Guest blog: A day with the Wranglers

Billy Johnson

Wednesday, May 28, 2008 | 1:45 p.m.

Editor's note: Las Vegas Wranglers president Billy Johnson writes about things, not because he has to, but because he wants to, which is even better. This is an e-mail he sent to the Sun after returning from the ECHL playoffs in Cincinnati.

There are two facial expressions I will never forget. The first is that of an ex-girlfriend after I enthusiastically tasted a dog treat from her new puppy's snack jar. The second is that of a seven-year-old boy who met professional hockey players during a morning practice prior to Game One of the ECHL Kelly Cup Finals in Cincinnati.

Each expression came from an inability to process the input the brain was receiving. It is the second face with which I can identify the most.

The Las Vegas Wranglers visited Cincinnati and in the process brought me to within an 80-minute drive from two nieces and a nephew.

Ryan loves sports. So much so that a ban of his watching SportsCenter is in order. Thanks to television he has mastered two of the three steps required to be a home run king for the Cincinnati Reds.

Step One: The Griffey, Jr. Batting Stance. Hands held high above his shoulders and a looping of the bat head. Step Three: The Trot. A kiss of his fingertips, a skip out of the batter’s box, a touch to his heart and a point to the sky during the opening steps of a home run trot.

Step Two: Making Contact, is notably missing.

In the Wranglers’ locker room Ryan saw the path that leads to the critical Step Two of execution. Detail. Effort. Routine. These professionals, who towered over him within the cold arena infrastructure and cinder block locker room and tunnel, stretched dutifully, rode stationary bikes, jogged and prepared their sticks and gloves. Equipment manager “Elvis” Garcia sharpened skates. Coaches Glen Gulutzan and assistant Brent Bilodeau reviewed game video on a laptop computer.

Soon after Curtis Fraser came to deliver a signed hockey stick and a pat on the head, Ryan had a new favorite professional athlete. “Here you go,” Curtis said. “You want this?”

Like the utterance of Ralphie Parker asking Santa for a football, Ryan shook his head “no.” So much for Ryan becoming an enforcer on the ice. He’s far too polite.

“Well I’ll leave it here in case you change your mind,” Curtis said.

Curtis returned to the locker room and Ryan snapped to his senses. “I’m going to hang this in my room,” he said. He had scored a trophy.

Moments later Ryan, thanks to the invitation of Gulutzan, stood on the bench in the cavernous 16,000 seat U.S. Bank Arena. The team was padded and dressed now. The skates made each player three inches taller. The pads made them eight inches wider. The helmets made them 30 inches tougher. Yet they skated in intricate, mind-blowing patterns. Pucks hit stick blades and echoes filled and bounced around the empty seats. That’s when Ryan made the face.

Later that night, after a physical and disjointed Game One, Ryan declared that he didn’t want to play hockey. He had recently lost one of his front teeth while choosing between chatting with a team mate and getting his mitt up in time. He didn’t want to lose any others.

Uncle Me didn’t sit with the family to watch the games. We never know what’s going to fly out of my mouth in the heat of the moment. My brother and his wife have enough deprogramming to do after my visits. So the next night when Adam Miller flew the puck into the back of the net with 4:20 remaining in the third period of Game Two I had a candid view of Ryan jumping up and down. He was not sure of what this new game of hockey was all about but knew that a goal was scored and the visiting team, his team, had taken a 1-0 lead after 56 brutally intense minutes.

Moments after time expired and my pulse dropped to under 150 BPM, I rejoined the family for this update: Ryan was now ready to learn how to skate. Ryan noted his new favorite player -- simply “Curtis” now -- took a lot of hits in Game Two. And from the mouths of babes, Ryan noticed that “Curtis” kept getting back up.

Sometimes it’s that simple.

And then I made that face. No, not the "ohmigod-how-undignified-of-you-to-eat-a-dog-treat" face. The other one. Ryan's. My nephew's. The face of an awestruck seven-year-old.

I am 42.