Nhl Quotes

Yeah, I do. And right now, all signs point to me taking you down to my room and fucking your brains out.” Dead. RIP Jake Compton, the best grinder the NHL ever had. He died doing what he loved most.

In a few years hardly anyone will remember why the ice rink beyond the apartment blocks and gravel pit in the poorest part of town is always called “the Cathedral.” But the man who dreamed it up knows, and the boy who one day scores his first goal in the NHL knows.

for the girlies who love to see the six-foot-four NHL captain get on his knees and beg like a good boy–

Dad, they used to tell Wayne Gretzky that he was to small, and that he would never make the NHL look at him now I replied

Not sure the ladies in here can handle Ford Remington, NHL captain, and America’s heartthrob, holding a baby. You’re going to be the cause of many swoons. Possibly even fainting.

As well, the Penguins arranged for Sidney to open a bank account in Pittsburgh. He had been keeping his nhl paycheques in his sock drawer.

Did you really think we were going to let Stroger get away with what he did, Harper? Isobel had a little chat with that dickweasel. Told him he needed to shine up his story so the NHL knew he’d provoked Remy.

Hartwell’s hockey skills are on a different planet, and I think I might be a little bit in love with her. I’ve never seen anyone play like that, and I have no fucking clue how she’s not already on an NHL roster.

My best friend, my husband, starting defenseman and captain of an NHL team. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes. My wife works the bench while my husband skates…oh, and my other husband stands at my side soothing one of my babies.

As I do a few laps around the ice, I picture it in my mind’s eye: playing for the Chicago Falcons. Not only are they one of the biggest junior league hockey teams in all of North America, their players are also a favorite of NHL scouts.

I smile. "Mr. Perfect Beautiful Hockey God?" "Oh, shut up. You know it's true," she replies in a flat tone. "You should be the face of the NHL. They should put you on billboards in Times Square. You're hot and your charm levels are through the roof.

One day that little kid grew up and raised a bankruptcy-threatened club that everyone had written off to the second-best in the country, and then he raised himself up to the NHL, the impossible path from the forest to the stars. Before fate snatched it all away from him. It was Sune who called Peter in Canada after the funeral and told him that Beartown needed a general manager

I want you to do whatever the fuck you want,” he snaps at me. “If that’s play piano, then great. If that’s graduating with a degree in art or chemical engineering or fucking astrology, whatever. But just know that you’re going to be taken care of no matter what. I’m going to the NHL. I’m going to make a shit ton of money—I already have a shit ton of money, Aspen. Thirty thousand dollars to keep you in school and with a meal plan is a drop in the bucket. I’d give you more if it helps. I’d give you all of it if I thought for a second that you cared about that.

We were a minor league team that didn't feed into any majors, in a town that loved just about every sport but ours. We were going nowhere and we knew it, so why not have fun? In the forties, when I was playing, we were officially the most violent team in the country, and that means probably the whole world, and by the way, that's why I could skate with no toes. A figure skater, a speed skater, an NHL forward, sure, you need your toes for control, but all that finesse takes a backseat when all you're trying to do is slam somebody into a wall and break all his teeth.

Brooks wanted to abandon the traditional, linear, dump-and-chase style of hockey that had held sway in North America forever. He wanted to attack the vaunted Russians with their own game, skating with them and weaving with them, stride for high-flying stride. He wanted to play physical, un-yielding hockey to be sure, but he also wanted fast, skilled players who would flourish on the Olympic ice sheet (which is 15 feet wider than NHL rinks) and be able to move and keep possession of the puck and be in such phenomenal condition that they would be the fresher team at the end.

A clever, blond-haired fourth-grader named Damen McDermott got Sidney as his shopping pal. They picked out boots, a coat, ski gloves, and a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey. Crosby suggested he also pick up a toque. McDermott didn’t know what he was talking about. “What the heck’s a too-k?” he asked. “You know, a toque, a winter hat,” Sidney said, dangling the wool cap in front of the puzzled nine-year-old. “That’s a tossle cap,” Damen said matter-of-factly, lecturing Crosby on the Pennsylvania word for toque.

For the Blackhawks players, after years of being told “no,” of being told to shut up and keep your head down and be grateful you’re in the NHL at all, it was jarring to be told “yes” over and over and over again. It was motivating too. It was also kind of terrifying. That’s part of the genius of McDonough.

Brock Boeser

I’ve wanted this since I was five years old. I’m now twenty-one and time is running out. Of course, looking back, I realize I had lots of time, but in September 2001, all I knew was that playing the game I loved more than anything in the NHL was the only option. There was no Plan B.

The heads on TV were talking about what the pros in the NHL were doing. Why I watched this all the time now I didn't know. Reminding myself of what I'd once had and how I'd ass-fucked my life without the courtesy of any lube or a reach-around.

Just like an NHL sniper who shot hundreds of pucks every day as a boy or the NBA player who practiced free throws forever, I put the same effort into being an accomplished broadcaster. While I’m eternally appreciative of those who helped and influenced me, I had an unrelenting work ethic that led to any success I enjoyed. I’m not saying others didn’t work hard, but I never came across a broadcaster who outworked me. In other words, I was far from a natural.

Soon enough, MobilityWOD had morphed into our present company, The Ready State, and we were working on movement and mobility with all branches of the military; NFL, NBA, MLB, and NHL players and coaches; Olympic athletes; university sports teams; Fortune 500 companies; individual CEO types; and thousands of others.

Daddy Cay is done wrangling pacifiers and holding babies tonight. My big time NHL superstar is gonna drop to his knees and make me feel like a whole other kind of daddy.

There’s so much athletic talent that goes unseen because of the economic imbalance. Think what the NHL might look like if money wasn’t an issue. It’d be a lot more fucking colorful, I’ll tell you that much.

I loved 95% of the game. I miss that part of it every day. But the other 5%? That part has damaged me more than the 95% ever helped me.

One of the misconceptions in minor hockey is a belief that players have to get on “big city” teams as young as possible to gain exposure when being identified by major junior clubs. For example, the Greater Toronto Hockey League (GTHL) has long been considered a strong breeding ground, with three or four elite AAA teams each year producing some of the top players for the OHL draft. However, on the list of players from Ontario since 1975 who have made the NHL, only 16.8 percent of those players came from GTHL programs while the league itself represents approximately 20 percent of the registered players in the province—that means the league has a per capita development rate of about –3 percent. What the research found was that players from other Ontario minor hockey leagues who elevated to the NHL actually had an edge in terms of career advancement on their GTHL counterparts by the age of nineteen. Each year several small-town Ontario parents, some with players as young as age eight, believe it’s necessary to get their kids on a GTHL superclub such as the Marlboros, Red Wings, or Jr. Canadiens. However, just twenty-one GTHL “import” players since 1997 have played a game in the NHL in the last fifteen years. This pretty much indicates that regardless of where he plays his minor hockey from the ages of eight through sixteen, a player eventually develops no matter how strong his team is as a peewee or bantam. An excellent example comes from the Ontario players born in 1990, which featured a powerhouse team in the Markham Waxers of the OMHA’s Eastern AAA League. The Waxers captured the prestigious OHL Cup and lost a grand total of two games in eight years. In 2005–06, when they were in minor midget (age fifteen), they compiled a record of 64-1-2. The Waxers had three future NHL draft picks on their roster in Steven Stamkos (Tampa Bay), Michael Del Zotto (New York Rangers), and Cameron Gaunce (Colorado). One Waxers nemesis in the 1990 age group was the Toronto Jr. Canadiens of the GTHL. The Jr. Canadiens were also a perennial powerhouse team and battled the Waxers on a regular basis in major tournaments and provincial championships over a seven-year period. Like the Waxers, the Jr. Canadiens team also had three future NHL draft picks in Alex Pietrangelo (St. Louis), Josh Brittain (Anaheim), and Stefan Della Rovere (Washington). In the same 1990 age group, a “middle of the pack” team was the Halton Hills Hurricanes (based west of Toronto in Milton). This club played in the OMHA’s South Central AAA League and periodically competed with some of the top teams. Over a seven-year span, they were marginally over the .500 mark from novice to minor midget. That Halton Hills team produced two future NHL draft picks in Mat Clark (Anaheim) and Jeremy Price (Vancouver). Finally, the worst AAA team in the 1990 group every year was the Chatham-Kent Cyclones—a club that averaged about five wins a season playing in the Pavilion League in Southwestern Ontario. Incredibly, the lowly Cyclones also had two future NHL draft picks in T.J. Brodie (Calgary) and Jason Missiaen (Montreal). It’s a testament that regardless of where they play their minor hockey, talented players will develop at their own pace and eventually rise to the top. You don’t need to be on an 85-5-1 big-city superclub to develop or get noticed.

Sidney Crosby is the best player in the NHL

My feet are weird , i suck at nhl gm my partner is better, I am a bad sprayer and get carried from being on a good team , I look like Shane but I used to have a weird pony tail and no one would have lunch with me

Because I had always dreamed of making it into the NHL, marrying my best friend's sister, and having a family with her, staring up at the stands to see her and our family of red-haired girls cheering me on from the sidelines.

Star left defenseman for the NHL’s Riverside Reapers. One of my brother’s best friends. The guy I’m secretly in love with—the guy who looks at me like I’m his kid sister.

I never used condoms in my fantasy. I wanted to feel her wetness soak me up. I wanted to feel her folds stretch around me. I wanted to mold her to my dick and make her mine.

You’re brutal.” “Not brutal. Honest. So, she left and you…” Her head tilts to the side. “Just let her go. Just like that? You didn’t fight for her?” “This is real life. It isn’t some cheesy romance movie, Ariana.” “Obviously not. Future NHL star with up-and-coming songwriter. Best childhood friends turned high school enemies with a second chance at love. But no. You’re a colossal idiot. Not romance movie material at all. You let her go. Wuss move. If you were in a romance movie, you’d chase after her to the airport, or announce your love for her in front of the entire college. You wouldn’t run like a coward with your tail between your legs.” “She’s not flying anywhere.” “Totally missing the point, brother. If you don’t go after her, you’ve got zero chance. Personally, I think the odds are low even if you go after her, but a slim chance is better than no chance.” She glances around. “How about I stay another night? Before we have to go back to school on Monday.” “After that inspiring speech, how could I possibly say no?” I duck to avoid the second swat aimed at me.

Rachel Cooley was different than any other girl I met. Even when we were officially stepsiblings, she was a tomboy princess.

I fantasized about my stepsister. Technically, she wasn’t my stepsister anymore.

God, she was a dream. Every men’s fantasy girl. Long blonde hair. Big, blue eyes. Freckles on high cheeks. Red lips, dimples.

wanted to eat her until she came on my face, her juices coating me like sweat from an hour of power skating.

When I was a kid, I had a big crush on my stepbrother.

The guy’s talented, as much as I hate to admit it. He could make it big—I’m talking NHL big—if he wasn’t such a hothead. Or a raging douche canoe.

It seemed that if it weren't for bad luck, the NHL would have no luck at all. And yet they persevered.

And I will.

You all know one another?" Wyatt had a better poker face. "Jess and I go way back. I used to be her boss." He winked at me. "I always loved your Halloween style." He pointed to my suit. I mustered a smile. "I know Wyatt very well. How'd that Beauchamp deal turn out?" I knew Hamilton Cooper had lost that opportunity after I left; it was all over the trade news. Rumor had it that Wyatt was the sole reason HC lost that deal. Wyatt coughed into his coffee. "Damn, Jess. That was an NHL-level body check. You go in the penalty box." I smirked. A triumphant verbal takedown.

Other studies reveal that when we wear black, aggression increases...and that feels powerful. Researchers examined the statistics of more than 52,000 National Hockey League games and discovered that teams were penalized 10.2% more for aggression when wearing their black uniforms. In hockey, teams usually have two colors of jerseys and switch them for home and away games. When the teams wore a different color other than black, their penalties dropped overall.

There are moments in life a person never forgets, good and bad. My first goal, nearly having my dick decapitated, being drafted to the NHL, winning the Stanley Cup, and telling Lily I loved her for the first time all fit into this category. The first time your girlfriend tells you she wants to let you near her ass also earns a special place in the memory bank of Holy Fuck.

I’ve tried so hard to rehab my image on my own. Old Rachel is gone. I left her in California along with my Jimmy Choo collection. I’m not that partying celebrity girl anymore. I’m a sports medicine doctor. A highly educated, professional woman. With three boyfriends…on the same NHL team. And I think two of my boyfriends might be boyfriends.

That guy is an ass.” “Which one?” My new coworker, Indy, cranes her neck to look down the aisle.  “That one, sitting in the exit row.” “Eli Maddison? I’ve heard he’s like the nicest guy in the NHL.

You see that ice out there?” he asks. “Yes,” I answer. “What color is it?” He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are glued to the rink. “White,” I tell him. “White,” he repeats. “If you let any of my players touch you, that ice will be painted red with their blood, and it’ll be your job to come up with a creative way to explain how a whole team of NHL players went missing,” he says before turning his icy glare on me.

By straight to the top, he means the NHL. “Can’t he get scouted while playing in Canada?” “No open spots on any of the best teams

I’m not sure if I’ve ever watched an NHL game before, but I should have. These guys fly across the ice like dancers, but crash into each other like freight trains. The combination of grace and violence is fascinating. And sexy.

When I was little, I figured I'd play in the NHL someday. It wasn't because I was the best player, but because I improved every single season. Some guys stayed the same or even got worse, so I imagined that I'd get better until I was the best. Stupid kid-thinking.

Skate to where the puck is going, not where it has been. —WAYNE GRETZKY, NHL hockey player and Hall of Famer

It all began the previous summer, when Ted Lindsay visited Marquette Branch Prison as part of a promotional tour with GM Jack Adams. The star winger got along well with the prison’s inmates, and the warden issued an invitation: Come back in the winter for a friendly game. Adams accepted, and on February 2, 1954, the Red Wings arrived to face a pickup team of convicts, surrounded by guard towers and razor wire. Needless to say, there was significant concern over the safety of those involved, and the potential for acts of serious violence. But once the inmates were assured that Gordie Howe would try to keep his elbows down, the game went ahead as scheduled.

became a fan of the Pittsburgh Penguins,

My family was my world, the center of everything. My mother taught me how to read early, walking me to the public library, sitting with me as I sounded out words on a page. My father went to work every day dressed in the blue uniform of a city laborer, but at night he showed us what it meant to love jazz and art. As a boy, he’d taken classes at the Art Institute of Chicago, and in high school he’d painted and sculpted. He’d been a competitive swimmer and boxer in school, too, and as an adult was a fan of every televised sport, from professional golf to the NHL.

The Great One” Wayne Gretzky.

Yo mama is so ugly… they had to feed her with a Frisbee! Yo mama is so ugly… when she watches TV the channels change themselves! Yo mama is so ugly… she looks like she has been bobbing for apples in hot grease! Yo mama is so ugly… they passed a law saying she could only do online shopping! Yo mama is so ugly… she looked in the mirror and her reflection committed suicide! Yo mama is so ugly… even homeless people won’t take her money! Yo mama is so ugly… she’s the reason blind dates were invented! Yo mama is so ugly… even a pit-bull wouldn’t bite her! Yo mama is so ugly… she scares the paint off the wall! Yo mama is so ugly… she scares roaches away! Yo mama is so ugly… she looked out the window and got arrested! Yo mama is so ugly… she had to get a prescription mirror! Yo mama is so ugly… bullets refuse to kill her! Yo mama is so ugly… for Halloween she trick-or-treats on the phone! Yo mama is so ugly… when she plays Mortal Kombat, Scorpion says, “Stay over there!” Yo mama is so ugly… I told her to take out the trash and we never saw her again! Yo mama is so ugly… even Hello Kitty said goodbye! Yo mama is so ugly… even Rice Krispies won't talk to her! Yo mama is so ugly… that your father takes her to work with him so that he doesn't have to kiss her goodbye. Yo mama is so ugly… she made the Devil go to church! Yo mama is so ugly… she made an onion cry. Yo mama is so ugly… when she walks down the street in September, people say “Wow, is it Halloween already?” Yo mama is so ugly… she is the reason that Sonic the Hedgehog runs! Yo mama is so ugly… The NHL banned her for life. Yo mama is so ugly… she scared the crap out of a toilet! Yo mama is so ugly… she turned Medusa to stone! Yo mama is so ugly… her pillow cries at night! Yo mama is so ugly… she tried to take a bath and the water jumped out! Yo mama is so ugly… she gets 364 extra days to dress up for Halloween. Yo mama is so ugly… people put pictures of her on their car to prevent theft! Yo mama is so ugly… her mother had to be drunk to breast feed her! Yo mama is so ugly… instead of putting the bungee cord around her ankle, they put it around her neck. Yo mama is so ugly… when they took her to the beautician it took 24 hours for a quote! Yo mama is so ugly… they didn't give her a costume when she tried out for Star Wars. Yo mama is so ugly… just after she was born, her mother said, “What a treasure!” And her father said, “Yes, let's go bury it!” Yo mama is so ugly… her mom had to tie a steak around her neck to get the dogs to play with her. Yo mama is so ugly… when she joined an ugly contest, they said, “Sorry, no professionals.” Yo mama is so ugly… they had to feed her with a slingshot! Yo mama is so ugly… that she scares blind people! Yo mama is so ugly… when she walks into a bank they turn off the surveillance cameras. Yo mama is so ugly… she got beat up by her imaginary friends! Yo mama is so ugly… the government moved Halloween to her birthday.

From that 1982 realignment onward, the Norris Division basically devolved into a decade-long bar fight on skates, one that featured virtually every notable tough guy of the era. Everyone from Bob Probert to Joey Kocur to Stu “The Grim Reaper” Grimson to Basil McRae to John Kordic to Shane Churla passed through the division at some point, and none of them were there to run the power play.

The researchers suggested this result could be a fluke, or it could be due to the drugs, such as antibiotics, that are often fed to chickens and turkeys to promote their growth. Or it might be the dioxins found in some poultry meat, which have been linked to lymphoma.36 But dairy can also contain dioxins, and milk consumption was not linked to NHL. The researchers surmised it may be the cancer-causing viruses in poultry, given that lower risk of NHL has been associated with eating meat cooked well done instead of rare (thereby inactivating any viruses).37 This suggestion is consistent with the results of the NIH-AARP study (see here), which

Grayson Gunn pushed through the double doors to the Las Vegas Sinners locker room and was met by 23 stares including Nealy Windham’s, his new coach. She was the only female coach in the NHL and that might give some players pause.

Some figure skaters were muscular. Lorelai was small and lean, but judging by the determination on her face, in her stride, she could intimidate half of the Sinners NHL team.

As she rounded the corner and started down the aisle of the Primrose Courtyard, her heartbeat picked up. Playing hockey and dancing half-naked at NHL games never fazed her. Having all of Miranda and Ben’s friends and family stare at her as she walked at a snail’s pace in a pageant gown made her mouth go dry and her heart try to shuffle off to Buffalo.

Dmitri said he would be be around the 500th Russian and liked to joke that by the time he got there, Canadians would be the exceptions in the NHL and people would be complaining that they were taking jobs from Russian boys.

Blue wasn't exactly a rookie, not any longer anyway. He'd had a phenomenal season the previous year that had him nin the upper echelon of NHL stat charts: 60 goals, 30 assists and a gritty, tough-as-shit work ethic.

I'd known him before he became the famous NHL bad boy he was now, but he'd always been an honest man. He'd never let a puck bunny think she was anything more than that and there was only one woman in the entire world who owned his heart, and that was Lettie.

My diabetes is my 24\7 constant companion. And like anyone who suffers from type 1 diabetes or any other lifelong disease, I never get a day off. But as difficult as my diagnosis has made many things in my life, it's never stopped me from chasing my dream. Every day brings with it a new test and a new opportunity. And lucky for me, I've always liked a challenge.

My mom was always there for me and my sisters. Every day she was the perfect example for us, showing us how to appreciate everything we had and how to treat others with respect and compassion. These were important lessons for me because the hockey world wasn't always the kindest.

People were constantly telling me that I was getting special treatment because of my father. Everywhere my sisters and I went, we had to deal with that.

Unfortunately, there will always be people like that, but you need to understand that you can't change what people do or say. All you can do is control how you deal with it. You have to rise above it.

My whole life had revolved around making it to the NHL; to me, there was nothing else that mattered. I felt that if I made it to the NHL, I would have succeeded in life. But I wanted to get there my way, on my own merits.

Juniper Falls, Minnesota might be a small town, but we've produced 18 NHL players, 5 NCAA All-Americans and three Olympians, including a member of the 1980 Miracle on Ice team. Hockey is almost everyone's blood and NHL games are only for people like us; the Olympics are only once every four years. Juniper Falls High School Hockey is a town event. No, it's the town event which is why, outside of the team and our coach, we're all treated like royality.

Being a hockey coach and ex-NHL player, I have dealt with a lot of overgrown, testosterone-filled man children in my life. It takes some epic levels of assholism to piss me off.

Journalists and political junkies often presume that everyone cares about politics all of the time. But the fourteen-per-cent number makes it seem more like a hobby or a subculture, something like the N.H.L. or Nascar—a deep obsession for some of members of the population but of limited interest to anyone else, unless something extreme happens.

Here in Wilkes-Barre, even though training camp was a formality when it came to him being named to the roster, he stuck to his rule, refusing even to sign a miniature sweater sized for a teddy bear.

Before I even saw him in shorts, I knew his legs would probably be like tree trunks. When I finally saw them, I was like, ‘Whoa!

He’s a sponge. His eyes are wide open. You can see him absorbing his surroundings, feeding off everything that’s going on. No matter how good you get, you can never stop learning. He gets that. It’s

Whenever a ball of tape or an empty water bottle didn’t land in the waste basket, Crosby would throw it again and again until he sunk it. He never gave up until he succeeded, even when it came to tossing out the garbage.

Thrashers coach Bob Hartley said it was Crosby’s emotion that made him so dangerous. “He can beat you so many ways.

In particularly trying times, Crosby would look to a handful of motivational sayings and poems he had collected over the years. They helped him focus his goals. Some of them hung on his bedroom wall at the Lemieux house, given to him by family and close friends. He modelled himself after his favourite, from Paul “Bear” Bryant: It’s not the will to win that matters, everyone has that. It’s the will to prepare to win that matters.

He had looked up at the scoreboard to watch the replay, and a video of the highlights from his season that Billy Wareham, the team videographer, made the previous day in case Crosby hit 100. It was set to the Rolling Stones song “Sympathy for the Devil,” a fitting, understated choice.

A rookie centre from Saskatoon, “Endo” was as laidback as they come, kind of the team’s Spicoli.

He would wear the ornery, stick-wielding Penguin on his chest and carry the expectations for saving hockey on his shoulders.

in the foothills of the Pocono Mountains, home of the Baby Penguins, their American Hockey League farm team.

The thing I noticed immediately about Crosby the first time I saw him in the Penguins’ dressing room that September was his thighs. They were the circumference of good-sized tree trunks.

It was the same with his glutes, substantial and strong and set high to power what often appeared to be an effortless skating stride.

Often Crosby would head out into the backyard “to goof around” or play video games and sing karaoke with them. The kids were always trying to wrestle with him. But Crosby loved it. “I like a busy house,” he said. It also gave his life, which

But Crosby spoke better than just decent French. He had learned over two seasons in Rimouski and continued to practise it in Pittsburgh when he had the chance.

In the second period, he hit the crossbar, and the fans chanted in singsong, “Overrated!” and “Parise’s better!

When the Penguins arrived on Sunday from Boston, he wandered around Times Square with some of his teammates. He couldn’t get over the lights and noise that never ceased. “It’s a lot bigger than Cole Harbour,” he said.

Usually conducted in his long athletic underwear and bare feet, he often curled his toes up as if making a fist and held the position tensely the whole time he was talking to us.

The morning skate was a game-day ritual dating back to the seventies, introduced in North America by the Russians, and used as an attendance taking to make sure players who may have been out carousing the night before finished sweating the alcohol out of their system before the game.

Renaud Lavoie, a reporter with rds, the French-language sports network, said he was amazed by how quickly Crosby learned French and that he continued to practise it.

A few years ago, Crosby fashioned a replica Stanley Cup out of a small garbage can and a bowl, using a label-maker to add the winner’s names.

He grew up never letting his mother wash his hockey equipment, preferring instead to air it outdoors, because he loved the smell so much.

They participated in buddy drills – pulling a Jeep out of a hole and carrying each other – that were designed to build a team chemistry that had been lacking so often in the previous season.