The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

Sid Hartman, the legendary Star Tribune sports writer, loomed over me as I patiently waited for the private media elevator to arrive at the Minnesota Wild home opener. Hartman casually glanced at the press pass hanging from my neck and shrugged. He could've cared less. It was my very first time on assignment as a sports journalist, though, and I was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I was so amped (and dorky) that I proudly displayed my shiny red press pass on the front of my shirt like a 4-H Club prize winning ribbon. Hartman, on the other hand, has been covering the Twin Cities sports scene for an eternity and has seen this whole dog and pony show before. He was grossly unimpressed and shot me a look that said, "They're letting this Muppet into to the press box?"

After several painful minutes, the elevator finally arrived and we got on at the same time. But Sid and I had a classic problem: I wanted to go up and Sid wanted to go down. The elevator attendant pushed the button to take us up to the press box. Yes, that's right people. Spazz Dad trumped Sid Hartman. Booya.

"What are you doing?" the veteran reporter briskly asked the elevator attendant. "I want to go down."

"This gentleman here," the elevator attendant said as he nonchalantly pointed towards me, "needs to go up first." I burned my stare straight ahead into the elevator doors.

When we arrived at the press box, the doors opened, and I bolted from the awkwardness that was now steaming in the elevator. Standing directly before me was a charming older gentleman named Lou who stood behind a podium like a maître d'.

"How may I help you, sir?" Lou asked. The press box was illuminated behind his velvet rope.

"My name is Todd Smith," I managed.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Smith," Lou replied, as if he was expecting me. This was impossible, because no one expects much more than dumbassedness out of me. Lou scanned his reservation book and crossed my name off. "You will be sitting in seat 11 tonight. If there is anything else I can do for you, just ask."

I excitedly made my way through the press box lobby like a kid hustling towards the tree on Christmas morning. Seat 11 was my little slice of hockey heaven. Overlooking the sold out arena, I had my own work space that included a cushy chair, outlets for my computer and cell phone, and even a private phone. I had hooks to hang my bag and jacket. Handsome young men and women stopped by every few minutes to hand me sheets of fresh hockey information. I watched the Boston Bruins, the hometown Wild's opening night opponent, warm up with a rat-a-tat-tat shooting drill and had a hard time believing this was all real.

Just a few weeks prior to the opening night game, I had attended a Minnesota Wild preseason game, as a mere civilian. My friend Gumbo and I sat in the nosebleed upper deck section. Gumbo sat to my left, grotesquely shoveling peanuts and beer into his mouth at the same time. To my right was a hefty dude sitting by himself and sporting Irish Handcuffs (a drink in each hand). But now here I was, just two weeks later, sitting up top in the Minnesota Wild press box, about two feet from the Wild executive management. I was like the "Rudy" of the literary world.

Then I made my way to the media dining lounge. They were serving prime rib. For free. I woofed down two portions because I never get to eat prime rib. For free. When I got back to my seat, the press box was buzzing with activity; Wild executives shook hands outside their private booth, television and radio crews prepped their microphones and cameras, and throngs of sports writers flipped through rosters. I hustled back to seat 11 to start writing.

As swarms of journalists were focused and doing honest work, I could hardly concentrate. It wasn't because of nerves or overstimulation: I was feverously scanning the press box for the nacho cheese dispenser. I kept seeing fellow writers walk by with a pretzel in one hand and cups of hot gooey melted cheese in the other. I eventually found the (again, free) salted pretzels and nacho cheese. Without a moment's hesitation, I promptly dunked that sumbitch.

Then I did the one thing that any rookie in my situation would do: I called someone to rub it in. "Hello," my brother Tony hastily answered, his three kids like shrieking raptors in the background.

"Dudeface," I whispered into the phone so that Patrick Reusse, the famous Star Tribune sports columnist couldn't hear me. "I'm in the press box. I just ate prime rib. And nacho cheese. For free."

"Who is this?" Tony said, playing dumb. He knew exactly who it was and he wasn't giving an inch. After a long pause he said, "Don't they know you are an ink stained hack?"

The game started and the Wild were awful. They hadn't played in six days and it showed. They clanked shots and their errant passes hit skates, not sticks. But midway through the second period, they shook off the rust like a wet dog fresh out of the lake. They dominated the Bruins for awhile, let Boston back in the game with two defensive mistakes, and eventually won 4-3. (Note: for more in-depth hockey details, please see the tidbits posted at the bottom of my tale.)

After the game, I found myself in the post-game press conference with Wild head coach Jacques Lemaire.

"I will give chances to the kids on different situations," Lemaire said, referring to all the young talent in the lineup. "Sheppard on the power play, things like that." At one point during the press conference, Lemaire and I made eye contact. I was so excited that I almost broke out in a hysterical crying fit usually reserved for pre-teen girls at a Jonas Brothers concert.

My dream night wrapped up in the Wild locker room of course. Amongst the burly players, jerseys, and equipment, I stood on sacred ground. It was virtually the epicenter of the Minnesota hockey universe. I could barely write in my notebook my hands were shaking so badly. I feared that if I asked a player a question I might (A) vomit (B) stutter or (C) hug him. I kept it together long enough to piggyback on an interview that was going on with Wild player Colton Gillies.

"Did you fix your tooth?" a reporter jokingly asked the 18-year old rookie sensation. Gillies dutifully opened his mouth, exposing a massive hole in his chompers, courtesy of a "welcome to the league" flagrant elbow in a pre-season game. A huge jack o' lantern smile stretched across his face that was radiating pure euphoria. Gillies was beaming understandably after just finishing his first NHL game. He had, at long last, completed his lifelong dream.

That made two of us.


Game Tidbits: MN Wild vs. Boston Bruins. October 11, 2008.

-The loudest ovation given during the pre-game player introduction was for Kurtis Foster, the popular Wild defenseman who broke his leg last season and just started skating again.

-The Bruins had two ex-Gopher hockey stars in their lineup. Phil Kessel scored the first goal of the game (his second of the season) with blood splattered all over his chin. Blake Wheeler played mistake-free hockey, had several nice scoring chances, and got hammered by Derek Boogaard with a seismic body check.

- Eric Belanger's power play goal was assisted by Colton Gillies. That gave Gillies a point in his first-ever NHL game. Grizzled veteran Wild Owen Nolan skated over to the referee after the post goal hoopla had settled down and asked the ref for the puck that I assume was for Gillies' trophy case.

-Wild captain Mikko Koivu picked the puck straight off a Bruin's stick without even touching him. Just pure theft. It was exactly the type of subtle play that has the potential to win hockey games.

-Get used to this: Owen "The Belfast Brawler" Nolan's temper flared when Bruin defenseman Zdeno Chara took an extra whack at him. Nolan leapt in the air to get at the 6'9" Bruin and took a shot straight to the face in the process.

-The chemistry to look for on the top line is how well Andrew Brunette and Antii Miettinen jell. Any player who plays with Koivu will play better. You could put Amy Winehouse with Koivu and she'd score twenty goals. It is how Bruno and Miettinen click that will be the true measure. Note: The line had nine total points in Thursday night's game against Florida. Koivu had 5 points alone and has 8 points in three games.

-New defenseman Marc-Andre Bergeron had a 50/50 night: some good, some bad. He had three gaffs in one shift (a give away, a shank, and a cement hands pass). Then he scored on a bomb slap shot from the point. Coach Lemaire said later, "Bergeron makes it real entertaining. On both ends."

-Wild defenseman Brent Burns took off on two separate Bobby Orr-ish end-to-end rushes. On the first one, he sprinted with the puck up the ice and tried to split the Bruin defenseman. He drew a penalty and the ensuing power play led to a Wild goal. The second rush was started behind his own goal line. He banked the puck to himself behind the back, turned out of the corner, and beat all five Bruins down the ice. That is exactly why Burns is considered to be the best young defenseman in the league.

-Oh, and guess who is already hurt? Gaborik.