Panthers' Stanley Cup ocean trip scares off national hockey prudes

What is hockey actually called?

And why shouldn't the internationally cherished trophy be taken for a quick dip in the salty ocean?

I must admit that I am astonished by the sport that defies the dentist, and even more astonished by the way in which championships on the ice ended on meter-high sand plains so hot that it was freezing cold even in August.

So I might have ignored the Florida Panthers beating the Edmonton Oilers 2-1 to win the Stanley Cup. But then they made history by taking the Cup to the Atlantic for a spritz, and the name-calling began.

People snorted disapproval, then snorted even harder as teammates filled the cup with beer and threw it over the edge of a two-story balcony. “Almost drowned a man!” someone shouted on X.

Others of us see the sacrifices this entails: despite the metal heated by the Florida sun, despite the weight of a stuffed Stanley and no doubt weakened by an evening of post-game locker room reflection, the players hefted their prize and helpfully aimed their arrows at the thirsty spectators.

Chattering capitalists from non-mainstream media might call it a drinking attack.

I call it fan service.

Granted, you won’t see any Nobel laureates skipping their gold medals across the lake, or arthouse directors tossing their tiny crystal Palme d’Ors to passing fans. No one uses their Masters jacket as a putting green. And it’s pretty safe to assume that the Tour de France’s “King of the Mountain” polka-dot jersey is tucked away in a closet somewhere, unlikely to come out for a party, if only because: men and polka dots.

Moreover, no one really knows how all this would go down with the extraordinarily portly Lord Frederick Arthur Stanley, 16th Earl of Derby, Governor General of Canada, Mayor of Liverpool, Lieutenant Colonel Commandant of the 1st Royal Lancashire Militia and father of a hockey-mad daughter who prompted him to spend $50 on a seven-inch silver trophy.

My position? If the NHL didn't want to send the Kentucky Derby winner to Gin nibbling oats of the Stanley Cup, maybe they should have thought twice before putting a bowl on top of it.

No, actually they shouldn't have put a bowl on it.

New York Ranger Sylvain Lefebvre baptized his daughter in it – the first of several players to use the Stanley Cup for such a purpose. Detroit Red Winger Tomas Holmstrom dipped his niece in it and then used it to serve potato dumplings, fair to the goose, etc., so when fellow Winger Kris Draper posed his diaper-less baby in it, the baby “dipped” the cup. “I still drank from it that night, so no worries,” he said. No worries, Kris.

Carolina Hurricanes Erik Cole served his kids Applejacks from the Cup. New York Islanders Barry Trottier slept with it. New Jersey Devils Martin Brodeur ate popcorn from it.

Detroit Red Wing captain Steve Yzerman wasted no time.

The Rangers burned the mortgage on Madison Square Garden, leading to the Curse of 1940, which forced the Rangers to wait 54 years for another victory.

Buddy, the Labrador retriever, was the one who ate from the cup (Anaheim Duck Sean O'Donnell); and Hombre, the German shepherd (New York Islander Clark Gillies). “He's a good dog,” Gillies explained.

Fellow islander John Tonelli rented a stretch limo and took it golfing. Vegas Golden Knight Phil Kessel took it to a golf course to use as a hot dog stand.

And yet.

When footage surfaced online in 2007 of an ESPN producer gleefully holding up the Stanley Cup on set, Canadians (albeit in typical Canadian fashion and with a pleasant accent) shouted that the Cup was being disrespected.

This is the same Canada with the same Edmonton Oilers with the same Mark Messier who celebrated their 1987 NHL championship by taking Lord Stanley's best players to a strip club stage.

Indeed, in the early 20th century, it was one of Canada’s Montreal Wanderers, a bowling alley operator, who used the chalice to hold chewing gum and cigars. In 1906, the Wanderers left it in a photographer’s studio. The photographer’s mother planted geraniums in it. In 1962, an entire tree full of Toronto Maple Leafs mistook the three-pound, three-tiered, 34-pound, shiny silver and nickel alloy trophy for a stick of brown wood and tossed it into a campfire.

And that, my friends, is why we can't give the Canadians our nice stuff.

Pat Beall is a columnist and editorial writer for the Sun Sentinel. Contact her at [email protected].