Viva Las Phantoms

IF IT’S MAY,
IT MUST BE TIME TO PLAY HOCKEY IN THE DESERT
By Greg Rolnick

Every year, Hockey North America runs numerous weekend tournaments all over the United States and Canada. Now, as tempting as trips to Cleveland, Detroit, and Calgary may be, the big two are Toronto (for the league championships, which you have to qualify for) and Las Vegas (where if you can show up to your game in the morning and skate in a semi-straight line you’re already a big winner).

After unfortunately coming this close to qualifying for Toronto, but falling two victories short, (most of) the Chicago Phantoms were off to Vegas in May of 2005 to try and win a few hockey games, and some extra cash at the casino tables.

The HNA Las Vegas Tournament was to be held at the newly expanded and upgraded Las Vegas Ice Center, located at 9295 W. Flamingo Rd., about eight miles off of the south end of the Strip. Twelve teams were divided into three tiers. The highest tier was the Luxor, the middle tier the Mirage, and the bottom tier, the Mandalay. Naturally, the Phantoms, only a year or so out of beginner school, were in the Mandalay (along with the DC Wildcats, Minnesota Wild, and Vancouver Outlaws).

The schedule called for three games in two days, with the possibility of a fourth (and championship match), if we finished in either first or second place in the standings. Consequently, the overall schedule read thusly:

Game 1 = Friday @ 6pm vs. the Vancouver Outlaws
Game 2 = Saturday @ 8:30am vs. the Minnesota Wild
Game 3 = Saturday @ 3:15pm vs. the DC Wildcats
Game 4 = Sunday @ 9:45am (if we qualify)

With all of this in mind, we had set our arrival for late Thursday night, giving us plenty of time to wander the Strip, consume copious amounts, and drop even more cash at the tables, without fear of an early game hangover.

I should probably explain just who “we” were…

With six teammates unfortunately unable to attend, the Phantoms’ Vegas contingency consisted of 10 skaters (or 2 full lines), and one goalie (who just so happens to be a former Sin City resident).

The Roster:

OFFENSIVE LINE 1:
Michael Boyd • #13 • LW
The Captain. Known for his shot from the top of the circle, which has an innate ability to squeeze past the goalie’s pads on the near side. Boyd walks the same fine line between skill and luck on the casino floor, whether playing slots or cards.

Jeremy Campbell • #28 • C
The MVP. JC is the Phantoms’ go-to guy on the ice, strong on the puck, and able to stickhandle through most modern phone booths. As the youngest member of the team, and one who has never been to Vegas before, JC is easily the most corruptible.

Bo Coonce • #88 • RW
The Grinder. Bo may not be the Phantoms’ most skilled player, but he is possibly the most fearless. Unafraid to crash the boards or dig the puck out of the corner, Bo is also relied on for unruffled optimism both on the ice and at the blackjack table.

DEFENSIVE PAIR 1:
Mike Steinert • #66 • LD
The Canuck. One of the Phantoms’ best skaters, Steinert confounds opponents by sticking with them at all times. As our token Canadian for the trip, Steinert is expected to provide insight into playing the boys from Vancouver.

Dan Phillips • #5 • RD
The Shot. Possessor of the hardest slap shot on the team, Dan is who we look for at the point on power plays. As the oldest member of the team, he is sharing a room with JC, and promises to teach him all about survival under the neon lights.

OFFENSIVE LINE 2:
James Abella • #3 • LW
The Grin. A two-way player, James is able to create offensive opportunities, and even use his imposing 5’7” frame to slow down opposing forwards. Unflappable in the face of adversity, if he ever gets upset about things, we’d never know.

Randy Cochran • #44 • C
The Fisher King. An offensive powerhouse, Randy finds the back of the net as easily as he finds big-mouthed bass in the streams of Montana. Full of intensity on the ice, his off-ice drink choices have been known to raise a few eyebrows.

Greg Rolnick • #9 • RW
The Rocket. The fastest Phantom, Rolnick lives for breakaways, but has unfortunately been known to occasionally misgauge his speed and over skate the puck. Never silent on the bench, his mouth often moves as quickly as his feet.

DEFENSIVE PAIR 2:
Scott Battle • #10 • LD
The Mouth. Adroit at making tight turns with the puck, losing his defender, and finding the open pass, Scott is the Phantoms’ best offensive defenseman. He is also the quietest. Brevity is his byword. Well, if he talked it would be.

Jay Smith • #17 • RD
The Comic. A solid defenseman, Jay isn’t afraid to put his body in front of an oncoming shot. Annoyed, irritated, a touch disappointed, but never afraid. Off the ice, his sardonic wit and amazing ability with the one-liners keeps the team loose.

THE GOALIE:
AJ Brandt • #21 • G
The Big Toe. The Phantoms’ anchor, AJ looms large in the net. His excellent stick control creates numerous quick breaks, and his fancy glove work is a thing of beauty. Sad as it is, AJ can’t seem to shake his crippling addiction to Del Taco.

THURSDAY, MAY 12, 2005 – 7:15pm – O’HARE – GATE B18

Boyd, Jay, James, and JC are flying on Southwest and leaving from Midway. They are now scheduled to arrive 20 minutes before us at 10:15pm Vegas time (originally it was 25 minutes after us, but our departure has been changed from 8 to 8:15 to 8:40pm). By “us” I mean Bo, AJ, Scott, and myself. We’re flying on Ted, and trying to remain optimistic, even though there is no airplane sitting at our gate.

Dan is flying on America West and is scheduled to arrive at 11:12pm Vegas time. Steinert is traveling with his girlfriend, Jen, and I have no idea when they get in. Randy is actually flying to Phoenix and then driving to Vegas with his mom and her boyfriend. They’re supposed to roll in on Friday, shortly before the game at 6pm.

At this point, we’re scheduled to arrive in Vegas shortly after midnight, which is like arriving around 9pm anywhere else (save, maybe NYC).

Hmmm…I spoke too soon. Now we’re leaving at 9pm.

(Five minutes later)

Now it’s 9:20pm.

9:37pm – TED #1567 – SEAT 16D

Well, I’m finally on the plane. Bo is directly across the aisle, Scott one seat behind him, and AJ is somewhere near the back of the aircraft.

We’ve moved from the first group to arrive to the last. I’m assuming that Jay, Boyd, James, and JC will probably hit the airport bar while waiting for us to arrive, so it’ll be an interesting twist to see what kind of shape they’re in when we pull up. Sort of the over/under on sobriety as Bet #1…

Tomorrow’s game isn’t until 6pm, so I can conceivably stay up until the wee hours tonight, gambling and carousing. Of course, my body/brain may choose not to, as my 31 year-old body often acts like it it’s 61 these days, with an occasional creak, pop, and ache. Perhaps a little in-flight napping will help the cause. We’ll see.

It looks like we’ve got a Chatty Kathy in 15C (directly in front of Bo), with a willing conversational partner. Oh boy. Maybe I should get Scotty to switch seats with 15B and see how long that lasts.

Sitting here on the plane, I can’t help but notice the optimism—sort of a wide-eyed, greedy pseudo-innocence—that wafts through the recycled air in here. Ted #1567 is a packed plane of people hoping to find an adventure, win a jackpot, turn a quick fortune, or create a lost weekend. Me? I’m hoping for a little fun, a tournament title, and that the obnoxious woman in 15C loses consciousness in the next 20 minutes before she finishes coughing up the lung she’s been working on killing for the past 30 years with menthols. She’s got loud clothes, a louder voice, and an incredibly oblivious attitude. She’s a woman with no filter, and less volume control. She’s Vegas, baby. Just not the one you plaster all over the TV ads…

10:50pm – TED #1567 – SEAT 16D – 500 FT & CLIMBING

We’re finally in the air, two hours and 50 minutes behind schedule. Once on the plane, we then had to spend another hour waiting in line to taxi. I’ve already read most of my Sports Illustrated, and after a quick spat of number crunching, come to the crushing realization that in the time it took us to get off the ground, the other guys are minutes away from landing. Boy, do I love to travel.

The odds on the rest of the Phantoms being sober (or even at the airport waiting for us) just plummeted.

11:somethingPM – TED #1567 – SEAT 16D – 30,000 FT OR SO (I THINK)

The in-flight movie was Coach Carter, starring Samuel L. “Never Turn A Movie Role Down” Jackson as the coach of an inner-city high school basketball team. He turns his rag-tag group not only into a winning team, but into successful students as well. A nice message, a decent (albeit predictable) movie, but as I noted to Bo upon its completion: “It’s no Miracle.”

I can only wonder what’s going on with the guys in Vegas right now…

12:30am – TED #1567 – McCARRAN INTL. AIRPORT – LAS VEGAS, NV

Touchdown. FINALLY. Of course, we now sit on the tarmac and wait for our gate to be ready for us to pull up. Bo fires up his cell phone and, in his outdoor voice, calls Boyd to see where they’re at. I give him the “bring it down a notch, Bocephus” signal and he lowers his voice a few registers. Turns out the Southwest gang are at the MGM Grand, across the street from our plush lodgings at America’s Best Inns & Suites. I sure wish I were at the MGM Grand, nursing a free beer and losing money with a smile…

3:40am – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

As James vigorously brushes his teeth before crashing out, let me catch you up on the rest of the evening/morning.

We sat on the tarmac for another 10 to 15 minutes, waiting for the gate to clear up. Then we waited to get the bags at baggage claim. Then we waited in line at the Avis counter to get the paperwork for our two passenger van rentals. Then I noticed that the contract was wrong and Avis wanted to charge us $999.99 a day instead of $55 a day. Then we took the shuttle to the Avis lot. Then we waited for them to clean the second van and pull it around. Anyone catch a theme here?

From the airport, we drove over to the motel and found out that all of my advance planning, faxing, and phone calls regarding keeping the rooms near each other had been for naught. Finally, at 2:30am, we walked over to the MGM Grand to join up with James, Jay and Boyd. Apparently, Dan and JC have left to get into trouble somewhere across town. On the way across the street, we all comment on our plush accommodations, with Bo pointing out that the cockroach in his bathroom seemed very pleased with himself.

We met up with the guys outside of the sports book on the main floor, and found out that their head start had left Boyd down $300, Jay $150, and James a whopping $4.50. From the bleary-eyed, “it’s 4:30am my time” stares we received, we knew that this casino visit would be short lived.

Instead of gambling, we satisfy our hunger with immense corned beef sandwiches at the casino deli. On the way out, I throw 50 cents into a slot machine, watch it disappear, and announce my arrival in the wonderful town of “Lost Wages” (as my wife calls it).

That catches you up to now. And now it’s time to crash.

FRIDAY, MAY 13 – 8:18am – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

AJ calls. He’s going with Jay on a Del Taco breakfast run and then to forage for water and Gatorade (as the local water supply has a slightly chalky taste, somewhat akin to drinking antacids…coincidence?). I pass and point out that it’s obvious he has an infant at home, since he’s fine with about four hours of sleep. I, alas, am not, and crash back out for another hour.

9:30am – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

Judi, one of the talent recruiters at Aquent in Chicago, calls and tells me that I landed a three-month catalog-writing gig with Grainger in Lake Forrest that starts on Tuesday. I explain that I’ll have to call her back with a definite “yes” or “no” once I’m back in town and can look at my calendar. She asks if she woke me up, and when I explain that I’m in Vegas at the moment, she’s impressed I even answered the phone. Me too.

2:03pm – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

I went and visited with Grandma Barbara and Uncle Richard from 11am to 12:30pm. It was nice to see them both again, and spend some time with “real” family, in addition to “hockey” family. After a bite to eat and some pleasant conversation, and a few inadvertent laughs, courtesy of Grandma’s impeccable (if unwitting) comic timing, I drove back to the motel. Cruising down Tropicana in my gigantic, white passenger van, I felt like quite the “Mack.” When I hit one corner, about halfway back to the motel, I couldn’t resist leaning out the window and smiling at the girls standing at the bus stop: “Hello, ladies. Dig my ride?”

After depositing the van in the motel parking lot, I wandered next door to the San Remo Casino & Hotel with Boyd, Bo and Scott. The San Remo is not exactly what you might call a “ritzy” Vegas casino. Actually, it’s kind of a dumpy joint, but they’re working on an extension in the parking lot that will apparently be the new “Hooters Casino.” Classy. That’s what I love about this town; it’s just so damn classy.

However, for high-stakes gamblers like us, the San Remo does offer the wonderful option of $5 blackjack tables. It was there that we hooked up with Dan, JC and Jay. We took over the $5 table and I managed to quickly double my initial $40 investment.

Bo, the professional card shark that he is, was working off of a tiny blackjack cheat sheet. Every hand, he would check his cards, check the dealers cards, refer to the sheet, decide whether or not to follow its advice (he generally did), and then make his play. The system was working for him, but by sticking to $5 a hand, he was never moving too far up or down. With his pocket blackjack guide, Bo was putting up a front of sincerity, bordering on naiveté, that this town feeds off of. I was glad to see that the rest of the team was there to “keep an eye on him,” and protect him from the town’s more sketchy elements. Of course, for all we know, Bo is conning us all and preparing to take the town for a ride. I 'd love to think so, at least.

Dan had stayed away from the blackjack table, and instead, had rapidly made around $250 at the craps table in about 20 minutes. Since I have no concept of how to play craps, I didn’t bother to ask how he had done so well, and simply congratulated him and announced he could have the pleasure of buying me a drink at the bar.

Sipping on a Corona at the bar and chatting with Dan, I began to register how much fun this trip was turning out to be, and we had yet to take to the ice for our first game. Although my body was in no shape to do so, I wondered what it would be like to truly be on the road with everyone over the course of a season. There’s nothing like a weekend in Vegas with the boys to kick-start any dormant need for male bonding. Grunt, grunt, belch, scratch, spit.

From 2:30pm to 3:30pm I took a much-deserved (and needed) nap back in the room. And damn if it didn’t feel good.

On the way to the rink, we discovered the incredibly wretched state of Las Vegas radio. I had violated my own rule about bringing CDs whenever renting a vehicle, and consequently, we were at the mercy of the FM dial. Sadly, when we actually found music, as opposed to commercials, it was generally either: something bad, something loud and bad, something cheesy, something loud and cheesy, or something loud and in Spanish.

After surfing across the dial twice, Dan (who was riding shotgun, and thus in charge of the radio) was forced to settle upon Don Henley’s “Dirty Laundry.” As a collective groan went up from the boys in the van, Jay, in his infinite wisdom, pointed out that “70s rock icons should never have been given access to 80s technology.” Truer words have never been spoken.

5:00pm – LAS VEGAS ICE CENTER – 9295 W. FLAMINGO ROAD

It’s one hour to game time and we’re finally here at the rink, getting ready to go. The building has been recently renovated, and everything definitely feels shiny and new. The pro shop is fully stocked and even the hot dog rotisserie has a certain shine and lack of “gunky buildup” on it.

Two of the upper level teams are playing on the rink when we arrive, and they’re flying around like professionals. Beyond the skill being displayed (although one team definitely has the advantage and keeps attacking), I marvel at the sheer size of the guys on the ice. They’re HUGE. Now, being an intimidating 5’8” (in skates), I’ve never really had much of a height advantage. The problem here is that the Phantoms, in general, are a small team, and if these guys are any indication, we definitely didn’t get the memo about ingesting mass quantities of steroids before coming to Vegas.

The Vancouver Outlaws played in the HNA Vegas tournament last year and failed to win a game. Consequently, and with the full blessing of the league operators, they’ve regrouped for 2005 by bringing some additional players that might not so much be in the same division as themselves during the regular season. “Ringers,” we call them. An easy way to distinguish ringers from the regular guys before the game even begins is by playing “match the jersey.” Allow me to illustrate: When six of the Outlaws 12 skaters are wearing the same Outlaws jersey with Yosemite Sam on the front, but the other six are wearing a mélange of various shades of white, you would be correct in assuming that the non-matching jersey wearers might be the ones to look out for. And it was true! It was so, so regrettably true.

Of course, in addition to their superior skills, the Outlaws dwarfed the Phantoms, making it appear as if a group of 13-year-old boys (who hadn’t been playing since they were four) had challenged a group of professionals.

GAME 1: CHICAGO PHANTOMS vs. VANCOUVER OUTLAWS
Phantoms 1 • Outlaws 7

Ladies and Gentlemen, it was an exciting evening in Las Vegas, as the Phantoms played their first game outside of the greater Chicago area. And while the team was geared up to play, they apparently switched to a lower gear after the puck was dropped.

The Outlaws controlled the game from the beginning, using their size, speed, and skill to confuse and contain the Phantoms. As the score continued to spiral out of control, AJ “This is not what I had in mind” Brandt valiantly tried to make save after save. After one especially impressive flash of the glove, both benches erupted in cheers and began thwacking their hockey sticks against the boards in appreciation. One of the referees even skated over to Brandt and checked the netting of his glove for glue.

Phantoms’ right wing, Greg “Maybe I should invest in some lifts” Rolnick, repeatedly carried the puck into the Outlaws’ zone, only to be muscled into the boards by defensemen twice his size. In addition, the soft ice surface made everyone work twice as hard to get around, and with the short bench of only two lines, fatigue set in faster than anyone would have liked.

In an attempt to change the momentum of the game, the Phantoms made a line change in the middle of the second period that ended up working to their advantage. Down 7-0, the offensive lines were changed to create a “grind” line of Boyd, Abella, and Coonce, and a “scoring” line of Rolnick, Cochran, and Campbell.

The new lines, and an invigorated defense, managed to keep the Outlaws’ attack at bay, and even created some solid scoring chances for the Phantoms. Towards the end of the second period, the Phantoms crashed into the Outlaws’ zone and the puck made its way up to Phillips at the right point. Phillips then quickly moved the puck down low to Rolnick, near the left side of the net. In an instant, Rolnick fed Campbell in front with a no-look, behind the back pass, and Campbell buried it for the Phantoms first (and only) goal of the game.

The remainder of the match consisted of an offensive deadlock, as Brandt turned away a number of shots and the Phantoms repeatedly came this close to scoring another goal.

GAME NOTES: The Phantoms were out shot 37 to 17; Phillips used his body as a battering ram on more than one occasion, the best being a bone-rattling hit on a hapless Outlaw that ended up loosening two rivets on Phillips’ skate; Rolnick regretted his battle cry of “Inglewood Jack!” when Boyd took a two minute penalty at the end of the game, after leveling a pushy Outlaws’ defenseman with a vicious cross-check (Boyd insists that the offending Outlaw made regrettable comments about his mother, and the Outlaw was also given a matching minor for roughing); The Phantoms had five fans in the stands during the game, eclipsing their normal draw back in Chicago.

Tired, sore, and a little apprehensive of what lay in store for the rest of the weekend, the Phantoms headed back to the motel to shower and regroup for dinner. On the recommendation of AJ’s Vegas friends Terry and DC Mike, we decided to drown our misfortune in fajitas and margaritas at Ricardo’s, a local Mexican restaurant.

The dinner was enjoyable, and made memorable not by the food, but by the drink selections. While a few others and myself opted for beers by El Pacifico or Corona, a bunch of the guys decided to get gigantic margaritas. Generally, this decision comes down to either frozen or not frozen, but Ricardo’s offered a plethora of fruity margarita options. Branching out on his own…way out on his own…Randy decided he would get a lovely peach margarita. And there, in the midst of our post-game fiesta, “Peaches” was born. Not exactly a hockey nickname that would inspire fear or respect, but definitely one we’d have no problem calling him.

Afterwards, we dropped the van back at the motel and wandered next door to the San Remo for some more high-stakes, five-dollar blackjack action. We commandeered a table, and proceeded to play and be entertained by our dealer, Pat, who was quick with the playing tip, bad joke, and wandering eye for any lovely lady who happened to walk by.

The cards were (mostly) being kind to me, and I eventually walked away $100 up. I spent the final bit of time at the San Remo playing “spot the prostitute” with James. We agreed that it was relatively easy, when all you had to do was find a pretty, scantily clad woman talking to guys who we would deem “out of their league.” By 12:25am, I was crashed out in bed, wary of waking up in a mere six hours to go play some more hockey.

SATURDAY, MAY 14 – 6:30am – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

Good god, what am I doing AWAKE???

With an 8:30am game time, we’ve decided to leave the motel at 7am. Since I’d rather be slightly conscious while driving, I’ve given myself a half hour to wake up, pack up, and start getting ready mentally and emotionally for the game (i.e. no self-doubt or weeping uncontrollably).

8:30am – LAS VEGAS ICE CENTER – 9295 W. FLAMINGO ROAD

GAME 2: CHICAGO PHANTOMS vs. MINNESOTA WILD (no, the other one)
Phantoms 1 • Wild 3

The tone of this game was radically different from the previous one, as the Phantoms were visited in their locker room pre-game by one of the Wild. An amiable, and almost older looking gentleman, the Wild representative kibitzed for a bit, then meandered out to the rink. This friendly atmosphere continued when the teams met on the ice during warm-ups and traded introductions and well wishes. The Wild’s goalie also served as their captain, and he stood at center ice for a bit, before heading back to his net to get loose.

During this détente at center ice, Greg “He pulls a hammy, you pull on his jersey…that’s the Chicago way” Rolnick sidled up to the Minnesota net minder and traded pleasantries. It was established that bounties were not to be levied, and bribes not to be accepted (no matter how much Rolnick offered him to let a few pucks slide by).

The Wild and the Phantoms were evenly matched, both in size, speed, and skill level. While the Wild moved the puck around slightly better than the Phantoms, they weren’t quite as quick to the puck or on the breakaway. Also, while the Wild’s defensemen were the size of Paul Bunyan, they skated more like Babe the Blue Ox.

However, two unfortunate shots ricocheted off of Phantoms’ skates, and allowed the Wild to lead 2-0. Rolnick helped get the Phantoms back into the game when he stole the puck in his own end and fed Campbell as he streaked towards center ice. Campbell went one-on-one with the Wild’s goalie and beat him top-shelf to make the score 2-1.

Try as they may, the Phantoms could not get the tying goal to go in, and in a last-ditch effort, pulled Brandt for an extra attacker with 1:10 left to play in the game. After an inopportune turnover in the Wild zone, the Phantoms watched helplessly as the Wild scored an empty net goal.

While the loss stung, the consensus in the Phantoms’ locker room was that they put forth a valiant effort, and hoped the next team was more like the Wild and less like the Outlaws.

GAME NOTES: The Phantoms were out shot for the second straight game, but this time by a meager 30-28 margin; Rolnick managed to add on-ice embarrassment to his list of Vegas accomplishments when he went streaking down the left boards with 30 seconds left in the game, wound up to take the slap shot, and then proceeded to tip forward and face plant on the follow through (and pretty much miss the puck).

We left the Las Vegas Ice parking lot at 10:00am, knowing we would need to return in a few hours for our 3:15pm game against the DC Wildcats. There were two vans: Greg’s van and AJ’s van. Personally, I think I would have preferred to be in AJ’s van, as they made yet another trip to Del Taco, while we crept up the Strip in order to drop Steinert off at the Flamingo.

After navigating negligible traffic back to the motel, I opted out of showering, and instead settled for a clean pair of boxers and a thorough face washing. We were a bit pressed for time if we wanted to eat and digest before the next game, and the buffet at Rio was calling out to me like a pudgy Siren, dangling all-you-can-eat prime rib, pasta, Asian cuisine, and succulent crab legs in my face…

James, JC, Dan, Scott and I grabbed the van and careened on over to Rio, in search of multiple rounds of food. Tired, smelly, and starving, we navigated our way through the casino floor. We ignored the bells and whistles of the slot machines, and clacking sounds of chips being stacked, counted, lost and won at the card and craps tables. No, food was the priority, and we came to Rio to get all “Army” and eat all we can eat.

We shelled out just under $30 a piece at the automated cashier (which worked like an ATM in reverse), but didn’t have to wait long before being seated a mere three feet from the nearest food station. And then the fun began.

As the rest of us tried little bits from all different parts of the buffet, James made a beeline for the crab legs and piled his plate as high as possible. After methodically devouring the first plate, he went back for a second. And a third. And a fourth. And, well, I lost count after four. JC was so impressed with James’ machine-like precision, that he too tried to inhale as many crab legs as possible. By the time James was finished (which was really on account of our needing to leave, rather than him reaching any semblance of “full”), he earned a new moniker: “Crab.”

Back at the motel, we found Boyd relaxing in a lawn chair on the edge of the parking lot. He was reading a USA Today, and stretched out in front of him, laid his gear, drying in the sun. Realizing that the Vegas sun could remove the sweat from my pads in about 20 minutes, and alleviate the joy of putting on damp gear for the next game, I quickly threw my stuff out along with Boyd’s, and even managed to borrow the Lifestyle section. I used the hour of rest to read and lounge on my bed.

2:30pm – LAS VEGAS ICE CENTER – 9295 W. FLAMINGO ROAD

As we neared the rink, Jay realized that he had left his jock back in the room. Since playing without “crotchular armor” was as incomprehensible as going back to get it, he took advantage of the shiny new pro shop, located just inside the front doors of the building.

In the locker room, there was much discussion over the fact that Jay’s new jock/shorts combo came with four layers of protection. It was commented that someone should invent a jock that also included a built-in airbag. The image of someone’s crotch expanding after receiving a vicious hit put us all in a comical mood that would last right up to around two minutes after the opening puck was dropped…

GAME 3: CHICAGO PHANTOMS vs. DC WILDCATS
Phantoms 0 • Wildcats 7

As the Phantoms took the ice to play their third game in less than 24 hours, fatigue was something that they tried to push into the back of their minds. Unfortunately, brains and legs don’t always communicate. Even more unfortunately, the other team had little sympathy for the Phantoms’ plight.

Another mish-mash of jerseys tipped the Phantoms off to the potential for ringers galore on the Wildcats bench. This bad omen was not what the Phantoms needed to see, as they hoped to come out of their trip to Vegas with at least one win (since they had already been statistically eliminated from any chance at playing in the championship game on Sunday morning).

The Phantoms had a handful of scoring chances in the first period, but couldn’t get the puck to go in. Shots were hard to come by, as the Wildcats were not only enormous, but also well positioned and quick with the puck (i.e. everything the Phantoms were not). After the Wildcats established dominance in the middle of the first period, the game rapidly slid out of control.

The Phantoms chased the Wildcats around the ice, made sloppy passes, often found themselves out of position, and ultimately felt fatigue catch up to them. The Wildcats used these mistakes to dictate the tempo of the game, causing the Phantoms to flail about like a kid desperately trying to win a game of “keep away” on the playground during recess.

Attempting to change things up a bit, and create some offense, the Phantoms twiddled with their lines throughout the game, culminating with Steinert ending up at right wing, and Campbell at right defense in the third period.

Greg “Oh, for the love of all that’s holy” Rolnick epitomized the Phantoms’ frustration when he took an incredibly dumb penalty in the final minutes of the game. After being pushed off the puck for the umpteenth time in the Wildcats’ zone, Rolnick immediately popped back up and hauled down the offending Wildcat with a textbook example of hooking. As the penalty came with 2:01 left to play, Rolnick had the pleasure of watching the rest of the game from the penalty box.

From his vantage point in “Le Box Du Shame,” Rolnick watched as the Phantoms’ best skater, Campbell, managed to fall down while skating backwards into his own zone. The fact that there was no one within ten feet of him wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was that one of the Wildcats’ players, who had been on the ice for the entire final five minutes of the game, then proceeded to skate in alone on Brandt, and score top-shelf with five seconds left on the clock.

At the buzzer, the Phantoms looked up at the board and saw the damage: 7-0. The big goose egg. Not only did they fail to win a game, they were shutout in their final effort.

As the post-game locker room was full of talk of bringing rent-a-Phantom ringers to next year’s tournament, solace was found in knowing that the team could party without pause that night, as they were in no danger of having an early game.

GAME NOTES: The Phantoms were out shot 35 to 7, their worst margin of the tournament; It was discovered, post-game, that the Wildcats’ female defenseman had actually played for Dartmouth’s Division I program; The game’s brief moment of levity came during the second period, when Rolnick addressed Cochran as “Peaches” in front of a confused Wildcats defensive pair.

SUNDAY, MAY 15 – 1:11am – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

And now, to recap what happened between 5pm and 1:11am…

After returning to the motel to shower and wash off the wearisome stink of losing, we regrouped and prepared for the evening ahead.

While Peaches took off to have dinner with his mom, Crab decided to live up to his new nickname by attacking yet another all-you-can-eat seafood buffet, this time with Steinert and Jen. The rest of us took the monorail from the MGM over to Bally’s and met up with Terry and DC Mike at Al Dente, a nice Italian restaurant (with a real wine list and everything).

Dinner was enjoyable, and made even more pleasant when Boyd and AJ, in an act of executive generosity and goalie goodwill, each threw in $100 towards the tab.

As we were walking through Bally’s, on our way out to the Strip, we walked past a long row of windows that looked into the back room of one of the casino’s restaurants. Boyd glanced through the window at the exact moment that a pretty brunette was demonstrating her oral sex techniques on a butter knife, for the benefit of the rest of her bachelorette party. When her eyes met Mike’s, he smiled, applauded, and kept walking as she turned an incredible shade of crimson. Halfway down the hall, I could still hear her friends laughing around the table. And that, my friends, is what we call a “Vegas Moment.”

Since The Phantoms are such high rollers, Terry had been instructed to use his local card dealer knowledge to find a nearby casino that had $5 tables on a Saturday night. This was no easy task, and immediately negated most everything on the Strip itself.

Consequently, we ended up at the impressively mediocre Barbary Coast, just off the Strip. Once again taking over every seat at the Blackjack table, my streak of good cards ran dry. The female dealer kept tossing face cards to my left and right, but never in front of me. When she did, she invariably followed them with something between a two and a four. Regretfully, I went from $100 to $50 in a short time span, and walked away with my remaining $50 so I could try my luck somewhere else.

I wanted to try and find a $10 table at one of the bigger casinos on the Strip, so I managed to lead the troops up to Caesar’s Palace. I was taken aback by the decided lack of low-stakes Blackjack tables (and tables in general, really). Apparently, Caesar’s has decided that slot machines are the way to go, which is unfortunate for someone as generally slot averse as myself. Besides, slots aren’t exactly a group game, and we all wanted to play as a team. Whether we were losing on the ice or at the tables, there was definitely a sense of Phantom solidarity.

Since I was already at Caesar’s, Boyd and I wandered into the gallery of shops so I could pop in and say hello to Uncle Richard at Ferragamo. He was somewhat surprised to see me, and recommended that we pack up and head for the better odds (and smaller crowds) of the San Remo hills.

Peaches had decided to join up with us at Caesar’s, and just as he arrived, we let him know we were relocating. On the walk to the monorail to get back to the San Remo, we spotted a gaggle of attractive women dressed for a night of clubbing. I proffered forth a new Vegas theory I had concocted: Las Vegas is a lot like Halloween on a college campus. It’s one big party, which girls use as an excuse to dress as skanky as possible. Once the party was over, it was back to whatever level of modesty they normally adhered to.

Back at the San Remo, we managed to secure the same table we had been playing on all weekend long, and even got the same dealer, Pat. Pat earned his first tip when he remembered my name from the night before. Unfortunately, his tips ran out when my money did. The cards were not as kind to me, and I eventually lost my remaining $50. To be fair to Pat, my luck didn’t really turn for the “are you shitting me?” until after he had been replaced by a female dealer. I don’t know what it was, but female dealers did not like the idea of me winning any money in Las Vegas.

My bad luck was compounded when a scruffy looking, half-conscious idiot took Bo’s vacant seat at third base. I had pushed my remaining $20 in and was dealt a respectable 19. With the dealer showing a four, I felt relatively confident of my chances. It was at this point that the idiot at third base decided to hit when he was showing 15. The dealer gave him the, “are you sure?” and he still demanded a card. The jack of spades made him bust, and the dealer revealed that she had a ten to go with her four. Her next card? A six.

If he sticks, she busts and I’m back in the game. What a jackass. I repressed my urge to bitch slap the idiot, or at worst, jump on the intercom and warn my fellow gamblers of his gross incompetence. Solace was found in knowing that I was still up $40 for the weekend.

Done for the night, I had one last beer with Jay, JC, Bo and Scott, then stumbled back to the motel to crash.

2somethingAM – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

Crab calls my cell. Mumbling into the phone, in what I can only hope is actual English, I reply, “Yes, I’m in the room. No, I’m not leaving. No, I have no clue where everyone is.”

5somethingAM – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

I struggle out of bed and trudge to the bathroom to take a leak. On the way there, I notice a large lump in the bed across from mine. I assume Crab is back, but I have absolutely no clue as to when he might have come in.

10:15am – AMERICA’S BEST INNS & SUITES – ROOM #141

This time I’m up for real. Crab tells me that I wasn’t dreaming, and that he indeed had called. After devouring more crab legs at the Aladdin, he, Steinert and Jen had gone back to their room at the Flamingo for a power nap. Afterwards, they hit a bunch of casinos along the Strip, where Jen and Steinert watched Crab gamble (and lose).

As the low-pressure shower trickles water on me, I am able to draw another Vegas parallel. Just like the city itself, the water temperature in the shower runs either hot or cold, with no middle ground. Deep.

The current plan is to dump all of our bags in JC’s room (since he’s staying an extra night), check out, and then go get a bite to eat en masse. As the appointed time to leave draws near, JC, Dan and Bo end up in our room, watching the pod-racing scene from Star Wars: Episode I.

Terry vetoes the buffet idea, as Sunday brunch is a nightmare all over town, and would require more patience than we can sufficiently muster by this point. Instead, we all get a good, greasy In N’ Out Burger fix. Although there is a Del Taco across the street, AJ is persuaded to stick with the burger plan.

On the way there, AJ is driving the van, and has plugged his iPod into the radio. We groove along to various Simpson’s songs, most notably the Monorail number we’ve been singing every time we get within 100 yards of the MGM Grand.

Speaking of which, post-burgers, it’s off to the MGM Grand, where Jay and Bo need to collect the cash they’ve won from the sports book.

As we walk through the casino floor on the way to the sports book, I spot a bank of progressive $1 slot machines with a total jackpot of 13.4 million dollars and growing. I have to at least give it a try, so I get change from the cashier and feed $12 into the machine. Playing the maximum three credits each time (don’t and you can find yourself with an incredible jackpot of $1300, as opposed to 13 million), I figure this gives me four chances to lose my money.

Oddly enough, on the second spin, three sevens line up in a row. This bit of luck (or good timing) causes the credits to start ringing up at a rapid clip. After a few more lucky spins, I’m all of the sudden up to 99 credits. As the number of credits begins to quickly decrease, I tell myself to walk away at 84. Choosing to ignore myself, I eventually wise up at 75.

With $75, I’ve turned a nice $63 profit, thus reducing the sting of last night’s blackjack fiasco, and only slightly modifying my opinion of slot machine players as nearly motionless fools.

The guys are spread out around the questionable sports book (they’ve picked the Yankees as the favorites to win the World Series, and the Falcons as an 8-1 to win the Super Bowl), and I decide to plop down in the empty seat next to Crab. I’m mesmerized by the plethora of plasma screens in front of me, and it quickly becomes the kind of informational overload appreciated only by those with ADD.

Crab: “Did you see that play?”
Greg: “What? Where? Which one?!?”

Jay is flush with his previous day’s success at the book, and generously buys Crab and I pints of “Flat Tire” beer. Sipping on my beer, watching the Braves, Red Sox, and whoever else I can on the giant TV screens, I’m feeling fairly content.

From the MGM, we cross the pedway over the Strip and enter the NY, NY casino. Dan wants to ride the roller coaster, and I’m feeling pretty game. Of course, that’s before I discover that the ride costs $12.50. Yeah, um…no thanks. I’ve already been taken for a ride enough times in this town.

Instead, while Jay, Dan and DC Mike ride the rails, the rest of us (minus Boyd, who is playing blackjack back at the MGM and actually winning) have fun in the casino’s Coney Island style video arcade, replete with carnival games like “Whack A Mayor” and the ring toss.

I spot a 25¢ version of the classic ‘80s video game, “Dragon’s Lair,” and can’t resist playing. JC once again shows the generation gap that exists on the team, as DC Mike, Crab and I are all overly excited by the game, but he had no idea what it is.

“Dragon’s Lair” definitely exists in a better place in my memories, as I die spectacularly before advancing past the second screen (I got past the first screen by default).

After playing a few more video games, the roller coaster boys tell me that the ride was fun, but somewhat akin to a brutal chiropractic visit.

James, Bo, and JC decide to head back to the San Remo for a last ditch effort at the blackjack table, so we cross the pedway back to the MGM to try and collect Boyd.

When I find Boyd at the $1 slot machine, he has built up around 126 credits. As I stand there talking to him, the credits efficiently count back down to zero. You know, I might have a second job as a “cooler” in this town…

Feeling peckish, and looking ahead to the odd timetable of departure and arrival times ahead of us, Boyd, Jay and I stop off at Nathan’s for hot dogs. After ingesting enough grease in one day to fill my monthly quota, I question what this town is doing to my better judgment. Rounding up the troops, we head back to the motel and prepare to head for the hills.

After dropping the guys off at the airport, AJ and I return the vans and catch the shuttle back to the terminal. I surreptitiously scan our co-riders on the bus for any signs of great loss or victory.

While I’m trying to check in by using the automated machine, AJ is forced to deal with an actual, slightly cranky human. He gets into a discussion with the United representative about whether or not his hockey bag exceeds the height and weight requirements. He tries to point out that there wasn’t a problem coming to Vegas, but she counters with something about “yet.”

For his troubles, AJ is forced to shell out an additional $80 and he gets his ticket flagged by the rep. When we reach the incredibly long security line, AJ gets pulled out for the super special security search. The funny thing is that he gets through the line a full ten minutes faster than we do.

6:30pm – TED #1566 – SEAT 18A – 30,000 FT OR SO (I THINK)

This time around, the flight actually leaves on time, but we’re all spread out around the plane. AJ, in an airline yin-yang moment, has shelled out extra for his bag, and been nearly strip-searched, but does manage to end up in an exit row.

My body is torn between wanting to sleep and wanting to be aware of its surroundings, so I suffer through the saccharine overload of Because of Winn-Dixie. The only saving grace for this is that the dog in question bears a slight resemblance to Sadie, with its scruffy face and Shepherd ears. Dave Matthews has a supporting role as a pet store worker who’s an ex-con. If you can believe it, he also plays guitar and sings. What a stretch.

In the airport, waiting for the plane, I called my brother Mike and told him about the weekend. He’s not really a ringer, but every time he’s watched me play ice hockey I’ve had a big game. With that in mind, maybe we’ll find a way to bring him with us next year (in addition to Dan McBride, Steve Smith, and Wayne Gretzky). Couldn’t hurt, right? A line of Rolnick, Rolnick, and Campbell, perhaps.

I hate to think that we’ll have to resort to bringing ringers next year, but we’ve got 365 days to figure it out (or maybe just get a helluva lot better).

I have no regrets for the off-ice adventures. We had a great time and it was definitely the bonding trip I hoped it would be. If anything, I’m just bummed the rest of the team couldn’t make it. Maybe reading about the trip will help ease the agita I’m sure they felt when checking the scores and stats…

EPILOGUE: To see the tournament's final standings, scores, and stats, click here.