The only thing worse than listening to someone talk about their fucking golf game is listening to them talk about their house they just bought.
Hey guys. You may not know us. We’re kind of a voice for the fan, or one of many. We do this on occasion for Joel Quenneville and Stan Bowman, but it’s time that we addressed you. Let me first state that every time I have to write something like this, it kills me. Mr. Foley, you’re pretty much the soundtrack to a great majority of my childhood. I can still hear your call of Brent Sutter’s goal in Game 4 in ’92 against Scum (that’s what we call Detroit around here).
That’s the thing, Pat. Back then you used to call the game. Though you were just as close to then-analyst Dale Tallon as I now assume you are to Eddie, you guys called the game. Or at least you did when Dale wasn’t bitching about the refs, which must’ve been a challenge.
So what happened? Was it the two years you were gone to Rosemont? Can’t be that, can it? Now all we get are stories and inside jokes. I don’t care about your fucking golf game. Your Corey Crawford as a kid anecdote that lasted 11 minutes was at least 10 minutes too long. Meanwhile, there was an actual game going on. You spent the entire time between TV timeouts, with a game going on mind you, talking about golf. I don’t care that Eddie can’t play or that his dad can stiff an iron. I have an iron that both he and Eddie can stiff. And you didn’t mess your scorecard up because you’re dumb, you’re not. I’m guessing you were about eight sheets to the wind and that was probably the real culprit.
But this isn’t about one night’s broadcast. It’s every one. If it’s not about yesterday’s round it’s about last week’s dinner or Eddie’s kids or some guy you knew with your time from the Wolves. And Eddie, not every copy read is an audition for Laugh In, which isn’t even on the air any more. I’ve given up on you not talking to us like we’re a stroke victim, I’ve given up on not using all your catchphrases that you apparently want to land on t-shirt (FYI, I already put you on a t-shirt, but I know you’ve seen that. I’ll get you one if you ask, though).
And I know you can do it. Pat, your call with Darren Pang last year on NBC for a game between Minnesota and Detroit was just like old times. And I know you’re friends with Panger. It can be done.
Just call the fucking game. There’s always room for a joke and a laugh here and there, you used to master it beautifully. Eddie will follow your lead. I’m glad you guys like each other. It makes for a better broadcast, as we all learned when Eddie was giving life support to whatever Kelly it was that wasted our time for two years. But good god, enough with whatever this is. Don’t make me long for the Bullhorn From Hell that is Chico Resch for the Devils or the confused ramblings of a man who doesn’t know how he got where he is like Joe Michelleti on the Rangers or the homer-riffic wolf howls that I get from Mickey Redmond while he tries not to fill his adult diaper on air.
Oh, while I have you here. Brian Campbell deserved more from both of you than a simple joke about how he doesn’t always go for a hit. But then again, I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re probably at least half hockey meatball. Campbell did nothing but play and act like a true adult here, at least his charity work in Chicago warranted some kind of mention. But then again, you’re too afraid to not tow the company line, aren’t you? You shouldn’t be. As far as the quality has fallen, neither one of you will get fired due to the fan backlash of that. Try it, you’ll see.
Signed,
Samuel