I couldn’t stand looking at Schalongo’s mug any luonger. But not to go too easy on myself, I’ve replaced it with Miikka Kiprusoff’s “biggest” fan, Brennan Peters. The ptaint-on beard makes for an easy target (I don’t have kids, so I can go there), but don’t we all cringe at the possibility of our past hero-worship transgressions being discovered and outed? Lately I’ve tried to subconsciously buy in to the somewhat sad, yet telling, notion that Luongo’s “C” chin is a tacit tribute to Dan Cloutier.

With Luongo’s new appointed captain-C, the possibility of Lil’ Schalongos (oh, hell, lets just call ‘em lil’ pricks – or better yet, Louie’s C-men) popping up on the West Coast are as common as two-diamond Surrey hookers hand drying their nylons in the Sandman Hotel bathroom.

But you really have to feel for the parents. They’re the ones that buy the jerseys, the equipment, the face paint. They’re also the ones who have to face their colleagues at work and shrug it off with a “you know kids” (shoulder shrug). Then, after a while, they get worn down. They get caught up in the Roberto Schalongo Schweep Schtakes. They give themselves a name, like “The Hairy Tangerines” or “Robbies Tight And Shinies”, and their transformation is complete. Game day becomes habit. The joy of being home from work slips into acquiescent pathos.

Hold still, son. Daddy’s gotta paint a meatball on your chin.

- Coach Mitch Mitchel