Indian Summer

Now that my income situation has been righted, I’ll be able to attend the first annual Chicago Blackhawks Convention in the city this Saturday.

The event is long sold out, indicating the resurgence in local interest for Hawks hockey after suffering for decades under the idiotic boot of late team owner Bill Wirtz, whose death has dramatically triggered scores of positive changes for the team. For local hockey fans, it literally feels as if a long-seated dictator has finally expired, and sunshine is breaking through the clouds for the first time in ages.

Anyhow, enough with the past.

My plan for the Hawks Con is simple: I’ll be standing in lines collecting autographs—on a blank Hawks practice jersey I bought earlier this year for this specific occasion—from players and coaches.

It’ll be fun to see how many I can collect throughout the day.

PS (7-20-08): The inaugural edition of HawksCon went off without a hitch yesterday. All the team’s staff, players, alumni, and ownership were very gracious. I also met team president Rocky Wirtz (taller than I expected, and very pleasant), and picked up a couple of jersey autographs by Craig Adams and Brent Seabrook.

I would have liked to have gotten more, but the lines for signing were very long.

Otherwise, the only downside to the event was during a team ownership Q&A when a dumb meatball of fan stepped up to mike, and began lecturing Hawks’ management—including head coach Denis Savard—about how to handle their minor league talent.

I know these kinds of sports fans (e.g. grade-school drop-outs who love expressing their inflated sense of self-importance) live everywhere, but Jesus, go back to your tattered barstool, nurse your flat beer, and shut the hell up. No one--except maybe the poor barkeep who has to listen to your mindless blathering each night--gives a fuck what you think.