh, wouldn’t it be great to have a job in hockey so I could get paid to obsess over hockey?”

But then I remember the egos in sports management, the low pay because profit margins are thin, and the long hours for that low pay, etc. etc.

At which point I realize the gig I really want is just being rich and OWNING a team. Brilliant!

Now, I haven’t figured out the being rich part because, well, I’m a writer . So, my only option is to start playing the lottery, which I’m going to start doing right away, because – you guys – the Wheeling Nailers are for sale!

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The most unflattering picture of Marty Havlat I could find.

Fandom is a tricky subject. Everybody has their own way of being a fan, their definition of “real fan,” their guiding principles, and their easily-pushed buttons (good and bad).

Your relationship to sports is as unique as your fingerprint. Sure, I find plenty of gals who also have an extra special thing for goalies, but I can’t find one who agrees on WHICH goalies. For instance, how many of you have a 20×30 poster of Barry Brust over your desk?

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John Vanbiesbrouck joined us at the Winter Classic for our latest episode of Face Paint (fun fact: he’s one of two NHLers in the history of the League to have every vowel in his last name, along with fellow Ranger Reijo Ruotsalainen).

Check out why the Beezer chose to wear the helmet he did:

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"I'm hurt and they're throwing bras?" "It's not you, Marty. it's me."

It’s happened over and over in my years of watching hockey: One of my players goes down injured, my heart races, panic creeps in, and I fire laser beams of righteous indignation at the opponent who caused it, while fighting back that “what if it’s really serious?” lump in my throat.

Meanwhile, the team’s athletic trainer calmly, carefully traverses the ice, sometimes grasping the arm of a player with his latex-gloved hand to get to his patient as quickly as possible. (Bonus: This distracts me from my worries for a few seconds, pondering the pleasures of gripping that player’s strong, steady arms. *swoon*)

When they do get there, kneeling on the ice, arm around their charge, assessing the damage and reassuring the injured player, I am so grateful for their calm presence that I can’t help but love them for taking care of “my boys.”

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