From the desk of Risto Pakarinen

Memoirs of the Monopoly Hat

Wed, 23 May 2012 21:26:09 +0200

I know that people laugh at me these days. They call me �Old Hat� behind my back. But I don�t care, I know who I am.

The hat and 200 dollars in my pocket were all I had when I first came to this town. I am the hat.

It was an early morning, I didn�t know where to go, so I just followed a dog, a Scottish terrier, that I had met at the docks coming in. We hopped along past Baltic Avenue, across the tracks at the Reading Railroad until we came to Connecticut Avenue. I remember how exciting everything was, I remember passing a racecar, a man on horseback - this was a while ago -, a battleship, and a locomotive. I even remember the smell of the cannon I saw at a street corner.

So I was sitting there on Connecticut Avenue with Scottie, talking about what to have for lunch, and you know what? I bought it. I used up most of my money but I bought the whole street right there - right under the nose of the dog.

But now, Atlantic City has changed. My driver - a wheelbarrow - is tired of my comments about this and that house not being there all those years ago, or my pointing out new hotels along the streets, but hey, it�s all true. That first day on Connecticut Avenue, there was nothing there. It was just a empty lot, underdeveloped.

I basically made it the place it is today, while I made my own fortune. I started with nothing, and I bought Connecticut Avenue, then New York Avenue, after Lady Luck smiled on me, and I received 200 dollars due to a bank error in my favor. Two hundred dollars, just like that!

Suddenly I was on my way to the top. I was a land owner, and the best part was that my latest acquisition was located right next to a free parking lot, so when I built my hotel there - The Hat Tower - I already had the parking space nearby.

Over the years, I added more properties into my portfolio: The Hat Plaza, the Hat Tower II, and the Hat Plaza Tower. At one point, I owned half the city, including the electric company, the water works, and two railroads. You could argue that I was the most important person in the city.

Heck, I once even won second prize in a beauty contest, and look at me. I don�t even have good hair. I�m just a hat! Well, I�m not complaining, I did get another ten bucks for that.

I�ve traveled the world, but I have to say that the world doesn�t impress me much. Sure, in Paris, I stand out a little for the way I look - I find everybody else to be rounder, but flatter at the same time - but other than that, it�s all pretty much the same as here, only the street names change.

I did almost lose it all. Life has a funny way of making you go through some rough patches, to teach you a lesson, I guess. For me, it was a series of events. First, I had to pay for �street repairs�, and with all my houses and hotels, that got expensive. Then I had to pay a hospital 100 dollars, school tax was another 100 dollars, and a doctor�s fee 50 dollars.

Finally, I was forced to go back, not just one space, but three.

But the biggest setback of them all was of course the fact that I ended up in jail. It was very sudden, I was out walking about, chatting up a sack of money - call me crazy, but she was hot - in the neighborhood around the water works, and then next thing I knew, I was in jail. No bail.

Unfortunately, I didn�t have one of those get-out-of-jail-free cards. The man on horseback was trying to sell me one, but I told him no. I said I�d rather take my chances and roll the dice.

I got out eventually. Sometimes, even when you think you�re just going �round and �round, doing the same things over and over again, the only thing you can do is just roll the dice and see where life will take you.

That�s what I did right after I got out of jail, and I ended up bumping into that same Scottie I had met my first day in town.

�Hat, how are you? You look good, haven�t changed a bit,� he said.

�Thanks, how are things with you?�

�Pretty good, Hat, pretty good. While you were away, I got into real estate, too,� the dog said.

Had he ever. The dog had bought Boardwalk and Park Place, and he was rolling in cash. Anyway, he said he was looking for an object to invest in, so I told him I could guarantee him a 12-percent return.

�It�s better than the Xmas funds or your life insurance which only give you a hundred bucks. Even a sale of stock gets you just 45 dollars,� I said.

Scottie just looked at me and nodded. He was thinking, hard, I could tell.

�I don�t know, things are going really well now,� he said, �but I guess I should. Because there�s something I should tell you. I moved in with the sack of money,� he said.

�I�m happy for you,� I told him, but I wasn�t. I went straight to New York Avenue, and I waited for Scottie.

He was going to have to pay.

Signed, sealed, delivered

Wed, 16 May 2012 15:57:08 +0200

It may be the Finn in me, but I seem to take missions seriously. Well, mission is too grand a word, really, when I mean favors people ask me and tasks they ask me to do. If somebody suggests getting a cup of coffee �tomorrow�, I hold my day free from other engagements. If I�m asked to find a good restaurant to have dinner at in Helsinki, I ask around and try to find the best one.

And if somebody asks me to deliver three golf shirts to some hockey people when I go on vacation in Vancouver, I deliver those shirts no matter what.

In 1991, I was an intern, or a trainee, or an office gofer at Tackla Canada in Orillia, Ontario. I was a business student so I worked at the office, trying to make sense of their inventory, but really, I did everything from folding hockey school brochures to playing golf with the boss to hanging out with Frank Neal, listening to his hockey stories.

Frank was my idol growing up in Helsinki, because he played hockey for Helsinki IFK, and because he was simply amazing. Also, he was my height - well, I was even smaller then, but I wasn�t even a teenager - and I�ve always cheered for the little guys.

Frank was Tackla�s pro player liaison, with the simple task of getting NHLers to wear Tackla pants. His job had also got a little easier about a year earlier when Harold Ballard, the Toronto Maple Leafs owner had passed away, and European brands were let into the building.

After my three months in Orillia, I decided to spend a couple of weeks in Vancouver to see Terry, a Canadian exchange student who had lived with us a few years earlier. And Frank heard about my plans, he put me on a mission.

�When you get to Vancouver, I�d like you to go to the Canucks� training camp, and see if Petri Skriko has got h is sticks. Oh, and get these shirts to him and the trainers,� he told me.

I took the shirts, packed them in my suitcase, and headed west.

Frank had only told me that the Canucks would hold their training camp in Victoria, but I figured it couldn�t be too hard to find them so one morning, I took the ferry to Vancouver Island. The rink was close to the harbor so I walked there, and through the doors to watch the practice.

It was Petr Nedved�s first NHL training camp. He had deflected from Czechoslovakia a couple of years earlier and had played junior hockey in Seattle - tearing up the league - so he was almost a local boy. I didn�t care about that, I, a huge Gretzky fan, just wanted to see the kid who emulated Gretzky and wore a small Jofa helmet, skated hunched over like the Great One, and even tucked his sweater into his pants � even if he tucked his on the left side whereas Gretzky tucked his on the right. (Nedved�s playing in his first World Championship for his native Czech Republic this year, and no longer tucks his sweater into his pants).

But I was on a mission, so I left the stands when a fight broke out, and went looking for Skriko and the trainers. Maybe the doors were open, or maybe Frank�s name opened them to me, but there I was, in the locker room area, standing behind the plexiglass, behind the net, watching Igor Larionov and Vladimir Krutov skate.

Then goalie left the net, and another one came from the bench to take his place. When he got to his net, he saw me and waved a hello to me. It was Kirk McLean, and about a month earlier, I had sat next to him for a few hours, talking about this and that, at a signing that nobody came to.

But I was on a mission so I waved quickly back and went to look for the trainers, and found one.

�Hi, I just came to ask if Petri Skriko has got his sticks,� I said.

He told me Skriko had his sticks. I made a mental note of that, and pulled out the shirts form my backpack.

�I was also supposed to give these to you guys,� I said.

Mission accomplished, I walked back to the ferry, and returned to Vancouver.

In the last few years, I�ve got to know Skriko, now the Washington Capitals' European scout. In March, he called me and asked me to do him a favor, a small thing that I could do in Sweden, and of course I helped him.

�I�ll buy you lunch at the Worlds,� he said, and I told him not to worry about it.

Last week, I saw him at the World Championship press center. We talked about hockey, and his hometown, and his new house, and, well, just chatted as always. He also thanked me once again, and once again, I told him not to worry about it.

The next day, as I was sitting at my desk in the press center, I suddenly heard a noise next to me and when I looked up, I saw somebody put something into my backpack.

It was Skriko.

�I thought you�d like a shirt,� he said.

Soundtrack of my life

Tue, 8 May 2012 16:12:02 +0200

I don't know for sure what goes through Mikhail Grabovski's mind when he scores for Belarus, besides general feelings of happiness and pride, but I wouldn't be surprised if a part of the mental images his brain produces are of a Belarusian man, named Yas, let's say, out on the field mowing clover, dreaming about Yanina, a hardworking girl!

That's what I will be thinking about, anyway, now that I've learned what the Belarusian goal song, "Касіў Ясь канюшыну" (Kasiu Yas' Kanyushinu) is all about. Now, I would have known that earlier had I understood the title of the song, which is, in short: Yas mows clover.

Before the World Championship, the organizers asked all teams to send in their goals songs, if they had any particular wishes. Most did that, some had a song chosen for them. But why do teams pick certain songs? Here are my guesses (and a link to Youtube, denoted with an asterisk).

Belarus: Kasiu Yas' kanyushinu*
All songs by the prolific composer �Trad� are popular at hockey arenas, and Belarus is no exception. And the message is powerful. It keeps players grounded, and emphasizes the importance of team effort.

Canada: Blur - Song 2*
Woohoooo! Wooohoooo! I�m fairly sure the song also says something about a Zamboni. If I�m hearing it right, they sing, �I got a hip check / buy a Zamboni�. Can it get any more Canadian than that?

Finland: Ter�sbetoni - Taivas ly� tulta*
Well, if Finland is famous for anything besides great hockey, it�s engineering (and Angry Birds). And what�s the one thing that you need for advanced engineering? That�s right, reinforced concrete, which is what the name of the band means. Besides, four shirtless dudes in too tight pants yelling at the top of their lungs? That�s called "Thursday night" in Finland.

France: Zombie nation - Kernkraft 400*
No, no, the name of the DJ is not a comment on the team. Say whatever you want about the French defense, but Baptiste Amar & Co are no zombies. While Finns go for the reinforced heavy metal bands, France likes to keep things a little lighter. When they score, they celebrate it like they were in la discoth�que. Oui, oui.

Kazakhstan: Kiss - Heaven�s on fire*
KAZ and Kiss just go together so well. You hear Kiss, you think of KAZ. Kiss, KAZ, Kiss, KAZ. Straightforward. Also, the lead singer of Kiss is Paul Stanley so there's a hockey connection. Stanley Cup, anyone?

Slovakia: Nech Bo�e d�*
This is the official Slovak hockey song so it was an obvious choice for them. There are three verses, one for each period, obviously. I smile every time I hear the line, �Someone roars, Milan scores!�� (Or something along those lines, I AM relying on Google Translate here).

Switzerland: Avicii - Levels*
What do you get when you score a goal? A good feeling, that�s what. And that�s 100% guaranteed what you�ll be humming to yourself for days after Switzerland scores. Which is why Avicii�s song is their goal song. (Also to lull the opponent into thinking that they, too, have a good feeling).

USA: The Fratellis - Chelsea Dagger*
Ba-da-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-da-da-dum, ba-da-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-da-da-dum, ba-da-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-da-da-dum, ba-da-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-da-da-dum, ba-da-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-da-da-dum, ba-da-da-dum, ba-da-dum, ba-da-da-da-dum. If it�s good enough to be the goal song for Glasgow�s Celtic Football Club, Edinburgh�s Hibernian Club, a few soccer clubs in Belgium and Australia, the Baltimore Orioles, the Tampa Bay Rays, the Chicago Blackhawks, and the Washington Capitals, it�s good enough for Team USA. (And if Mats Sundin was humming that after his last NHL game, knowing he�d retire right afterwards, you know it�s a powerful tune).

Everybody�s got a tune here. The Hockey Bird has DJ Slow�s �Hockey Bird (In The Zone)�, but there�s a theme song even for the Zamboni, �Ice machine� by the Laughing sausages.

It makes me want to have a theme song of my own.

Maybe this:

What the smurf?

Sun, 6 May 2012 11:49:52 +0200

Let�s start with a fact. I am officially 170 centimeters tall. I don�t know what that is in feet and inches, but whatever it is, it�s below the average in most Western countries. It is the average height for males in Brazil, and above the average in countries like Bahrain, Chile, and Gambia. In Indonesia, where the average height for males is 1.58, I would be considered tall.

(Seriously, Google tells me I�m 5 feet and 6 inches and fifty-nine-sixty-fourths tall.)

Now, if you want to get really technical about it, I think I�m 169.47 centimeters tall, but that does get rounded up, right, even if my high school math teacher wouldn�t round my grade point average from 9.47 to 10 before I pointed it out to him. (For you non-Finns out there, the scale is from 4 to 10, with 10 being genius-ish).

There are 400 players in the hockey world championships, and most of them are at least 180 cm tall. Canada, for example, doesn�t have any players shorter than that. They have seven players that are over 190 cm, which means that they could walk next to me, put their arm around me � so my head is in their armpit � and yell, �hey, look at this, I can use Risto as a crutch�. That always seemed to crack up some of my schoolmates.

But even among all the big boys, there has got to be one who�s just the tallest. He�s Slovakia�s Zdeno Chara who�s 205 centimeters in his socks, and 215 cm with his skates on. My arm is, what, half a meter long, but since my shoulders are 140 centimeters from the floor, even if I raise my arm straight up, and stand on my tiptoes, I could reach the top of Chara�s head, when he�s wearing sneakers, but not his helmet if he�s wearing skates.

Fortunately for me, his mouth is not that high up, so I can get my tape recorder in position when I interview him. Also, he likes to go to the dressing room and change before meeting the media, which makes it a little easier.

I�m trying to convince a colleague of mine to do the old �long-coat-over-two-guys-with-one-sitting-on-the-other�s-shoulders� trick the next time we interview Zdeno, who, and this can�t be stressed enough, is a very nice man, a good sport, and a great hockey player.

Or I might just interview Italy�s Vincent Rocco who�s 166 centimeters tall. I won�t be wearing my Timberlands for that.

This used to be my playground

Wed, 2 May 2012 18:45:56 +0200

For the next three weeks, I�ll be in Helsinki, Finland, to cover the hockey world championships. It�ll be my longest stay in my hometown since 2004 when Wife and I moved back to Stockholm after a two-year stint as a Swedish-Finnish couple in Finland.

I was born in Helsinki, I started school there, I went to university there, and I got my first real job there. I�ve also moved out of Helsinki four times.

Today, I walked from the arena to the main train station, and I may have found my memory lane.

Walking from the arena, just a few hundred yards towards downtown, there's a fair centre, and just on the other side of it, there�s the big sports centre where I played soccer in a real tournament for the first time. (We lost all games). Going up the hill, there�s the Pasila train station, the first stop for all outbound trains, and the last chance to get out if you realize you�ve made a huge mistake, and there place where Daughter�s Godfather and I would drive late at night in our college years for a burger.

Down the hill, there�s the gas station where I sometimes went with Dad after his hockey practice, when he just wanted to hang out with his buddies, and have a cup of coffee, and shoot the shit.

Across the street from the gas station, there's the track where my parents took me to run and jump as a kid, and where I thirty years later went skating with Wife, pushing Son's stroller in front of me.

Crossing the street again, you'll walk by the children�s hospital where I spent a few months as a five-year-old, and the yellow separate building where I was kept in quarantine, to not get chicken pox or something, with a pile of books to keep me company.

A few hundred yards toward the city, there�s the hockey rink, now known as the old rink, but back then The Rink, the main venue of the 1974 and 1982 hockey world championships. That�s where I saw Esa Tikkanen for the first time, and where I saw Jari Kurri score the under-18 European championship gold medal winning goal in 1978, where I got one of my first hockey prizes when I was elected �most colorful player� in a under-12 tournament.

Behind the rink, there�s the Olympic Stadium where I saw Alberto Juantorena, the world�s number one ranked 400-meter runner, crush his competition, and where Dad and I went to watch Finnish league soccer ��and eat nakkis, the small Finnish sausages.

From the Olympic Stadium you can almost see the apartment building where Wife and I lived ten years ago, and the apartment to which we brought Son for the first time. You can almost see the hospital he was born. The same hospital I was born in.

You can also see my old gym, the one where I made all my weight-lifting records, and where I lost my Mexican ring, and where I hung out with my best friend on most nights when I was single in Helsinki. There were often two men, in their 50s, who sat around, and worked out a bit, and we always wondered if we�d become like them.

Going past the gym, and the opera, walking on the path by the bay, there�s a red-brick wall which doesn�t seem to have any function at all but that�s where Wife taped her first ads for the parenting site she launched while we lived in Helsinki. The one that grew into the biggest Swedish-language site in Finland. There�s the huge oak tree under which she held annual picnics for the members of the site.

Across the street from there is where my uncle used to have his electronics store, and two blocks from there, there's the apartment building where I lived the first five years of my life. A block from there is where I skated for the first time, a block the other way is where Dad slammed the trunk of our car shut without realizing my small fingers were holding on to the edge. Across the street there�s the church where I was baptized, where the Sunday school was, and a block down the hill is where the playground is. Where I played. Where Son played, too, and where I�ve taken Daughter to play as well.

It�s good to be back.

Writing on the wall

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 16:08:39 +0200

My grandmother liked to talk about death a lot. The turning of time seemed to be very much present in her life, and in her relationship with everybody, including her grandkids. One of her favorite topics, as it related to death, was the inheritance.

When I was about ten years old, I fell in love with a brown, leather coin purse of hers. I played with it, opened and closed it, put it in my pocket, pulled it back out again, feeling very cool. My Grandma watched me play with it, and she asked me if I liked it. I did, I told her.

�Risto, I�ll give that to you. As an advance inheritance. So when I die, you can tell the others that I gave that to you, and that it�s yours,� she told me.

That scared me a little bit, but not enough for me not to take the purse.

She also liked to tell a story about herself going back to work the day after I was born. How she walked in an hunched up, with a cane, and a scarf around her head, rambling in a high-pitched voice, like a really old woman, even though she was just in her early forties.

I had made her old just by being born. Happy, but old.

And I, of course, always thought she was old. After all, there she stood in the kitchen wearing old lady clothes, or sat by the kitchen table reading the paper wearing her old lady glasses. She wrote small notes and did the crossword puzzle in her old person�s handwriting, which seemed almost illegible to me, bordering on being a secret code.

Same with my other grandmother, of course, my paternal one. The one who always seemed even older, and not simply because she didn�t learn to swim at 50 or get her driver�s license at 60, like my maternal grandmother, but simply because she was.

Whenever I read a note that they�d written, or a postcard, a birthday card they�d sent to us, I could tell the sender by the handwriting. I also imagined them sitting at the kitchen table, wearing their big, thick-framed glasses, and for hours, writing that card with their shaking hands.

In that 19th century style.

Now, when I was in school, we had to learn how to write in cursive with ink. Real ink. No quills, though. And while my handwriting has always been �personal�, which is the nicer word my third-grade teacher used instead of �illegible�, I�ve also always liked my own handwriting. I think it looks nice.

The other day, I sat outside the kids� school, in the sun, writing about my grandmother in my Moleskine, like a writer taking notes. I wrote about a brown coin purse, and how she learned to drive when she was 60, and, well, the things you just read. And when I stopped writing, I leaned back and admired my work.

My handwriting is still as nice as it�s always been, I said to myself, out loud. And right then, right there, on that rock just outside the school, I realized that Son�s handwriting looks a lot different from mine. The entire style is different: the way he�s been taught to make the t�s, and the s�s, and how his capital H doesn�t have the nice loops that mine has.

My handwriting has become antiquated. It�s still nice, but it�s old school. His is 21st century.

I think that also means that I can stop telling the joke about there being a store that sends the official old man�s uniform package - blue shirt, brown pants - to men when it�s time to switch to that.

I think I�ll be fine wearing what I�m wearing right now.

Blast from the past

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 19:25:10 +0200

I saw this photo (below) on Twitter, and sent a link to a buddy who then reminded me of a blog entry I wrote about Shanahan six years ago for the nhl.com. So I went and dug it up. Here it is:

Shanahan The Man

As you�ve probably already seen, Rangers forward Brendan Shanahan was named the inaugural winner of the Mark Messier Leadership Award this week.

Brendan Shanahan truly is a leader. He stands out from the crowd. He�s different. He�s smart, he�s a great athlete, he�s rich, he�s famous, he�s got it all. When he gives interviews, he actually answers the questions he�s asked. He looks the interviewer in the eye and delivers his thoughts in a careful manner. He�s tall, he�s dark and, yes, he�s handsome.

He�s got that ruggedly handsome look from the 1950s Hollywood.

Maybe when they�re done with George Clooney after Oceans 13, they can throw in Shanahan in number 14. Nobody would miss Clooney.

�A lot of players here go above and beyond in the community, and I do think it�s very important,� Shanahan said when he received the award. �I think about it every day when I�m walking my kids to school, just being a good citizen and being a good person in the community.�

Not your average hockey quote.

In 2001, Shanahan helped Detroit sign Brett Hull by giving money back and later agreed to a smaller contract to fit under the salary cap.

Not your average guy.

With his Gretzky-styled small shoulder pads, and a droopy skating posture, he sometimes looks like Goofy on ice. And no, I wouldn�t say that to his face. After all, this is the only active NHL player with more than 500 career goals and more than 2,000 penalty minutes.

As we all remember, Shanahan invited � and paid their way � the who�s who of the NHL to Toronto in December 2004 for a two-day summit about the game, trying to figure out how the game could be improved. Maybe he got tired of sitting at home while waiting for the lockout to end, but he probably just wanted to get involved. Carry his weight.

In fact, a month after the summit Shanahan was in Sweden with the �World Stars� team of locked out NHLers, so I got to ask him about it. He looked me in the eye, and he delivered a carefully thought out answer about how the American presidential election had been an inspiration for the initiative. Or, even more, he was impressed by the volunteers in the John Kerry campaign he supported.

�I was really impressed by the way ordinary people got involved and handed out flyers and campaigned for their candidate, and I felt that I wanted to get involved,� he said.

And then he hit the shower.

The fact that Shanahan stood his ground and drove the current officiating development even though he wasn�t the ultimate �skilled player� is a testament to his leadership qualities. He is a true class act.

It also turned out that Shanahan�s vision was correct. Hockey did become more fun to watch, and to play.

Last May, Shanahan took on the role of paving the way for the next generation of Canadian players as he captained Team Canada in the World Championship in Latvia, Riga. He was the only one on the roster that was born in the 1960s, and five years older than the second-oldest player on the team, Glen Metropolit from the Swiss league.

Shanahan was there to lead the team, and to pass on the torch to Sidney Crosby and others.

�I am sure they learned how much all the other countries want to beat Canada. A part of it is respect, and a part of it is that there is a swagger to Hockey Canada, and they�re annoyed that even in losing we carry the swagger. For Canada, it�s all or nothing,� Shanahan said.

�It was fun coming to the rink every day with these guys. For me it was a great honor to be a part of it. The heart on this team was so great and I am really honored that I got the chance to meet these guys at this point in my career, and get to know them before I am buying tickets to watch them.�

Sure. But for now, we�ll gladly stand in line to buy tickets to see Brendan Shanahan.

Shanahan. Sha-na-han. Man, even the name�s cool.

Graphic info

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 12:23:16 +0200

You know, I was thinking...

The F-word

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 19:57:20 +0200

�It�s obviously more important that Israel survive, you know, than probably some other random set of six million people elsewhere survive.�
� David Plotz, Slate�s �Political Gabfest�, April 20, 2012

Ahem�

Over here? No, not Israel, look a little further north. A little more. Here, in Europe. Just go straight north from Israel and when you hit the Arctic Ocean, look to the west. See? Just another random set of 5,363,624 people.

That�s right. Finland.

It�s almost as if there�s one group that can be slapped with a four-letter F word without anybody blinking an eye, just like that, with no need to be worried about the consequences.

�Finns.�

Just because people don�t like m�mmi - that traditional Finnish Easter dessert made by mixing water, rye flour, and powdered malted rye, seasoned with dark molasses, salt, and dried powdered Seville orange zest and then allowing it to go through a slow natural sweetening process before being baked in an oven until set - or can�t even pronounce it, doesn�t mean it shouldn�t be a part of the global vocabulary just as much as bagel is. In fact, from now on, let�s call bagels rinkeli instead, and when you�re at a party, or simply being treated well - or if you just want to be sarcastic, not so well - just say that there seems to be a reilu meininki. OK?

That way, we�ll all have a little better feel on Finland, and everybody would feel truly connected to the little Finn inside them.

I know, I know, five million Finns in a world of seven billion is a drop in a bucket. Nothing, really. We�re just 0.07 percent of the world�s population, and maybe that�s why people can pretend like we don�t exist, or the very least, like they�ve never heard of us, but let me tell you. We exist. We�re here, there, and everywhere.

So, please. Enough already.

Besides, two can play this game.

Yes, we may be a random set of people, but I bet you�d miss us if we first did something great that would make you really notice us and then we�d just take it back. One day, we�ll just do do something really great, just to get back at the world, you know.

(I can let you in on a secret. We already started it with Nokia, once the world�s biggest mobile phone company, which we will now, just out of spite, shrink to be the smallest mobile phone company in the world.)

What would you say if we took back, I don�t know, say, the Angry Birds! There! Boom! Didn�t see that one coming, now did you? Why do you think those birds are so angry anyway? Because they�re Finnish, and they�re tired of being thrown around, too, that�s why.

But Finns love peace. We just want to be left alone so can't we simply be friends? We all know that Finland has the best educational system in the world, and everybody over here can add and subtract and we know stuff. Important stuff like that the population of Israel is 7.3 million.

That�s gotta be good, right? Right?

At the very least, could we at least agree that Finland should be bumped up a little on that list of random sets of six million people that should be saved in a nuclear war. Please? We�d like to survive, too. Obviously.

That�d just be reilu meininki.

In the zone

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 16:44:54 +0200

HELSINKI � Of all the skills that Mikael Granlund has, and of all the gifts he has, the ability to be in the moment, to live in the now, may just be his biggest, and the most important one.

That�s why he was able to hone his stickhandling skills for hours on end as a kid. That�s what�s helped him keep his feet on the ground during the media frenzy around him the last few years, and that�s why it�s easy to believe him when he says that he hasn�t thought about playing in front of his home fans at the World Championship in May.

After all, Mikael Granlund says that when he�s in the zone, he doesn�t even remember his last shift, and doesn�t hear what the crowd�s yelling, or what the other players are saying to him on the ice.

At that moment, the rest of the world becomes a simple backdrop of his life. That may also be when Granlund is at his happiest. Out on the ice, playing the game he loves, away from reporters, cameras, and microphones.

But with the World Championship on home ice just weeks away, the spotlight is turning increasingly on the kid who scored That Goal in the semi-final against Russia in last year�s tournament, who�s won one Finnish title, and is going after his second, and who, in a word, is the future of Finnish hockey.

�I haven�t really given the tournament a lot of thought, to be honest. I try to live in the moment, and if I start day dreaming, I�m not in the moment. Of course it would be exciting to play in front of Finnish fans in Helsinki,� Granlund, whose HIFK plays in the other Helsinki arena, said recently.

When asked, Granlund dismissed any ideas of a home-ice curse, and doesn�t consider Finland�s home tournament record anything to worry about. Finland�s finished seventh, fourth, fifth, fifth, fifth, and fifth in the six previous tournaments it has hosted.

�I think the home-ice curse is just superstition. So many teams have a good chance to win the World Championship, even the home team,� he said.

While Granlund is great at seizing the moment, he has laid out a career plan which has included playing in the Finnish league for two seasons after the Minnesota Wild picked him ninth in the 2010 NHL draft.

�It was important for me to stay here and develop further as a player, I didn�t think I was ready to take the step two years ago. At least I�m more ready now,� said Granlund, who finished 28th in the league scoring in 2010 as a rookie, despite missing 15 games. He was 28th last season, despite missing 21 games, and sixth this season � despite missing 15 games.

When he joined HIFK three years ago, he was a small, but hugely talented, 17-year-old forward. Now, he�s matured both physically and mentally.

�In that age, some of the maturing takes place naturally, but my skating�s a lot better than it was three years ago, I�m stronger, and probably make more mature and better decisions on the ice. I�m a completely different player now, even if I did fine in the beginning, too,� he said.

�Naturally, I want to be as strong and fast as possible, but I�ll never be the strongest or fastest player on the ice, so I will have to compensate that with something.� he added.

There were a couple of other reasons for Granlund to bide his time in Finland, instead of Minnesota.

�I also wanted to graduate from high school, and fulfill the military service before leaving for the NHL,� he added.

Now he can focus on his play. His military service is complete, and he�s going to graduate from high school this spring. There will be no loose ends in Finland � after the May tournament.

Granlund loves to play. He says he�s played �pretty much everything that involves a ball�. It was his father who first bought the boys � his younger brother Markus is also his HIFK teammate � the sticks, and the nets to the yard. And that, not genes, was the gift their parents gave them, according to Granlund.

�People always talk about natural born talents, and I�m sure genes do play a role, maybe somebody has better co-ordination or something, but to me it all comes down to repetitions. All good players have played a lot since they were children,� he said.

�For kids, playing hockey isn�t practising, it�s just having fun. I was lucky, too, that I had a lot of friends to play with in the neighbourhood,� he added.

But now, playing hockey is no longer just fun and games. Thousands of HIFK fans, and millions of Finns look to Granlund to provide some magic this spring. In Minnesota, the Wild are looking forward to getting Granlund into the fold, even if he hasn�t signed with the club yet.

�I�ve wanted to play in the NHL ever since I was a kid, but I don�t want to plan next season now,� he said.

If and when he does play in the NHL next season, he�s not worried about how he�s going to do.

�In my first season in Helsinki, I didn�t think I�d end up playing in the first line. It was the same with the Worlds last season; I didn�t expect much, but it turned out well. I find that often when I just go out and play, things will turn out fine,� he said.

Scoring the most memorable goal in Finnish hockey history this century, one that was made into a stamp just weeks after the tournament certainly is �fine�.

It was a textbook example of a player being in the zone, not thinking, just doing what he does best. It was also a great example of why Granlund has always been able to elevate his game when he�s gone to the next level, even if doubters have called him too small, or too slow.

First he won a puck battle against Dmitri Kalinin in the corner, then skated around Dmitri Kulikov, scooped up the puck onto his blade and then lifted it over Konstantin Barulin�s shoulder from behind the net, to give Finland a 1-0 lead in the game (that Finland ended up winning 3-0).

�It was just one goal. Sometimes that goes in, other times not. It was an important goal, for sure, but how I scored it wasn�t important to me, and I don�t think it mattered to the other players, either,� said Granlund.

�If a player just practises that move for a week, he can do it, it�s not that hard. Any player can do that if they just dare to try it,� he added.

But that�s the point. Not many do dare to try it.

�Having said that, I�d be hard-pressed to try something like that again, too, considering the commotion it caused. I don�t think I�ll try scoring a goal like that anytime soon,� he said.

Then again, on the ice, when he�s in the moment, he doesn�t think about stamps or the President�s reception or medals.

He just plays.

Yellow mellow

Sat, 21 Apr 2012 14:03:25 +0200

The best part of spring - which has definitely sprung here now - is putting the winter clothes away, and brining the summer clothes back into rotation. Not only are there always some nice surprises, jackets you�ve forgot, there�s often the added bonus of finding money in the pockets.

And that, I say, feels like winning the lottery.

This morning, I walked up from the basement, wearing a yellow leather jacket that I had completely forgotten about, and a smile.

I asked Daughter what she thought about it. After all, she�s the six-year-old who picks her own clothes each morning and runs around department stores with Wife, bringing her new clothes to try on while she�s in the fitting room. Not only does she seem to have an interest in fashion, she also has an impeccable taste.

Or so I thought.

�Whaddaya think?� I asked her, still smiling.

She didn�t say anything. She just sighed and wiggled her little hand. Now, since she didn�t have her palm down, but to the side, it looked like a royal wave so I asked her again:

�What? So-so?�

�Yeah. Just as so-so as the postman�s jacket you had on earlier,� she said, referring to the dark-blue Royal Mail jacket I bought ten years ago at a second-hand store.

�Really? Do you know how nice this jacket is, though?� I told her.

�This jacket is so nice that I once almost had to wrestle for it,� I said.

Some ten years ago, I became friends with a neighbor of ours. He was a single guy, and needed a buddy, and I was a Finnish guy who needed a buddy, and we found each other. We both liked Queen (the band), and we both thought we were funny.

Every now and then, he�d invite me to his apartment to listen to music, watch him land a plane in New York in the Flight Simulator, and just hang out. And then maybe we�d go to a nearby pub afterwards.

One night, we walked down to a pub next to a subway station down the hill, on the wrong side of the tracks. Pubs close to subway stations are always a little sleazy, and this one was no exception. Anyway, my buddy quickly found new friends again, and before I knew it, he was dancing with somebody. I sat at the bar and watched him dance. Then I saw two men walk in.

Two Finnish-looking men.

They sat down next to me, and for reasons still unknown to me, I said something in Finnish to one of the guys. Maybe he bumped into me or something. Now, engaging like that with a drunk Finn was a big mistake, because now our mutual language gave him the wrong impression. He thought I wanted to be his buddy, so he started to talk to me. I tried to talk as little as possible, knowing that if I simply ignored him, he'd probably get angry.

After a couple of minutes, he had forgotten about his friend and had, instead, turned his full attention to me.

�That�s a really nice jacket,� he said.

�Thanks,� I said, and stuffed my hands deeper into the pockets.

�Really nice. Real leather?�

�Sure,� I said, trying to send telepathic signals to my buddy, still dancing out on the, well, not dance floor, it was just a floor.

�Let�s wrestle for it,� said the man.

�I don�t think so.�

�Come on, let�s wrestle. Come on.�

�Yeah, no.�

I turned to look at him, and he stared at me right in the eye, in a typical drunk man's fashion. I decided it was time to go home. My neighbor saw me get up, so he came to talk to me.

�Wanna leave?�

�I think it�s best,� I told him, and we walked out the pub. He carried his jacket in his hand, all sweaty. I buttoned up my nice, yellow, real leather jacket. My hands were shaking a little bit.

Daughter looked up from her Pok�mon cards again.

�So, obviously you won since you still have the jacket,� she said.

�No, I didn't wrestle with him,� I told her.

�Why would I have? It was my jacket so even if I had won, which is likely, I would have just got to keep something that was already mine. That would have been stupid,� I said.

�That�s true, Dad. I�m glad you didn�t wrestle with that guy,� Daughter said then.

�Me, too,� I said, looked at myself in the mirror, and put my hands into the pockets, a part of my cool pose.

I found a twenty in the left pocket.

He's a fast talker

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 20:08:35 +0200

�Just take it from the top, read it through to get a feel, and you know, remember that you�re partly thinking about this out loud, but that there�s also an audience out there so you have to make sure you reach them,� said the producer.

I nodded, and pulled the microphone a little closer to my face. I leaned on the desk with both my hands, and stared at my script in front of me.

�Anytime you wanna go, just go,� he said.

�Ok, let�s do it,� I said.

�Oh, and, not too fast,� he added.

I nodded again, and started to read my story about rock songs that have been covered in Finnish. As slowly as I could.

Back in second grade, in the now world-famous Finnish school system - which might not have been the best in the world then, even if the product it cranked out is obviously first-class - the pupils� reading abilities were tested with a speed reading test.

While the rest of the class was drawing or writing stories in classroom, each of us had to go out to the corridor, meet with the teacher, and read a passage out of a book. It�s the first test I remember ever taking, even though there must have been others.

When it was my turn, the teacher asked me to sit down at a desk that had been carried there, and opened the book for me. I sat down, and at �go�, I just started to read, out loud, as fast as I could. After the first page, I glanced at the teacher, but kept reading. Two pages, three pages, and a half of the fourth.

�Stop,� said the teacher. �Well done, very well done.�

�That�s farther than anybody else so far,� she added.

I walked back to the classroom as the proudest little man in the world. I was fast. I could read. I could read really fast. It was the only time anybody�s ever given me praise for reading fast.

The next year, our new teacher asked me to read the nativity story from the Bible in front of the entire school. As far as I can remember, she told me about the task while we were walking to the church. At least it was news to me then, so if she had told me about it, I had forgot about it.

I sat in the front row, waiting for my turn, and when it came, I walked up, and started to read:

�AnditcametopassinthosedaysthattherewentoutadecreefromCaesarAugustusthatallthe
worldshouldbetaxed.And JosephalsowentupfromGalileeoutofthecityofNazareth��

My teacher thanked me afterwards.

�And hey, that was pretty fast, probably some kind of a record,� she said.

Last August, I met with a media company about possible work, that would have possibly included TV appearances. Now, I have never done TV, and I was about to tell them that, just to be fair, when I heard a voice from the other side of the conference room table.

�I see you mostly as a writer, is that fair?� said a man I�ve known since 1994.

�That�s right,� I said.

�I mean, I like your stuff, but my only concern is that�� he said, and left the sentence hanging in the air.

I knew what was coming.

�� well, sometimes you speak so fast,� he then added.

�Yes. I know,� I said as slowly as I could.

When some people get nervous, they blush. Like me. I also tend to read and speak a little faster than usual. I speak a little faster than usual also when I get excited. I have friends who joke about the way I answer the phone: �Rstpkrnn�

It seems that I often speak faster than usual, and you can just imagine what�s happening inside my head at the same time. But of course the speed reading is a method of escape, too: the faster I read the text, the faster I get out of the spotlight.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting on a couch at the Finnish-speaking side of the Swedish radio, chatting with the producer and the program director. We were talking about the two-part series I had agreed to do.

�You haven�t done radio, right?� the program director asked me.

�No, not really, can�t really say I have,� I told her. I felt the words get stuck to each other a little bit, and I knew I was blushing.

�Well, that�s not a problem, we�ll get you here to record it, and help you out,� said the producer.

And so I wrote a little script for myself, and practiced it at home. I read it - slowly -, I tried different voices until I almost knew the text by heart. I was ready to go.

On the morning of the taping of my radio thing, as Wife and Son and Daughter were on their way to school and work, I reminded Wife of my radio gig.

�Oh yeah! Good luck!� she said, and then added: ��Just be yourself, you�re the best.�

�Thanks,� I said, and started to closed the front door when I heard Wife�s last instructions to me.

�Don�t speak too fast.�

But I think I did.

Ride the line

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 15:19:36 +0200

My idea of a perfect afternoon is going for a bike ride with the family. We all get on our bikes, and before we take off, one of us raises his or her right hand and yells, �Let�s ride!� You know, like the Three Amigos did in the movie.

And then we ride to the mall or the library - next to the mall - or to a nearby park. The bike rides don�t take an entire afternoon yet, but by the end of the summer, we might even make it all the way to downtown Stockholm. With a couple of stops to eat our sandwiches, of course.

That�s what my parents and I did when I was a kid. We rode around and made stops at various friends� houses, and at different sports fields. For a while, we�d watch whatever soccer match was going on, then make up our minds about the next stop, and ride there.

I remember one summer day when we were out all day, riding around the entire city of Helsinki, literally. The last stop was at a soccer pitch not far from us, and when we rode home through the esplanade that runs by the old Olympic village, the August sun still way up even though was seven o�clock in the evening.

Mom and Dad were right behind me, and we chatted about this and that. My brand new odometer told me that the day�s trip was about 40 kilometers long and that I was going 25 km/h. My record was 40-something. All was well.

I�ve now fallen back in the peloton, no longer the one leading the way, but instead the one that�s the last in line, making sure everybody�s with us, giving directions to the three riders in front of me, telling them where to turn, when to cross the street.

And I do give directions, mostly to Son and Daughter, and mostly about keeping to the right.

�Keep to the right, keep to the right,� I tell Son and Daughter as soon as I see somebody in the horizon.

�Keep to the right,� I tell them again as we pass the person in question, possibly a little louder than necessary.

That�s a bit of a pet peeve of mine, namely, people not knowing where they should walk, and not knowing where to yield when we come riding. It�s not that difficult, I tell Wife, who then tells me to drop it.

�You can�t change it by yourself. People are told to keep to the left, and so they do,� she says.

But not on a bike lane, I still always mutter back, then drop back to take my place in the peloton of ours.

My first biking memory is riding on a small country road with my aunt. I was six or seven years old which would make her a young lady in her teens, a young adult in charge of a kid who�s just learned to ride a bike. Riding a bike to the kiosk by the side of the big highway was a major adventure, even for a kid from a Helsinki suburb.

The first country road was easy, it was a dirt road, straight as an arrow, with little or no traffic. It was the next road, the paved road, that made my aunt a little worried so she kept telling me to keep to the right.

�Don�t cross the white line,� she said.

And I rode in front of her as fast as I could, keeping my eyes on the white paint that marked the side of the road. In my brain, �not crossing the line� meant that I had to stay right on the line at all times.

I remember thinking that it was impossible, and I hoped my aunt wouldn�t see that I couldn�t really stay on the paint all the time. Every time my front wheel slipped off it, I�d quickly return to riding on the line, like a man walking on a tightrope. If she did see that, she didn�t say anything, and we made it to coolest kiosk I knew, the one with a huge bottle of Jaffa, an orange soda, on its roof, and we got our ice creams.

And on our way back, I did my best to stay on the white line.

�Remember, don�t cross the white line,� my aunt yelled from behind me.

I didn�t reply. I simply rode my bike with my tongue sticking out as always when I�m focused.

Rockabilly Rebels

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 16:27:39 +0200

Before the weekend hockey trip that turned me into a fan of a Finnish new wave band, and before I started to grow my hair long, accordingly, but after my favorite band was Alvin and the Chipmunks, I got into rockabilly. Of course I wasn�t alone in this, because that was an era when the 1950s came back in style.

Even Elvis was still alive, although, at that point, I was basically still rocking to the sounds of a chipmunk band, and loving it. I caught the trend a couple of years after his death when a friend of mine and I saw Kurt Russell in John Carpenter�s movie on Elvis. And we thought Kurt Russell was perfect as Elvis, but then again, we already knew Kurt was cool, because The Quest, a TV show, had been a big hit in Finland.

We had Fonzie and Richie, too, and the rest of the Happy Days gang, and white T-shirts and brown leather jackets were cooler than cool. Then we got Danny Zuko, in a black leather jacket and a white T-shirt - very cool - and Grease was not only the word, it was a whole sentence.

It was also the stuff that all cool kids put in their hair to get it slicked back like Danny Zuko's in Grease, and the stuff that I wasn�t supposed to use. Instead, Mom and Dad let me use sugar water, which worked wonders, too. Caramelized hair. How sweet.

Well, I did get a tube of Suave as a birthday present, and sometimes, in the afternoons, after school, I�d spread it on my steel comb - always in my right back pocket - slick my hair back, then look at myself in the mirror, spread my arms, and go, �heeyyyyyyyyy,� like Fonzie.

Then I�d wash my hair and go to hockey practice.

My best friend, though, went all the way to the bottom (or top) of the 1950s subculture. And I was there to help him every step of the way. Well, almost every step of the way.

I sure was there when he wanted to draw a confederate flag on a piece of white cloth, then sew that on the back of his jeans jacket. I helped him draw some of the stars, and I was there, lying on the floor next to him, coloring it red and blue, staying inside the lines, while Matchbox or Crazy Cavan "N" The Rhythm Rockers were playing in the background.

We worked at it an entire afternoon, and then some, but when I left, it still wasn�t finished. My buddy finished it later that night, though, so the next morning when we saw each other at school, he was proudly wearing his jacket, with a brand new confederate flag on the back. He was a real rockabilly guy. A real teddy boy, with his brothel creeper shoes and all.

Not everybody was a teddy boy, though, and there were even gangs in Helsinki at the time. Not where we lived, but there were a few gangs downtown, and in some of the suburbs. There were the punks and the teddy boys and the skas and skinheads and others that I�ve forgot.

My buddy had picked his side, though, and he was with the teddy boys. There was something about his style, and possibly him, that annoyed a few girls in our class. Even if they looked like the Pink Ladies in Grease themselves, that confederate flag - even if it was nicely colored - just got to them.

A couple of days after my buddy had come to the school wearing the jacket for the first time, the Pink Ladies were on his case, trash talking him, and following him home after school. Since we always walked home together, I thought the girl gang was following us, but it soon got apparent that they weren�t interested in me. They were after my buddy.

We walked across the gravel soccer pitch that was our shortcut, not paying attention to the girls� shouting at us. At my buddy. We kept on walking, our eyes fixed on the goal at the other end of the pitch, making sure we wouldn�t look back, and acknowledge the challenge. Because it definitely was one.

We walked a little faster, but they caught us before we got to the other goal. My friend was quickly surrounded by the three girls, each of them taking turns at shoving him. Some other kids from school had followed them, too, anxious to see what was going to happen next.

Nothing happened next because my friend just kept on walking, and I was trying to keep up. We crossed the street, and I thought we had made it. I thought the girls had got enough and would just walk their way, as usual, and we�d walk down the hill, unfollowed, as usual.

But I was wrong.

Just as we had crossed the street, the girls made their move. One of the girls attacked my buddy, who simply lifted his arms to protect his face. They hit him more, and he just curled his upper body up into a ball, waiting for the hitting to end.

�Hit them! Hit them back!� somebody yelled.

�I don�t hit girls. I never hit girls,� said my friend in a muffled voice.

The girls delivered a few more punches, but when my friend didn�t hit back, they stopped hitting him, and turned their attention back to the confederate flag. Somehow they manage to rip it off my friend�s jean jacket. Their mission accomplished, they turned around and went their way, leaving my friend sitting on the bike lane next to his flag.

I wasn�t much of a help to him that day. I never tried to break them up, but I did walk my friend home, and I tried to make him feel a little better. I�d like to think I offered to help him draw and color a new flag, too.

But we never did that.

A few weeks later, I went on a hockey trip and heard a song by Hassisen Kone, a Finnish rock band, on the bus. A year later my father would be working in a store next to the one that gave its name to the band, but of course I didn�t know that then.

I did know right away, though, that my teddy boy days were over, as secretly as they had begun.

What would Hulk Hogan do?

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 18:09:33 +0200

Last week, when I saw the YouTube video of Scott Hartnell making his then-famous now-forgotten - nothing personal, Scottie, that�s just the way things go these days - Hulk Hogan impersonation, I thought of a friend of mine who did the same thing 20 years ago.

Only, he wasn�t doing it in front of 15 000 people, or to a guy dressed up as Hulk Hogan. He did it in an ice cold hockey rink 50 kilometers west of Helsinki, Finland, in front of 200 people, and purely out of frustration and to get back at every single one of those 150 people in the stands.

He skated from the goal line to the blueline, then lifted his hand behind his ear, and did the Hulk Hogan pose. The crowd was silent. Nobody was chirping at him, not anymore. And he was going fast between those bluelines. I know it, because I was chasing him, trying to catch up so we could celebrate the goal. My friend had just scored the game winner, with four seconds remaining in the game � the real reason for the crowd�s silence.

Now, on the global hierarchy of different hockey leagues, the fourth-highest - or, depending on your point of view, the third-lowest - division in Finland probably doesn�t rank very high, not in the Top 40, but for the 150 spectators, plus the 44 players, and the three coaches, and the two trainers, the three (homer) on-ice officials and the two guys working the clock and the game protocol, that goal was huge.

It was so big that my friend and I are still talking about it. Judging by the fact that another former teammate of ours liked my Facebook post about it, a couple of other people also remember it.

We talk about that celebration, and how he really shut the nasty home crowd up, and then we talk about the goal, and how we rallied back to win the game. And then we almost always talk about another game against the same team, a top team that we beat on our home ice.

That was a game we weren�t supposed to win. We were a lower-half team, they were leading the league. Somehow, our playing coach got us all on the same page, and the page only had two words on it: �Defend� and �Believe.�

Believe.

�Belief is the ingredient that makes a reworked habit loop into a permanent behavior; belief is easier when it occurs within a community,� writes Charles Duhigg in his book �The Power of Habits�.

When one guy on our team threw himself on the ice to block a shot, it was easier for the second guy to do it. When the first guy iced the puck, we all started to ice it. And when we scored a goal, we all knew we could win.

The reason we still talk about a beer league game is because we learned something.

We learned that systems matter but what matters even more is that the players on the team believe in it, and each other. We see it every year, this time of the year. We saw it in 1994 when Mark Messier guaranteed a win, and we saw it in 1980 when the US beat the Soviets in Lake Placid.

Herb Brooks made sure his players knew what was expected, he made sure they worked harder than anybody else, and he made sure they came together as a team.

�If we play �em 10 times, [the Soviets] might win nine. But NOT this game,� he said.

And that�s why Al Michaels got a chance to say his famous line: �Do you believe in miracles?�

The keyword in the sentence is not miracle. It�s �believe�.

Father and Son, Inc.

Thu, 5 Apr 2012 15:05:36 +0200

Last weekend, Wife and Daughter packed their bags and drove south. Now, because it had been snowing when we got up, instead of driving to the cottage, as planned, they only drove south for ten minutes, parked the car at the In-Laws�, and spent the weekend at their imaginary cottage, giving Son and me the male bonding weekend we had talked about. (And the female bonding weekend to them).

This was to be a weekend of life lessons, something they would make a Hallmark movie about. Son and I would talk and hang out, watch movies, eat hamburgers, and while doing that, I would drop some words of wisdom his way.

Like, �Did you know that they just found the Apollo 11 engines?� or �Did you know that there are actual flying cars these days but they�re now called roadable aircrafts.�

And Son would nod, and take notes like I was going to ask him to. That was the plan. But first, we had to run to the train so we�d make it to the 12.10 showing of the 3D version of �The Phantom Menace�.

I stopped at the ATM, and as I was about to punch in my code, I heard Son�s voice next to me.

�How much are you gonna take out? 6 000 or what?� he said.

Here. Here it was. My first teachable moment.

�Hey, buddy, do you know how much 6000 is? Do you know what you could get with it? No? Well, let me tell you. You could buy 600 hotdogs, except that the guy standing there probably doesn�t have 600 hotdogs so you�d have to go to the next guy and the next, and the next.

�Let�s say they all have a hundred hotdogs, how many vendors would you have to go to, to get your 600 hotdogs that your 6000 kronor would get you? Yes, six. But then, you�d have nothing to drink. Think about it,� I said.

�And by the way, I�ll only take out 600. How many hotdogs would that get you?�

�I�m hungry. Can I get a hotdog? Please? Just one, though,� Son said.

�Yes, Son, yes, you may. I hope you learned a lesson now,� I said. �This is not Monopoly money.�

That gave me an idea.

That night, I challenged Son to a game of Monopoly, which I intended to turn into a fun father-son activity and a lesson on the value of money, and the mechanics of an economy.

Lesson number one: �I�ll challenge you to a game of Monopoly, Son. Go get the board from the basement.�

He did, and as usual, he wanted to be bank, which I considered a good move. That way the boy would get to handle money, he�d get a tactile relationship with cash. And, he�d have to do some adding and subtracting.

He wanted to be the wheelbarrow, I chose the sack of money as my piece. The symbolism was so obvious I laughed a little. I was going to beat him in the game and give him a lesson in economics: I would go home pushing that sack of money in that wheelbarrow of mine-to-be.

He gave both of us two crisp, yellow bills, 200 dollars, wished me good luck, and rolled the dice. And so the game was on.

I bought the first property I landed on. Connecticut Avenue. Price 120 dollars.

�Mine!� I say and handed the two bills back to Son.

�Now, I may not have as much money as you, but now I can start developing the property, maybe buy some more, and then build houses there to drive up the value. See, while I don�t have as much money as you, because you still have the 200 dollars, I have made something called �i-n-v-e-s-t-m-e-n-t�,� I said.

We took turns throwing dice, buying properties, and ending up in jail for a half an hour. Well, mostly Son threw dice, and bought properties, and I sat in jail for a half an hour.

When I got out, I had 300 dollars, Connecticut Avenue and Virginia Avenue. Son had built a hotel on Boardwalk. That did annoy me. Not because I was losing the game, but because I was losing the game despite the fact that of the two of us, I was the one with a Master�s degree in business.

I tried to think back to my Economics class, but the only thing I remembered was that the professor had told us that if one nation had four fingers and no thumbs, and another nation had citizens with big thumbs, they�d be better off if each of them specialized on one thing and then traded with each other.

Granted, I only took Economics 101 and Bookkeeping 101 because I majored in marketing. I decided to use that knowledge so I started to work on my brands.

�That Connecticut Avenue sure looks good! That's where I'd want to stop. The biggest candy store in the world is there,� I said. �Want some candy?�

Son landed on �Income Tax 10% or $200�.

�Yes!� he shouted.

To my question about candy.

�But first,� I said and smiled, �Income tax. Do you know what that means?�

Before he had time to say anything, I ran upstairs to my office, trying to look for �Economics� by Baumol and Blinder, the first textcopy of book I bought in college. I didn�t have it, and somebody had snatched by Taxes for Dummies, too, so I grabbed my laptop and ran back down, while typing �taxes� into Wikipedia.

I cleared my throat as I put the laptop on the table.

�To tax, from the Latin �taxo�, meaning �I estimate��, I started, and looked at Son. He was just staring at me.

�� it means, that a financial charge or other levy is imposed upon a taxpayer � an individual or legal entity � by a state or the functional equivalent of a state such that failure to pay is punishable by law.�

He was still staring at me, his eyes big and blank.

�So you have to pay,� I said.

�How much?�

�Ten percent or 200 dollars, it�s capped that way. In some countries, taxes are said to be progressive so that the more money you make the bigger share of that you have to pay in taxes, and in some, like here in Monopoly, we have a flat rate � at ten percent,� I said.

�How much?�

�How much you got?�

�1700.�

�So, you just drop one of the zeroes to get the ten percent,� I said.

�How much?�

�Just drop one of the zeroes.�

�Which one?�

�Um, the second one.�

�What!? 170 dollars? No way,� he said.

�But, see, we need the money to pay for the roads and the train stations - that you own - and the water works - that you own,� I explained.

And that�s how Son became a good taxpayer.

An hour later, we called it a night, and counted our assets. Son had beaten me handily, so I just called a timeout and said we�d continue the game in the morning. He brushed his teeth, and went to bed. Five minutes later, as I watched him turn off the lights and then turn his back towards the door, and me, I said:

�Hey, buddy? Did you know that there are actual flying cars these days but they�re now called readable aircrafts? Really."

"Good night," I said then.

No answer. He had fallen asleep.

True fiction

Wed, 28 Mar 2012 13:06:39 +0200

I don�t know if we were friends anymore, although I�m pretty sure we were. I know we weren�t enemies, which is natural since we were teenagers, and at least for me, there were just buddies and other people. When I look back now, I think we had been pretty good friends because we went to the same school, but I also know that we only went to the same school for about a year and a half, two years maybe, and I had lost track of him a little bit.

Maybe I liked him because he seemed to be always smiling, or because he was nice to me, a new kid in town, or maybe because he shared a name with my father, which made his name unusual for somebody his age.

Also, around that time, or possibly a little later, a friend of mine was dating his sister, who was a little older than we. I knew of her because she, too, had gone to the same school, but I didn�t really know her. I just remember her being really skinny.

We were 16, 17 years old and just getting into the party thing, except not me, because I was always a good boy, and did what my parents wanted so I didn�t hang out in weird places, or even walk around the two blocks in downtown Joensuu like all the other kids did, on Friday nights. If I didn�t have hockey practice, I probably just stayed at home and watched TV, listened to music, or maybe played a few rounds of Wall, or Hungry Horace - a Pac-Man clone - on my Spectrum in my room.

But one Friday, there was a party at my friend�s house. I don�t think any invitations got sent, but instead, whoever was around and wanted to go, went there, and by the end of the night, a lot of people had been around and gone. It was a good party, until at some point, the host, my former schoolmate, had had an argument with somebody or maybe he had broken up with his girlfriend, so he ran back inside, found a shotgun and shot himself.

To death.

Even if I don�t even know the events that led to that event, I have a very vivid memory of that night. About the fight, and the commotion, how he ran inside and upstairs only to emerge back on the front lawn less than a minute later. And then of the ambulance arriving, people freaking out. I don�t have a memory of the shot, or his action, I just see the red-brick house, and how dark its walls were.

I can see the empty driveway, and the color of the asphalt. It�s black, even though it�s not new so it�s been raining that night. It�s a late summer night and I see people lying on the grass, even if a late summer night in Finland isn�t that warm. I see people in pairs, talking, and then scattering. I see the mailbox by the side of the road, because I�m standing across the street.

Which is interesting because I didn�t even know where he lived. I was never at the party that night.

I was at home, probably watching �Dallas�.

I�ve never talked about that night with anybody, and since we didn�t have many mutual friends I have never talked about him, either, since then, but I have all these details in my mind, and have had them for almost 30 years now.

All fake, all figments of my imagination. But after all these years, to me, all true.

Blood, sweat and fears

Tue, 27 Mar 2012 19:32:14 +0200

�You�ve got big dreams? You want fame? Well, fame costs. And right here is where you start paying in sweat.� � �Lydia Grant�, dance instructor in �Fame�

Yes, I�m old enough to not only admit to remembering �Fame�, the 1980s hit TV series, but also having liked the show. Now, rushing home on Sunday afternoons so I could watch Danny and Bruno and Leroy, and of course Valerie, Coco and Lori work on their art, and get their lives straight, wasn�t something I told my teammates, but then again, since nobody talked about it, maybe I wasn�t the only fan of the show. All I know, �Fame� was never discussed in the locker room.

I�ve quoted �Lydia Grant�s� - played by Debbie Allen - words many times over the years, sometimes jokingly, but most often seriously, because it�s true. Fame does cost, and the price is sweat.

In September, at the Swedish Elitserien�s annual kick off event, most of the experts, including Elitserien coaches, predicted Djurg�rden to finish at the top of the standings, a couple of the coaches even going as far as predicting the Stockholm team to win the championship, and add to their already massive collection of titles.

Djurg�rden refers to itself as the team with the most Swedish championships, �Mesta m�stare�, which is naturally true. Their 16 Swedish titles is four more than Bryn�s has, and nine more than AIK, their local rival has won.

All three clubs are still playing hockey this season, which, it being spring in Stockholm is usually good news, but in Djurg�rden�s case, it�s not.

The club didn�t make the playoffs, and is, instead, playing for its Elitserien spot in a qualification series with Timr�, the team that finished last in the Elitserien regular season, and four best teams from Allsvenskan, the division below Elitserien.

Before the puck was dropped, Djurg�rden was a shoo-in for the playoffs, even a candidate to win the whole thing. They started ok, but hovered in the middle of the standings spending most of December in seventh place. The last time they held onto a playoff berth was on January 17, and on January 30, two points out of the playoffs, they fired head coach Hardy Nilsson. By the end of the season, they had slipped to second last, seven points out of the playoffs, tied in points with Link�ping, but with a (three goals) worse goal differential.

In Finland, a 16-time national champion is also fighting for its spot in the top division, but Ilves has been struggling for a long time. It hasn�t finished higher than sixth since it�s bronze medal season 2000-01, and since 1990, it�s only been in the top 6 six times, and that includes the three times it finished exactly sixth.

This is the second time in three years that Ilves has to play for its spot. In 2010, it beat Joensuu Jokipojat easily 4-1 in a best-of-seven series, and has already got a 1-0 lead in this year�s series against Vaasa Sport.

Djurg�rden�s downward spiral was sudden. Two years ago, Djurg�rden played in the final, and last year they made the playoffs, and lost the Game 7 of their quarterfinal against Lule� on overtime.

�The young players haven�t managed to push the veterans to play even better,� says H�kan S�dergren, a former Tre Kronor and Djurg�rden player to Aftonbladet.

One of those players is Mika Zibanejad, the Senators prospect. He scored 13 points in 26 games in the regular season, and now has one goal and three points in five relegation series games.

Playing for your life isn�t fun.

�There is no back door out. They have to perform, the have to win, they have everything to lose. That�s every team�s nightmare,� S�dergren says.

Even AIK players are pulling for their rival because it�s the back and forth between the two clubs that makes hockey fun, and Stockholm a great hockey city.

Djurg�rden�s and Ilves�s dream is no longer to win the championship, and have a parade. There�s no fame to be had. Their dream is to avoid a nightmare. Djurg�rden is currently fourth in the qualification series, when only the two top teams earn an Elitserien spot for 2012-13. They need to fight with all the blood and sweat they can muster to win hockey games.

And if not?

There will be tears.

Jedi lessons

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 12:15:03 +0200

FADE IN.

INT. CAR - EVENING. RISTO�S driving on a highway, SON sitting in the backseat, playing Angry Birds on RISTO�S iPhone. The radio�s on, playing Ulrik Munther�s �Soldiers�.

SON
Louder. This is good.

RISTO cranks up the volume.

SON
�See and be seen�. That�s my motto.

RISTO looks in the rearview mirrow. SON is hunched over the phone.

RISTO
What�s that?

SON
My motto.

RISTO
Yeah, what was it? I didn�t hear you because the radio�s so loud.

SON
�SEE AND BE SEEN�

RISTO turns down the volume a little.

RISTO
Nice!

RISTO (again, after a pause)
What does it mean?

SON
Well, it means: see and be seen.

RISTO
But how? Who?

SON
So you�re famous.

RISTO
You wanna be a celebrity?

SON
No.

RISTO
You wanna be famous?

SON
Forget it. It�s just my motto.

RISTO
Yeah, but, what would you wanna be famous for?

SON
I don�t know.

SON keeps on playing the Angry Birds. RISTO is excited about the conversation.

RISTO
So, �See and be seen�, right? Sounds like a fine motto. When I was your age, my father told me that Walt Disney had a sign on his desk, saying�

SON
� Always be yourself. I know, Dad.

RISTO
That, too, is a fine motto. But, everybody�s gotta have his own.

SON
Can we talk about something else?

RISTO
�See and be seen�. I kind of like it. It means that you�ll have to be observant, be aware of the world, and be a part of the world. Is that why you always make those funny observations? But on the other hand, it�s also, �be seen�, so you can�t just be one that�s at the sidelines looking at things, but you have to be somebody that others pay attention to. That�s good, that�s good. See and be seen. Go get �em, right? That�s the spirit!

SON
What?

RISTO
Your motto.

SON.
Oh.

RISTO
I�m not sure if I have a motto myself. Maybe I should think of one. What do you think? What should my motto be? I have to think about that. Any suggestions?

SON
How about �see and be seen�?

RISTO
But that�s yours! I can�t take your motto. Very funny.

SON
I don�t really want it anymore.

RISTO
Oh. Well. Thank you. Thank you very much.

SON
You�re welcome. Can I now play something else?

RISTO
OK.

FADE OUT.

Heartbreak Hotel

Sat, 17 Mar 2012 15:52:44 +0200

Stuck On You

They�re playing Elvis in this coffee shop. The barista behind the counter is singing along, and when the song reached the end, she was really belting it. Don�t look now - I can�t - but I know she�s even doing the moves.

This must be the best coffee shop in Stockholm, this �V. Street Coffee� almost across the street from the main station. It�s small, but it�s got character - like you know who - like all the cool coffee shops in the world. It�s not a franchise, not a copy of somebody else�s idea, it�s its own thing. On the walls there are posters from the 1950, the price list looks like it�s from the 1970s.

And of course, the barista knows everybody.

Crying in the Chapel

Every Saturday afternoon, Son has his drama class so I have an hour and a half of excellent coffee shop time. Some Saturdays, I've wasted most of the time just wandering around, trying to find the perfect place, but not today.

�What can I do for you,� the barista asked me and leaned on the counter.

�A cappuccino, please,� I said.

She made me a cup of coffee, and as she was pouring the milk, she looked up.

�This is my last day here, in two weeks I�ll be at the airport,� she said and paused. �I�ll be moving to London.�

It�s Now or Never

She�s worked here for a few years, from Monday thru Saturday, year in, year out, minus a summer vacation and a few off days during Christmas time.

�I got tired of staring at the same old 100 meters of the street outside the coffee shop. I already have a job and an apartment waiting for me in England,� she said.

�It�ll be good. It�ll be good,� she said.

�For sure,� I said. Then the couple that had been sitting at one of the tables got up and got ready to leave. They said goodbye, but the barista stopped them at the door.

�You weren�t thinking of leaving without giving me a hug, now, were you?� she said, with a mock hurt in her voice, and then she gave them a hug.

If I Can Dream

The new job is also at a coffee shop. Or a coffee bar, as she calls it. Or, it�s not exactly a coffee bar, it�s something else. But it�s in Wimbledon. And she can tweet from London, too. She just signed up for Twitter so she can keep in touch with her Swedish friends.

But for now, she�s going through the last hour of her life in this coffee shop. What seemed mundane and boring two weeks ago now has a heightened meaning because she�s doing it for the very last time. Doing the dishes for the last time makes her weepy. She�s had three cinnamon rolls today because she�s a little sad. Excited but sad.

�It�s like I�m in a movie, you know. I�m looking at myself on the screen doing these things, and I wonder what�s going to happen next.

�Well, I�d better start sweeping the floor,� she said, and added, �for the last time.�

My coffee shop time is up so I get up to leave. I thank her for the cappuccino and wish her good luck in London and as I walk out, I think how different V. Street Coffee will be without her, with a 23-year-old young guy in her place behind the counter.

Then again, I wouldn�t know. This was my first visit to V. Street Coffee.