Nashville Banner February 13th 1998

 FRANKLIN -- World of false eyelashes, meet a sport of false teeth. Whoever says irony and hockey don't mix gets five minutes in the penalty box with Tommy Hilfiger.

Go on, now. Git.

Models, models everywhere, and what's a fan to think? The unveiling of the Nashville Predators jerseys at Cool Springs Galleria was short on bodychecking and long on checking out the bods.

I felt like Betty Banner. In hip pads.

We had showy models, like the chiseled-chin who kicked things off, racing from backstage to the strains of ``YMCA,'' doing a backflip and flashing his Soloflex-steady pecs for the aging lasses along the catwalk.

We had unlikely models, like Predators assistant coach Paul Gardner and his un-Paris walrus mustache.

We had very embarrassed models, like young Sebastian Geoffrion, grandson of Hockey Hall-of-Famer Boom Boom Geoffrion, who wore a scowl as long as his Predators sweater. Said mother Kelly, ``I asked him, `Why didn't you smile?' He said, `Because I was about to cry.' ''

Poor guy.

Before the hometown stuff was revealed, fans were treated to an undercard of the tops worn by the rest of the league. Cheesy, ``Crook and Chase'' pyrotechnics aside, it was interesting to see how the look of the sweater has evolved/dissolved over the years.

Chicago, Montreal, Boston and Toronto are still classics, unfettered by 75-80 years of history; The New York Islanders and Carolina Hurricanes look is if they were spray-painted by Ray Charles.

After the march of spandex, we finally got to the goods.

And they were good, bordering on superb.

The Preds' inaugural jerseys were met with universal delight by fans who gathered to see the gear, a mesh of shimmering silver (the shiny material used on the jerseys at the 1998 All-Star game), blue, gold and white.

About 2,000 faithful crammed in just outside the entrance of Caster Knott to get a gander.

``I think the (jersey) is awesome,'' said Graham Hopper, 23, clad in a replica of the Team USA Olympic sweater. ``It's better than some of the teams that have been around a long time.''

His buddy, Jim Stumbaugh, also in Team USA duds, nodded in agreement. But he had a caveat.

``The triangle behind the cat head on the home shirt is the only negative,'' said Stumbaugh, 22, a transplant from suburban Chicago. ``Don't get me wrong. I like it ... it's definitely a keeper.''

Have the Preds, not even officially joined with the NHL, joined the world of the league's best-dressed? The staff seemed to think so.

``You know, they say you dress for success,'' said coach Barry Trotz, decked out in the mostly-blue road model. ``You've got a classic uniform, and we're proud of it.

``I do like the dark colors and the silver. You get the dark shade with the light. It's like Chicago, they've had the same thing for like 100 years. For the next 100 years, when we're playing on the moon, it's still a classic jersey.''

Mmm-hmm. Toughest sport on earth, toughest athletes on earth, and we're talking color contrast. I'm all for hockey education in a town that's just plain puck-dumb, but who'da thunk we'd get fashion pointers right along?

Some would have none of it, of course.

I could just about see hockey's bad boys, the ultra-violent Hanson Brothers from the movie Slapshot, running up to the beautiful people and start kicking tail. Just to remind everyone this was still, you know, hockey, eh.

``(They'd think it was) pretty cheesy,'' Hopper said, ``but I don't think they'd care as long as there was some blood on the jerseys.''

Stumbaugh: ``They would have started punching those guys (models).''

Even the one doing backflips? That's roughing, worth a 10-minute major and a gift certificate from The Gap.

When the world of Pierre Turgeon collides with Pierre Cardin, cheri, nothing is sacred anymore. Guy Lafleur, lest we forget, means ``Guy, the Flower.'' Take that, Vendela.