Monday Musings: A Stamkos reality show, enough of "Shark Week," and let's all learn from McEnroe

Scene: Some staggeringly picturesque countryside located in the British Columbia interior. We zero in on a gorgeous mansion where, at the foot of a walkway near the grand entrance, a 26-year-old man stands, waiting anxiously. A limousine pulls up. It will not be the last. Out of that car steps a middle aged man wearing a perfectly tailored suit, a red tie and pocket square popping brightly. As he steps toward the younger man, he ostentatiously fiddles with three championship rings on his fingers. He is Ken Holland, general manager of the Detroit Red Wings. "Hello, Mr. Holland, welcome to the mansion," says the young man. That young man is Steve Stamkos, of course. "I'm so nervous," says Holland as he shakes Stamkos' hand and then throws a shady look at the next limousine which arrives quickly after his own. As Holland walks towards the front door, Buffalo Sabres' GM Tim Murray gets out of his limo, smiling broadly as the briefcase he's carrying springs open, its contents of large, unmarked bills scattering in the clean, Canadian, evening breeze. "Oops," Murray says coyly, pressing his index finger into his chin. "I'm such a klutz!"

Point is, a huge opportunity has been missed here as the NHL free agency interview period begins. Stamkos, Holland, Murray, Toronto Maple Leafs' president Brendan Shanahan, Vancouver Canucks' general manager Jim Benning, Tampa Lightning GM Steve Yzerman and whoever else wants to be a part of the excitement should have been sequestered, "The Bachelor" style, for this entire week. Each of the front office men would then make pitches for the summer's most sought after free agent. Money. Intrigue. Heartbreak. Back-stabbing and emotional blackmail. Fan-freaking-tastic television, that's what that would have been. The host? Umm... Ben Mulroney... Wendy Mesley... I dunno. Doesn't matter, it would have been gold. You blew it, NHL Network. You blew it.

The NHL draft showed us at least a couple of bankable facts: People in Buffalo dislike Commissioner Gary Bettman. But they dislike the Toronto Maple Leafs more, according to the scientific method of measuring the loudness of boos. Bettman's unbreakable, indomitable spirit was on full display as he just flat out ignored the never ending vocal disdain that accompanied his opening statements on Friday night. And doesn't that just endear him to you at least a little? I mean, he exhibited the kind of tenacious, never give up kind of attitude that Canadians absolutely adore in their hockey heroes. There he was, pinned in the corner, out-manned, and getting a glove smeared all over his face. But he just kept on kicking at the puck. Beautiful and everythink.

Calm down, Brett Lawrie's not really a vampire. If he were, he couldn't have appeared in a day game against the Blue Jays on Sunday. Unless, of course, eye black has even more impressive properties of sun protection than we've ever thought. Once word of that spreads, we're in for an all out vampire apocalypse. Zombies shmombies. When Lawrie gets plunked it brings a whole new meaning to the phrase "hit batsman." Pitchers everywhere are rubbing garlic on their fingers before they take the mound. I could go on. Memo to Sarah Michelle Gellar and Kate Beckinsale: Lawrie may be trying to get your attention.

Nice mic technique, Ronaldo. Not really, actually. Now I know why soccer players don't use their hands. Look, I'll give him all kinds of credit for the flair and drama behind the notion of grabbing a reporter's microphone and sending it into a pond. But that was a weak throw. If you helicopter that baby you'd have gotten way more distance and a bigger splash. I give him a five out of ten. Maybe if he'd scissor-kicked it....

It's football. A game only for the toughest hombres out there. So I think we need to come up with a different way of saying Ottawa Redblacks' quarterback Henry Burris suffered a pinkie injury. Too dainty. Let's change that to "outer digit trauma." Speaking of digit trauma, if you're up to it, I'll give you a link to a photo of Edmonton Eskimos' linebacker Deon Lacey and the broken finger he suffered in the same game. Be warned, however. It's not fun to look at. Kind of like a warped "live long and prosper" sign. Lacey got the finger straightened out and taped up and was back out there a few plays later.

THE LITTLE THINGS

Whenever I see that Donald Trump is at his golf course in Scotland, I always assume he's there to raid the fescue in order to touch up his weave.

I remember, years ago, running into Dale Hawerchuk on a golf course, just a few minutes after he'd gotten the call telling him that he was going into the Hockey Hall of Fame. That was a fun moment. Would have been more fun if he'd run up and down the fairway yelling "I'm in the hall! I'm in the hall!" Good luck, Eric Lindros. Hit 'em straight, today. You got Bobby Clarke on the inside now, so I like your chances. While we're at it, put Paul Henderson in the place, for crying out loud. It's Hockey Hall of Fame, not Hockey Hall of Statistics. But hang on. Bobby Clarke's on the inside now so I don't like Henderson's chances.

Through the first half dozen picks at the NHL draft, I didn't hear a single analyst say a chosen player had an "active stick." So I'm going to assume none of them have active sticks. Disappointing.

His performance at the draft has me feeling this way: I think Gary Bettman would make a dynamite MC at your league's softball banquet. Just consider it, is all.

Okay, this isn't sports, really, but I need to get it off my chest. Enough of "Shark Week." I don't care for it. It's done. Over. Played out. Shark Week has jumped the Fonz. Replace it with "Giraffe Week." Then you'd really have something. Those things are goddamn majestic

Auston Matthews' theme music has got to be... well, anything by the White Stripes. I knew I couldn't be the only one out there who was thinking the Maple Leafs' saviour is a dead ringer for Jack White. Twitter did a nice job of pointing that out. This, I think, would be my favourite tweet about it:

BUT SERIOUSLY

Wimbledon begins this week and it should be mandatory viewing for every colour analyst in North America. So they can do it like John McEnroe.

The broadcast landscape is rife with analysts who fill every single empty moment with some kind of utterance. Because of that style, so prevalent in this age, those empty moments are so often filled with empty calories.

Not with McEnroe. Not, at least, most of the time.

Economical with his analysis, he's the best there is in pro sports, weighing in with an intermittent ladling of incisive wit and wisdom as opposed to full throttle fire hose insistency. He picks his spots and mixes things up with keen strategic observations and a sense of humour.

He does not seem to feel the need to fill the down time - and there's plenty of that in tennis - with unending criticism of what just happened. Because of that, when he does criticize, when he does point out mistakes of strategy or of execution, it means much more.

All sports could use a little more of McEnroe's stinginess.

It's not entirely the analysts' fault. They've been "coached up," in recent years, to say something about every little mundane event that happens during a game. Every single one. It's only exacerbated by having two analysts on so many telecasts, meaning they now have to compete with each other when it comes to having something to say. Can't get left behind.

The broadcasting of games is live and unscripted and it's harder than it looks. It's not easy nor is it possible to avoid saying obvious things over the course of a three hour broadcast. It's gonna happen and does to even the best.

However, the McEnroe method means there's far less chance of it happening again and again and again.