Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today...

Over the last few days, the Vipers squad has sustained a number of losses, in the form of various players absconding for pastures new, most recently Patrik Forsbacka announcing his departure on Tuesday. We will have all have had our favourites among the dearly departed, and this post is for anyone who has had a favourite player leave, either this season or any other really. I hope it provides some comfort knowing that you're not the most unhinged fan out there (or maybe you are - please share your tales of woe with me if you wish, it might make me feel like less of a freak!)

On hearing the news of the departure of Dale Mahovsky on Sunday, I went through a myriad of emotions. I had commented flippantly the previous night that despite us having sustained some real losses to the team over the course of this season, we hadn’t yet lost a player whom I counted among my favourites, and that when we did, it would be my first real challenge as a hockey fan. I’ve opined endlessly in as yet unpublished blog posts about the fleeting, temporary nature of the sport, and the seeming lack of loyalty from players in this league, and these posts have remained rightly unpublished as they are mostly emotional rant-y nonsense. But I always knew the moment would come. I had hoped that it wouldn’t be Mahovsky, and that it wouldn’t be now, but it was, and is. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’ve been fond of Dale from my early days of Vipers fan-dom, and so I’m going to give you an honest assessment of my reaction.

Dale Mahovsky. This is the face of betrayal, people. BETRAYAL!*

I took it personally at first. My kneejerk reaction was to dropkick a puppy or something equally cruel and unnecessary. You know the Cat in the Bin Lady? I bet her favourite hockey player had just left when she achieved notoriety last year. I wanted to pour forth torrents of howling misery on the blog but I remembered I have a duty to bring light and cheer to my fellow hockey fans even in times of trouble, so I thought again. They say the best work can only come out of the pain of experience, so this blog should be a triumph. Please, laugh at my pain, if you will.

The whole situation brought to mind the Kübler-Ross model, more commonly known as the five stages of grief, and although the gravity of the situation clearly doesn’t warrant quite such a gross over-reaction, the parallels amused me at the time, as I hope they will you. The stages, as listed on the trusty resource known as Wikipedia, are listed as follows:

1) Denial
2) Anger
3) Bargaining
4) Depression
5) Acceptance

I think Ms Kübler-Ross missed out a key stage to be honest, that should go directly before denial – shock. I was shocked. It came completely out of the blue, and I had a literal blood running cold, hand clamped over mouth type moment, before logic kicked in and I realised it wasn’t actually a matter of life and death. And then I entered into the five stages quite unwittingly.

1) Denial. I personally don’t think this is a legitimate stage. A nanosecond of ‘nooo, surely not’ doesn’t count as a proper stage, does it? I suppose there was a bit of ‘but he wouldn’t! He can’t have!’ mixed in so okay, I’ll let it slide.

2) Anger. Ha. There was a lot of that. I was raging at the world. In a show of defiant petulance I almost threw my game-worn Mahovsky jersey across my room, until I realised it wouldn’t do anyone any good, and it might make the people across the road think they were sharing a street with a mental person. So I put it down again. But how DARE he leave? It’s not right! Well fine then. Screw you, Dale. Off you go. Just treat us like a holiday home why don’t you, see if I care. Make me fall in love with your skating skills and buy your shirt and go on about how good you are and then just swan off. Whatever. I am SO not bothered. I hate you.

3) Bargaining: I didn’t mean it. Please come back. I love you.

The bargaining stage actually lasted longer than I expected. It was also the most fun. It was when the inspiration for this post struck, and I would tentatively suggest to Kübler-Ross that the stage be re-named ‘bargaining, with gallows humour’. It went a bit like this:

‘So, he’s buggering off to the CHL then, is he. What’s that when it’s at home?’ Cue another trip to Wikipedi-land on a quest for knowledge, this time accompanied by feigned scornful indifference. I found a most interesting Wiki article on the ‘Central Hockey League’ (pfft, sounds like a local yokel joke of a league to me) and the teams contained within it. Such a lot of nonsense I have never encountered in all my days. There’s a team called the Bossier-Shreveport Mudbugs. Are you freaking kidding me? On further investigation I discovered, and I quote, that the ridiculously named Mudbugs are ‘one of the few successful sports teams to ever grace the Bossier-Shreveport area’. Well slap my thigh and call me Beyonce, is that a fact? He’s not allowed to go there. It sounds rubbish. But the Mudbugs are in esteemed company, I discovered, as I continued to survey the exalted list. How about the Evansville IceMen? Oh my dear lord, give me strength. Just no. Whoever came up with that name ought to be shot. And it’s in Indiana. He’s not going there. I’ve been there. It’s rubbish. Wichita Thunder sound cool. Shame they’re from Kansas, which is rubbish. Colorado? Hmm. Okay, fine. I suppose he can go there. But can we have him back for months ending in –ember? And –uary? And can we come and visit at weekends? Some kind of joint custody arrangement would work for me. I’ll call my lawyer.

4) Depression. I scooted fairly quickly through the first three stages (possibly because Dale didn’t actually die, which is obviously the main thing to note here) and landed squarely at number four, where I dug my heels in and prepared to rest for the foreseeable future. Well that’s it then. No more Mahovsky. No more cheering like a loon every time his name is read out on the team sheet, or he scores, or assists, or moves, or generally exists. I suppose at least I don’t need to worry about his dental calamities any longer. Ooh, has anyone seen his teeth? Are they still in the country? Someone hold them hostage, then he’ll have to stay! Don’t worry about me though, I’ll just sit in a darkened room weeping bitter tears and mopping them up with my now worthless jersey. I’ll be fine. I can’t BELIEVE my shirt is already out of date. This sucks. I hate ice hockey. It’s rubbish.

5) Acceptance. I don’t think I’m there yet, although my progression through the stages was helped along significantly by Sunday’s astonishing performance in Coventry, sans Mahovsky. We don’t need you after all, splitter. So there. A colleague at work, after laughing cruelly at my plight, astutely observed that perhaps I let myself get too attached to individuals, (which is true, but I’ve always been that way with sport. I cried like a baby when Tommy Mooney left Watford) and like some kind of giant limpet I should attach myself to a different hairy rock, which I thought was such a brilliant term for a hockey player I’ve borrowed it. And so the role of my next victim – er, hairy rock – remains vacant. Although I have a funny feeling it won’t be for long.

Apologies for the general flippant/bitter/cynical tone, but I pledged to bare my soul for you and I hope you’ve found the whole debacle as hysterically amusing as I have (okay, add ‘sarcastic’ to that list of negative qualities on display in this blog post). I’m sure once the pain has eased I will be able to graciously thank Mahovsky for the pleasure he brought me for just a few short months, and all the goals he scored, and the general pleasant demeanour and hard-working attitude he seemed to bring to the club. Right now though, he’s just a dirty splitter. And I’ve just regressed back to step 4.

I of course can’t fail to mention the loss of another team member in the past week, Jamie Carroll. He seemed like a great guy and was an invaluable member of the team so it’s a massive blow for the club to lose him and Dale in one week, especially when you consider they were our top two points scorers. (Yet we still beat Coventry on the road. How. HOW?! I still can’t grasp it!). And my final mention in the most eulogy-ridden blog post I’ll probably (hopefully) ever write goes to Alex Penner, who announced his departure from the Nottingham Panthers, and the UK, this week, due to the fact ‘there’s no-one left to fight in the Elite League’. Oh Alex. I was just growing to love you as well, in a hate-y sort of way. With your goonery and your cheatery and your bare-chested slidery. He provided amusement, and eye candy, and will be missed. He’s kind of like one of those hideously weird and ugly Mexican chihuahua type dogs; publicly, you point and laugh at it and pretend it’s ridiculous, but privately you wouldn’t mind scratching its belly and feeding it a treat, just out of curiosity, to see what would happen.

Alex Penner: Tickle his tummy and see if he rolls over

Well, thank you for listening, it’s been quite therapeutic for me to lay this nonsense down on paper (and now screen). I’m off to nail down Schwarz, Sibley and Effinger to stationary objects now, would anyone care to assist? Yes it might make skating a bit more difficult for them, but at least they won’t be able to leave!

*I get it, okay. It's all about his career, or whatever. It's FINE. I don't really hate him.