When I Hear That Whistle Blowin', I Hang My Head and Cry

Ladies and gentlemen, this month has been a bit sparse on the posting front, but I would be doing myself and the rest of this band a disservice if I did not tell you about my voyage to the Sommet Center on Saturday night to watch the Nashville Predators take on the Minnesota Wild.

I should take time here to tell you that I tried out the "More like the Minnesota Tame" and "More like the Minnesota Domesticated" trash-talk at one point on Saturday night, and let me tell you, it went over like the Hindenburg crossed with Gigli. A complete and unmitigated disaster. In fact, it was probably one of the comedy low-lights of my life. Let's just move on...
Naysayers and doubters might point out that the hometown team ended up on the short end of a 6-2 scoreline to the visitors from the Land of 10,000 Lakes, but I choose to focus on the fact that the Predators won each and every one of the five (or six) fights that they were involved in on Saturday night. I'm not sure that Elton John gets much air-time in NHL locker-rooms these days (or any days), but the Preds and the Wild repeatedly decided that Saturday night was alright for fighting.
The highlight of the evening was Nashville fan favorite Jordin Tootoo, (yes, that's his real name), taking on an unnamed (or more likely unremembered) member of the Wild at the conclusion of a three-fight string/melee.
Tootoo's arrival on the ice was always an event because numerous fans in the Sommet Center would blow mini-train whistles whenever he leapt over the boards to enter the game. At first, I kept looking around wondering where the Thomas the Tank Engine convention was taking place, but eventually I noticed Tootoo come over the boards to the clarion call of Tennessee train whistles ringing in my ears.

Good times, my friends.

Good times.