So the Flyers tried the old stealth firing, under cover of darkness and the Sabbath: Lower the boom on a Sunday morning just hours before a Birds game for minimum fallout. New Flyers Head Coach (former Phantoms coach John Stevens) and general manager (assistant G.M. Paul Holmgren) just magically appear in Voorhees on Monday. Not so fast Ed Snider and Peter Luukko. You’re living in the New Media age. You should
know Comcast SportsNet is going to halt the five-hour loop of SportsRise, get Michael Barkann, Neil Hartman and Al Morganti (guess the Erotic Caf? was closed) out of bed and down to the Wachovia Center to carry the press conference live at 10:00 am on a Sunday. You’re all part of the same damn company! So it was a stoic, bleary-eyed Bobby Clarke telling the media he was stepping down as Flyers general manager before he even had his second cup of coffee. Clarkie admitted he just didn’t have the fire anymore, and says his replacement, Paul Holmgren, was already doing a lot of the G.M.-type stuff for him. As for Hitch, well, he was nowhere to be found. Probably out spending the millions he reaped from that three-year contract extension the team just gave him during training camp.
Inquirer: Flyers Put Coach On Ice, Clarke Takes The Hint
Blinq: The End Of The Bobby Clark Error Era
[Photo: Matt Kosoy]
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: PBR is our regular sports column, wherein our man in the Jersey ‘Burbs calls Philly sports and sports-media as he sees ’em. His name is Patrick Berkery and he plays drums for the Pernice Brothers and, get this, he actually gives a shit about sports. Weird, huh? Born & raised on a steady diet of Birds, Phils, Flyers and boiled potatoes. Phillies season ticket holder since 1978. Longs for the days of Jim Barniak & Spectrum Wrestling on PRISM. Thinks all sportswriters dress funny and should stay off TV. Except Phil Sheridan. His feelings on the Philadelphia Eagles are not unlike his stance on Belle & Sebastian and the Grateful Dead: Loves the music, hates most of the fans. Frankly, we could care less. We used to be big-time jocks, but then we discovered girls and pot and rock n’ roll, and suddenly the idea of strapping on forty pounds of gladiator gear in August and rolling around in the grass with other sweaty men and then giving them a smack on the ass afterwards just seemed a little, well, gay. But we realize this is a minority opinion. Hence this column.