A gun-metal-blue silver and grey Sault Ste. Marie dawn, summer crept over Inglehood with the Lost Boys barely able to tell darkness from promise. Or to comprehend whether draft orders rendered such distinctions moot. Just like the dawn of summer that held yet-hidden photons ready to stab at what remained of their undead 'ockay souls.
The Lost Boys of Winter. Exiled by NHL Marketing to a venue where the closest snows floated down on celluloid instead of being driven sideways into 30 foot banks along 2 lane roads. Where the darkness of The Winter Game lay ripped open by Kleig lights and Jumbotron glare even during the few brief hours when the baleful Southern California sun sought rest. Where hot Santa Ana winds reached down into their crypts threatening to dessicate their already leathery undead flesh that tended to shred when they worked the boards bearing painted signs for "Save the Rain Forest" instead of "Forest Lawn."
The Lost Boys, sent by the Plutos of the NHL to win over the residents of the second largest media market on the continent to the brutish fascinations of the hemisphere's sole remaining form of indigenous combat. Like some legionnaires limping home from Dien Ben Phu, the Lost Boys knew that instead of the weapons of battle, their hands were filled with their own asses they'd been handed. Someteen games under .500, Loserville, Loseropolis, Loserame in IMAX format.
The Lost Boys who tired of yanking clumsily thrust wooden stakes nee Sherwoods out of kidneys, livers, spleens, and assorted organs other than hearts. Who would expect Tampa Bay to be accurate stakesters when they decided to adopt Van Helsing-like properties only two nights a season?
The Lost Boys who'd been stripped of their protective black cloaks in favor of some purplish frocks that had about the restorative power of a tu-tu for these Warriors of the Night.
Gone also was their erstwhile leader, the be-sweater'd Mr. Robinson, whose neighborhood had broadened during the past season to include Jekyll/Hyde denizens capable of being your avuncular pal who'd twist your ankle during horseplay, or fire off "the bird" to the ref right in front of God, and more embarrassingly, the Kings' own cameras.
Lost Boys lost in the city of Lost Angels, fallen from the 'Ockay Firmament. With no more Gretzkys to shine the Polaris, casting stardust to mesmerize bankers into believing a coin merchant had tangible assets beyond just Mountebankian wiles.
Lost Boys scrappin' over a pint of two of possum blood left lying in the Great Western Mausoleum while the railroad barons build luxury boxes for their real estate partners instead of display cases for some 19th century silverwork.
Lost Boys who bid adieu to DooDoo along with hopes of three or four million dollars that might have regenerated some other fossilized UFA like Christopher Lee arising from moulders after being sprinkled with a few drops of fresh blood. A sniper with cross-hairs still etched on his retinas instead of the monogram FFF of the ubiquitous fargin' fat floater.
Lost Boys who'd been collecting injuries with all the morbid fascination of fat cat owners collecting expansion entry fees.
Lost Boys who waited in vain during the 98/99 season for the Transylvanian Transport to bring in the latest version of the Kai Nurminen castaway.
Lost Boys who saw EVERY former mate, cast off by the head vampires as "Soft Boys," flourish in the playoffs as role players playing roles that parted skin and rolled blood from the opposition .. the Langs, the Zhitniks, the Sydorks, Khristichs & Dafoes.
Lost Boys who saw vampires-in-training transmogrified from # 15 to # 43 picks suddenly two years farther toward the beginning of the transfusion line than the end.
June brought the Lost Boys little comfort as they retired from the dark skies of clouded dawn to their shabby caskets of summer solstice. Sure, some would smear SPF 444 on their creaky bones so they could play volleyball in the sun on Manhattan Beach. Sure, some could return to Finland to play alongside escapees who'd traded their role as bloodbank lookout in the Press Box for some Rita-rib contusing in Helsinki. Sure, some would even cling to the hope that being namesakes of Vlad the Impaler would allow them to return from another season of scalp-taking.
Lost Boys all. Lost Boys who need a new Head Vampire who's not so much of a head-case that he fails to sign the contract with Igor to pull his casket out of the sun at the end of the season when the night finally ends. There are lost boys from Simcoe, from Slovakia, from Suomi, from Sweden, and from Sud-Montreal.
Lost Boys who know how to skate but not how to shoot.
Lost Boys who know how to spear but not how to score.
Lost Boys who know how to suck by not how to slay.
Lost Boys who desperately need to find their way.
Lost Boys who need to listen to Strother Martin'S advice - - "not 'Who Own 'da Kings?' ... OWNZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!"