Instead of coming up with a semi-accurate, half-hearted definition of what constitutes a superstar, let’s consult a dictionary.  Since it’s 2009, let’s thumb through an on-line edition.

Superstar, according to Merriam-Webster Online:

• Function: noun
• Date: 1924

1 : a star (as in sports or the movies) who is considered extremely talented, has great public appeal, and can usually command a high salary
2 : one that is very prominent or is a prime attraction <a diplomatic superstar>

When the Dany Heatley trade to San Jose was finally completed over the weekend, a number of sports news services identified Heatley as being a superstar.

A superstar?  Really?  Sure, only two other NHL players have scored more goals since the lockout than Heatley, but does he meet all the qualifications required in order to wear the superstar crown?

From my vantage point, a superstar in any milieu transcends their surroundings.  In other words, even your dear Aunt Gertie that doesn’t like sports knows who, say, Alexander Ovechkin is, and probably has an opinion about him.  Don’t get her going on the hot stick celebration.

Following that line of thinking, I propose that there are currently only two NHL players that are bigger than the sport.

Alexander Ovechkin and Sidney Crosby.  The ying and the yang.  The Beatles and the Stones.  Mario Lemieux and Wayne Gretzky.

Evgeni Malkin should be considered, if only because his on-ice talents are so immense, and only getting stronger, but I haven’t seen any tangible evidence that supports his inclusion into the select club of superstars.  If on-ice talent were the only yardstick being applied, then Pavel Datsyuk or Ilya Kovalchuk, and maybe Dany Heatley, would have to be included.

Where these gentlemen fall short for serious consideration of being called a superstar is this section of the definition:

has great public appeal

Keep-in-mind every individual franchise has a player or two that is held very close to the bosom of the local fanbase, and as such, their respective values are usually inflated.  For instance, Rick Nash of the Columbus Blue Jackets can be one of the most exciting players in the league today.  His YouTube-ready goals, where he dekes through half the team, and some of the guys up in the press box, are a beauty to behold, and understandably, the faithful in Ohio would clamour that Nash is a superstar.

The argument is all context.  Within the world of the Blue Jackets, Nash is the face of the franchise, thus he is a superstar.  Within the expanded world of the National Hockey League, Nash is one of the young stars that make the game so exciting to watch.  You could make a credible argument that Nash is an NHL superstar.

You would have to work awfully hard to convince me that Nash, or Heatley or Datsyuk or Roberto Luongo, are true superstars.  They do not transcend the game of hockey.  Within the hockey world, they are larger-than-life.  Outside of those cozy borders, they would be lost, unrecognizable to the average person walking down the street of any American city.  For that matter, the majority of non-hockey fans in Canada wouldn’t recognize them either.

Put Ovechkin or Crosby in downtown Manhattan (without the Zamboni in Ovechkin’s case), or on Manhattan Beach in Southern California, or in surburban St. Louis or at the Steak ‘n Shake in Battle Creek, Michigan, and most likely both of these dudes would be recognized.

For a variety of reasons, Ovechkin and Crosby are currently bigger than the game of hockey.

That doesn’t mean they’re better or smarter.  That doesn’t mean we should all bow down and praise them (though maybe we should for all the attention they bring to the game).  That doesn’t mean that their opinons are sacrosanct.  So before the mouthbreathing bloggers of the cyberworld get their shorts all in a knot, keep this sobering thought in mind.  Most likely your favourite player is a nobody outside of the world of hockey.  That’s not the case with Ovechkin and Crosby.

Why these two?  Well, we’ve already listed awesome on-ice talent as one major factor, but they have to have more than that.  Both young men have been marketed very successfully, in particular Crosby, who became the face of the NHL as it emerged from the 2004-05 lockout.

Ovechkin basically elbowed his way onto the marquee, and his fun-loving flair that he paints everything he touches with cannot be denied.

The camera likes both of these guys, for different reasons.  The media likes both of these guys, for different reasons.  Hockey fans are drawn to these two guys, for different reasons.  Love them or hate them, you’re talking about them.

Thus it comes as no real surprise that the sports media sought out Crosby and Ovechkin to get their opinions on the recent firing of NHLPA head Paul Kelly.  Some hockey fans ridiculed the need to ask these two particular players their personal opinions.  Where did they get off thinking they were bigger and better than the game?

Well, they don’t think that.  Neither player put out a press release saying “come and talk to me about Paul Kelly”.  It was only natural for the media to beat a path to their doors, because when these two young men speak, people listen.

Much like when a young Wayne Gretzky, after another blowout win over the woeful New Jersey Devils, called the Devils a Mickey Mouse organization.  No truth to the rumour that’s what got Michael Eisner interested in hockey.

Much like when a younger Mario Lemieux, tired of carrying a couple of clutching-and-grabbing defencemen on his back almost every time he broke into the offensive zone, openly questioned the NHL about their lack of enforcement of their own rule book.

The hockey, and sports world, listened.  And yes, some people complained then that Gretzky and Lemieux should just shut up and play the game.  What makes these whippersnappers think they’re bigger than the game?

(There are reactionaries everywhere).

Both players were right. Bang on.  And both were right to speak out.

So when Ovechkin tells espn.com that even if the NHL decides not to participate in the 2014 Winter Olympics, he still plans to go…well folks, that’s news.  Washington Capitals’ owner Ted Leonsis, one of the more progressive owners in the league, did his best to downplay the comments, but the desired effect was already achieved.  It got people, and no doubt the players, thinking about the issue.

Once again, Ovechkin elbowed his way in.

With all due respect, Dany Heatley does not have that same ability.  Nor has he asked for it; if anything, he seems rather happy not to be in the spotlight.  Ovechkin craves it, while Crosby understands he’s been thrust into it since an early age.  Both men handle the spotlight differently, and they handle it well.

Alexander Ovechkin and Sidney Crosby are the only two true superstars in the league today.  Now what remains to be seen is if they can transcend North American popular culture.  Arguably, only two NHL players have ever reached those lofty heights.

Bobby Orr and Wayne Gretzky.

Particularly Wayne Gretzky.  The Great One is still the face of hockey for most of the world.

We tend to throw around words carelessly.  The word great has been mostly stripped of its power.  Anyone that is in the public eye is a star.  In the sports media, we have also devalued the word superstar.  I am trying to reclaim it for those few worthy enough to wear the crown.

Ovechkin and Crosby.

If you don’t like it, deal with it.  You might want to start by shunning all popular media in North America.  No doubt you’ll be seeing the faces of these two men plastered all over television, and magazines, and posters, and websites for the better part of the next decade.

- Mick Kern

Christmas came and went with astonishing speed, as it does every year, leaving behind a jumble of packages and boxes, ripped paper and the spectre of New Year’s bills.

By the time Boxing Day rolled around, we all needed a break from the festive cheer, so the wife trooped us outside into the backyard for a game of hockey.

Two years ago, during a consistent stretch of frigid weather during February, we iced the backyard and fashioned ourselves a rather ragged rink for about three weeks, before the first stirrings of Spring took it away.  Last year, the weather was too unreliable to even consider undertaking such a task.

As for this Winter, no-one seems sure how the season will unfold.  Here in Toronto, we got hit with three major snowstorms in the ten days before Christmas, which not only guaranteed a Bing Crosby Yuletide, but also resuscitated the wife’s romantic notion of having a backyard rink.  The trouble is, the forecast for Saturday, December 27th was for rain and more rain, which gave us a window of only one day to prepare, flood, freeze and enjoy our own Winter Classic.

Time for Plan B.

Around 2 pm that afternoon, the whole crew moved into the snow-covered backyard, shovels-in-hand, and proceeded to clear a sizeable area, large enough for our regulation-sized net and three hockey players.  The wife supervised the work, assigning herself to the snow pick, while I cleared the debris.  The four-year-old quickly lost interest in the proceedings, and instead practised his Bill Barber dives into the nearest snowbank.

After about a half-hour, we had the semblance of a backyard rink…minus the ice.  The only effective way to pat down the surface of snow into a consistent packed base was to tread on it.  The four-year-old and I began a game of keep away, and I’m not embarrassed to say I kicked his ass!

Yes, I know, how sad is that?  A grown man in his mid-forties bragging about outplaying his four-year-old son.  But c’mon, Father Time was sitting on the snow-covered picnic table, taking notes.  I know my window for channeling my inner Rick Nash, going around some pylon defenceman, is very narrow.  With each passing season, the pylon will grow and gain more confidence.  Sooner than I think, we will have switched roles.  Heck, he’s already got a better shot than I had at that age, or when I was eight.

Okay, it’s still sad.  And the boy let it be known he didn’t appreciate it, either.  He enlisted his mother, and suddenly my puck handling skills were put to the test.  I still ruled!  Everyone knows girls can’t play hockey.  Right?  Right?

The wife would exact her hockey revenge later.

As for the puck, we were using one of those bright orange street hockey jobbies that I picked up from Canadian Tire for a buck each.  Loaded up on about a dozen two years ago, and after banging a bunch of them off the goalpost during that deep freeze, we only have a couple left.  My wrist shot will never strike fear into the heart of any goaltender, still it was rather satisfying to watch the puck explode into two pieces after rattling it off the crossbar, allowing me to pretend I was some backyard Kent Nilsson.

After about twenty minutes of action, the snow surface under our feet was finely packed down, in perfect condition for the wife and I to later lay down the first layer of water from the trusty old garden hose.  But the weather forecast hadn’t changed.  Today it was a perfect late December day.  Tomorrow, it would look like March 29th.  There would be no need to use the hose.

But that was all in the future; at the moment, the three of us were immersed in a serious game of shinny.  One game pitted me against the wife and child.  The objective was to see who could score on the unguarded net.  Sounds easy, but you’d be surprised how difficult that can be when one has to navigate two hostile bodies, a finite amount of space, and an unpredictable playing surface.

At one point, the wife had possession of the puck about halfway towards the net, and my only recourse was to bodycheck her into the snowbank, tie up her stick with mine, and then extract the puck with my boot.  This was going rather well until the four-year-old saw that his teammate, his Mommy, was in need of help.

With all the speed he could muster, he slammed into me, which resulted in me losing the puck, and the little guy falling to the ground.

Suddenly, we snapped back to being concerned parents.  As we went to help him up, he brushed away any helping hand, and picking himself up off-the-ground, muttering something to the effect that I had knocked him to the ice.  If there had been a referee on duty, no doubt the kid would have made his way over to him, petitioning for a penalty.  And he may have been right; maybe I did knock him down.  How sad is that?

Then again, if one adheres to The Gospel According To Bobby Clarke, I was innocent.  The four-year-old entered the scrum, and got what was coming his way.  His mission was accomplished; I lost possession of the puck.

The boy showed that everything was alright by dropping his plastic stick, and his winter gloves, and charging at me, gleefully shouting out “Hockey Fight”.  The fight was a draw; he got in a few good left hooks, while I managed to sneak in a noogie before the wife separated the combatants.  I’m not a big fan of hockey fights, nor do I let the kid watch The Loud Man, as he calls Don Cherry.  Somehow, he just knows that hockey guys drop the gloves every so often.  Apparently, a four-year-old understands The Code.  Make of that what you will.

The sun was beginning to drop low on the horizon, and thoughts turned to supper and hot chocolate.  But first, time for Showdown.  Mano-a-mano, or, in this case, Mano-a-Womano.

I went to the mudroom and retrieved my old Mike Richter goaltender stick.  Last used it on-ice as a pickup goaltender way back in June of 1995.  Lovingly taped it to perfection, and then took to the ice on that steamy late Spring evening.  Which meant that my glasses steamed up terribly, which meant I battled to stop even the most rudimentary shot, which led to the spectacle of me violently chucking my goaltending equipment, piece-by-piece, into the corner, accompanied by every swear word I ever learned in the playground during grade school.

Since that day, I haven’t played ice hockey.  Do I miss it?  Sometimes very much.  Then again, after a while, I grew tired of fighting over a black piece of rubber.  And fighting was the word; often, the action would grow far too heated for a friendly pickup game, and the fun would be drained out it.  This even happened during our weekly Sunday morning ball hockey game, which I used to live for.  A person can only take so much testosterone-fueled macho crap before he’s had his fill.

I used to marvel that most of my friends in Ottawa stopped playing hockey during their mid-20’s.  A couple of these guys were very good, having played Junior “B” hockey, and when we’d organize a pickup game, they looked like Bobby Orr and Mike Modano out there, cutting through the rest of us scrubs.

Why weren’t they playing in a recreational league?  One friend explained that, while he missed the competition, what he didn’t miss were the guys who came straight from work, loaded up on beer, and then took to the ice in an effort to work out whatever frustrations they were experiencing with the wife or the boss.  It wasn’t worth the chippiness and the petty violence.  They’d much rather slum it with wannabee’s such as myself.

The trouble was, soon they grew bored by the lack of competition, and invited a few acquaintances who were also pretty flashy on a pair of skates.  Within weeks, the ringers began to crowd out the ankle-skaters.  While the level of play rose accordingly, the original purpose of getting all the guys together to have some fun soon was forgotten.  And before you knew it, many of the guys stopped showing up.  In my experience, this dynamic happens every time, another reason I don’t play ice hockey anymore.

These days, my hockey playing is reserved for when the two older neighborhood boys knock on our door, and invite the four-year-old and I to play street hockey.  The kid puts on his Pavel Bure Rangers’ jersey and I usually slip on my Canucks’ sweater, though this Christmas the wife got me a very nice Washington Capitals road jersey circa 1985, so I can now channel my inner Pat Riggin.

Which is another way of saying, I’m terribly out-of-shape; most my exercise these days consisting of running for the bus in an effort not to be late for The War Room.

Which brings us back to Backyard Showdown, Husband vs. Wife.  Me in net, the wife with her Sidney Crosby yellow stick.  Three shots.  Winner gets bragging rights.

Sometimes I’ll throw on the old goaltending equipment, in part because the kid loves it, but also because I love it.  Today, no such protection, not even a jock.

First shot, the wife unveils her world-famous move…stand about fifteen in front of the net, and hack at the orange puck, missing it completely the first time, which sends me into a twisted, body-protecting position, which frees up a good portion of the net.   She then reloads, takes a second swipe at the puck, and sends it towards my exposed shins.

I stop the first stop with my right leg, the brighly coloured orange frozen plastic puck feeling like a shot from Bobby Hull.  Regardless, I stopped it.  One for the good guys.

Second shot, the wife follows the same game plan.  She whiffs on the first attempt, which again sends me into a spasm of body protecting motions, which leaves most of the net uncovered, which allows her to deposit the puck into the bottom right-hand corner of the net.  One for the bad guys, err, girls.

Next shot would determine everything.  If there had been a crowd watching, they would have been on their feet, particularly since all of our lawn furniture was buried beneath the snow.

I clenched my teeth, gathered up my Mike Richter goaltender stick, and vowed to not flinch this time, summoning up the courage of yesteryear, when getting hit with a puck or an orange street hockey ball was a badge of honour.  This time, I would be ready.  Thou Shalt Not Pass.

At this moment, the four-year-old, having had enough of this middle-age drama, enthusiastically reinserts himself back into the action, steals the puck and sends it sailing towards my unprotected shins; this time the puck looked like a Dennis Hull slapshot.

Luckily for me, it skittered wide left, and it was time for hot chocolate.  The Showdown grudge match would have to wait until tomorrow.

Correct that; it would have to wait until the next extended cold snap and snowstorm.  Turns out the weather watchers were right.  It rained all day Saturday, and the next.  By Sunday afternoon, it would have been more appropriate to play football in the backyard.  The leaves I never got around to raking were exposed, mocking me from beyond the grave. 

Our hockey net looks out-of-place on this muddy field, where once it was the crowning glory on a modest backyard hockey “rink”.

The three of us stared out the back window, a little sad at how things turned out, but very grateful we went outside on Boxing Day.  Maybe it was the first in what would become a family tradition.

Weather permitting.

- Mick Kern