Under the Bucket: The NHL Trade Deadline Is Like a Party Full of Boozin'

(Editor's note: Welcome to Under the Bucket, where Deaner from the classic flick Fubar tackles all things NHL for VICE Sports. You can follow him on Twitter and read previous installments here.)

She's 4 AM. I'm sittin' easy on the couch with one ear listenin' to the Thin Lizzy, the other to the babe who's got her hand on my leg. But somethin' doesn't feel right, so I make my way through the party and check the cooler. I fuckin' knew it. We're outta Pilsners. But suddenly the host hands me a beer. It feels cold. It feels right. I take a sip, but somethin' inside me dies.

It's a Coors Light. I know I could close my eyes and pretend it was a Pilsner, but my body would know. My friends would know. I chug the beer, grab my girl by the hand and head for the door. This party is over.

Faithful bucketheads (readers), you know where I'm goin' with this—trade deadline is like a party, where the general managers are the partiers and the players are the good times (beers). The buyers are lookin' to party all night, and the sellers are hittin' the door early, hoping they have fun the next time they go out. The trouble is, sometimes you don't know if you're a seller or a buyer. Do the Panthers have a chance to win the Cup? OK, sure, but they're pretty young so odds ain't good. But they also know that for the first time since a long time, there's actually people in the fuckin' seats. Players are like, "What the fuck, this is great." Fans are like, "Oh shit, so THIS is hockey, I actually LIKE this sport." Management is smart and knows it HAS to reward that, and the best way to do that is say, "Fuck Tomorrow, let's get a guy who scored 30 last year, scoop a vet that L.A. wanted for its Cup run, and fuck it, grab a depth D-Man cuz who the fuck knows?!" Fuckin' rights, he's the guy who pays $200 for a keg after hours and doesn't charge a penny for it at the party. I gotta give a fuckin' high five to Florida's Dale Tallon for doin' it right.

So that was good, but what happens when you don't know what the fuck you're doin' and you end up doin' nothing? It's like this—the difference between a party animal and a party leader is the decisions that person makes when they're loaded. What you do, and what you don't do under pressure defines you. Anybody can help an old lady cross the street. But can you dive over a fuckin' taxi and shove her to safety as a bus rips through a red light? Nothing makes a GM panic like a trade deadline, but sometimes the worst thing to do is be the "wait and sell high" guy.

Like in Vancouver, everybody was like "Fuck, trade Hamhuis for whatever" but Benning held on. He's the guy who hides a mickey behind the flour, and goes lookin' for it at 3 AM hoping to sell it off at a premium. But it's too late, she's gone. Nice try, Benning, you held out and you got nothing. "Oh they'll re-sign in the summer." Yah right, and my high tops smell like roses. And man… you gotta feel for the newest Calgary Flame, Jyrki Jokipakka, who was on the wrong side of the Kris Russell trade. Buddy went from the penthouse to the shithouse in a hurry. Poor guy, his fuckin' name is already like tongue Jenga.

Speaking of the Flamers and the Canucks, boy is she lookin' grim for Canadian teams making the playoffs. And by grim, I mean so dark that the midnight paint job on my ten-speed is wizard-white by comparison. Last time there wasn't a Canadian team in the playoffs Mike Bossy and Bryan Trottier were nailin' hat tricks like nobody's business. Also of interest in 1979, Randy Holt (the pride of Pembroke, Ontario), got 67 PIMs in a 60-minute game, an NHL record that stands to this day. In other words, it was a long fuckin' time ago.

On the upside, you can cheer for Dallas to make it to the Western Conference final so Calgary's conditional draft pick bumps up to a first rounder. But on the downside, well, pretty much everything else. Look, I know that tons of Canadian kids play on these American teams, and that's fuckin great for guys like Toews. And yah, Dallas has 13 Canadians on its team (including Vernon "The Diddler" Fiddler), but most of my buddies live in Canada. Most of my buddies cheer for Canadian teams. So who the fuck am I gonna chirp now? Best thing about the playoffs is ridin' your buddies who cheer for other teams, even if you actually like those teams. But not this year. So fuck it.

This year I'm gonna cheer for a team and its fan base that I've been makin' fun of since forever—the Nashville Predators. Their captain and both assistants are all deadly Canadians. I like the grit, and I like the fuckin' saber-toothed tiger. There, I admit it. So… fuck it. Go Preds go.

One last thing. If you're goin' to a party and you're lookin' to giv'r all night—be a party leader and put a few Pilsners in the crisper for Deaner, will ya?