The Barnstormer has secured the cooperation of a locked-out NHL player who has agreed to document each day he is kept out of action on the condition that we do not reveal his identity. Ever. Read all the daily diary entries of “Cheap Throat” here.

9:02AM — Not looking good on the CBA front. Got an email from our rep. Said we’re dug in. I emailed ‘em back and asked if come January, if guys like Parise and Suter with their upfront $10 mil bonuses are gonna pitch in and help some of the boys who are gonna be having a tough time making mortgage payments and Christmas and daycare and all that. No response. I think the reps are just typing what teh Fehrs tell them too. I love the boys, and we’re known for taking care of our own. But the Fehrs come from MLB. They’re fucking outsiders. They’re in a dick measuring contest with Weasel Penis (Bettman) and Bald-Face Liar (Daly). Don’t think they give much a fuck about the players.

9:28AM — Speaking of dick measuring, we’re on a good solid road trip a couple of years back, and we get snowed in at the hotel in Chicago. Nice spot. Good rooms. Whatever. But we start to go a little stir crazy, ‘cause we’ve lost a few on the trip and coach is on the rails, maybe gonna get canned, and we need to blow off some steam, but we’re stuck in a Marriott or whatever. So we get ‘em to shut down the bar for us, tell the other guests it’s closed for renos, and we get good into the sauce. At some point, someone whipped out his package and slapped the thing down on the table, right between his Smirnoff Ice and my left hand. So, round the table clockwise it goes, one after another, cock, cock, cock, cock, cock, cock. And because it’s going clockwise, I’mma be last. And I’m not worried at all, ‘cause once in junior, I took it out and made a rook from Thunder Bay cry, so whatever. And we get about five boys short of me (pun!) and this kid fresh outta the A takes out what appears to be a large piece of flesh coloured industrial piping. I mean, the thing was ridickulous (pun!). I don’t think I could’ve got both my hands around it. One of the D puked. The rest of us just stood there, eighty percent of the team with their schlongs lying on the table in the middle of a hotel bar. Eventually, we did what is to be expected when a large group of hockey players is standing around with their dicks hanging out. We hogtied that fucker, and coloured his business midnight black with Sharpies. It took thirty markers run right dry. The kid had to go to a dermatologist to get it all the ink out. Lower body injury. Missed three games. I hear the thing is still a few shades darker than it was. Ask Marchand. He’d know.

11:43AM — So, I’m walking around old town here in Vilnius, and everyone keeps saying “val and chee oonas” to me. Which I figure is like, sup? So I’m saying it back and their smiling, and I’m smiling, and even though everyone looks like cousins and there’s very little talent, I’m thinking they’re at least a nice bunch of folks. But then I stop and this place for some lunch and a pint, and a big ole plate of deep fried bread, and I says to the waiter “val and chee oonas my man, I’ll have some deep fried bread and a white beer.” And dude goes, “yes, but your dinosaur team is very bad.” And I’m all, huh? And then he points at my Toronto Raptors t-shirt, and he explains. Jonas Valančiūnas plays for the Raptors. And he’s from Lithuania. And they are HUGE into basketball. I feel kinda stupid, but the deep fried bread was awesome. Best yet.

1:18PM — Don’t think I could eat this deep fried bread and play a period. Woah. Stuff weighs you down like a puck bunny with your real phone number.

2:00PM — For no apparent reason, there’s a statue of Frank Zappa in a parking lot. Piece of advice: Never play Zappa in and NHL locker room. Put on Joe’s Garage once after a loss in DC. One of the boys lit my iPod on fire. Lesson learned.

3:07PM — Trying to find a place to watch some NFL, but there doesn’t seem to be anything even remotely resembling a sports bar. The TV in my room only seems to have CNN International and what I can only assume are Lithuanian soap operas. One of them is okay. Chick looks like Sonja, who I totes miss. She’s the kinda girl you could bang for, like, a month without banging anyone else, you know? Dunno if I could bring a German girl home to meet Dad, though. Still kinda pissed about WWII.

3:33PM — Danius Zubrus. Zubrus is from Lithuania. Must remember to ask him about deep fried bread next time we play. If we play again. He’s the kinda guy who could be done if there’s no season. Those are the guys I really feel for. Shit way to go out.

7:12PM — Found a tight pub called Used-Piss, or something. Not the best fried bread, but the waitress is sweet. Must be from somewheres else. The patio leans out over a little stream or river or something. Not a bad space to chill for a whiles.

11:11PM — Back at the hotel. Too much fried bread and heavy beer. Tried to get the waitress to come back with me, but I guess she doesn’t know much about hockey. Drunk email Sonja. Tell her to get her ass down here so I can treat it like a rookie. Gonna try and stream some NFL and pass out. I’ve got “Catholic Girls” in my head. I miss the boys. I miss the ice. Why doesn’t an owner stand up to Bettman? Why can’t this deal get done? Four labour stoppages under Weasel Penis. Ain’t gonna be any fans when we get back. Then what?

• “Cheap Throat: The Diary of a Locked-Out NHLer“. Read all the other entries here.
• “A Fan’s Note: How to Fix the NHL” by Mike Spry 
• “Complicit in the NHL’s Demise: How the NHL & its players hate hockey, and how the fan is at fault” by Mike Spry
• The Barnstormer’s Take Hockey Back fan protest event