As a rule, I don’t swear. I like to think I can make my point sans profanity.
But right now, I want to turn the air 50 shades of blue. Desperately. I want to drop F-bombs like a 1960s hippie dropping acid. I mean, are the Winnipeg Jets serious about this Anthony Peluso thing? This is the opening gambit in an off-season that would draw them closer to the elite of the National Hockey League? Signing a low-talent, back-alley thug?
Forget the financial numbers. Whether there’s $675,000 in his pay envelope or $6.75 million, the re-signing of Peluso is like trying to correct a vitamin D deficiency by sending someone down into a coal mine.
Anthony Peluso is an NHL-calibre player like Don Cherry is an ambassador for Tourism Stockholm.
Because I don’t live inside Kevin Cheveldayoff’s noggin, I can only guess the reason(s) behind the re-signing of a resident guard dog who is unleashed approximately four out of every 60 minutes on those nights when he is required to do something other than munch popcorn. If, as has been suggested by some, Peluso is back on board to serve as an ill-tempered deterent to those who would bully the Jets’ more pocket-sized workers such as Nik Ehlers or Nic Petan, I have a better idea—stop drafting players no bigger than Papa Smurf.
I’m sorry, but this is Mad Scientist at Work territory. I haven’t scratched my head this often since that bad bout with dandruff 40 years ago.
Seriously, I cannot think of one good reason—not one, I say—for the Peluso signing.
I mean, how many hands of stone does one team require? They already have Chris Thorburn’s bare knuckles. Can’t he ride shotgun for the Smurfs? Why the need for four fists?
I know I’m not flying solo here. Many others are as puzzled as myself. We had awaited, with much anticipation, Grand Master Cheveldayoff’s initial move to upgrade or firm up a roster that was given its ouster from the just-concluded Stanley Cup tournament in the minimum four games. And what do we get? Not Michael Frolik or Drew Stafford. Not even the return of the prodigal son, Alexander Burmistrov. We get Anthony freaking (I told you I wanted to swear) Peluso. And, as an added bonus, Ben Chiarot.
I know, I know. Chevy’s work has only just begun. There’s more to come. There has to be.
Between now and next weekend’s annual NHL garage sale, an entry draft in which we are certain the Jets shall be selecting freshly scrubbed players not named McDavid or Eichel, the Grand Master must make a move on Frolik. Sign him, trade his negotiation rights or watch him skate away in exchange for a pocket full of nothing.
Surely this is priority No. 1. To allow Frolik to bid adieu as an unrestricted free agent on July 1…well, let’s just say Anthony Peluso cannot possibly fill those skates.
Frolik isn’t simply a useful player. He is a Swiss army knife. He gives head coach Paul Maurice first line-to-third line flexibility on the right flank, he’s arrived at his prime years (he’s 27), he can work the powerplay, he’s capable on the penalty kill, and he’s durable and dependable (missed just one game in two seasons in River City). What’s not to like? Money, of course, is the issue, but if I hear the difference between signing or not signing Frolik is the $675,000 Cheveldayoff has commited to Peluso, there shall be an inclination to do more than swear.
If Chevy lets Frolik walk and he’s left with squat—which I’m guessing will happen—then he’s a *$&^%## $&**^%$ son of a #^%^&^&%$#!
Patti Dawn Swansson has been writing about Winnipeg sports for more than 40 years, longer than any living being. Do not, however, assume that to mean she harbors a wealth of sports knowledge or that she’s a jock journalist of award-winning loft. It simply means she is old and comfortable at a keyboard (although arthritic fingers sometimes make typing a bit of a chore) and she apparently doesn’t know when to quit. Or she can’t quit.
She is most proud of her Q Award, presented to her in 2012 for her scribblings about the LGBT community in Victoria, B.C., and her induction into the Manitoba Sportswriters & Sportscasters Association Media Roll of Honour.