Dog and Pony Show : Hockey: Two Valley residents survive early tryouts with Los Angeles’ IHL team.

The pun-happy Los Angeles Ice Dogs’ brass promoted its Sept. 7 tryout camp at the Sports Arena as “every dog has its day.” The purpose, according to public relations director/punster Ann Victor: to find “that one needle” in the local haystack.

Over 30 would-be canines showed--eight from the Valley--sniffing the possibility of an invite to training camp at Iceoplex in North Hills (which begins today). Also luring them: a complimentary practice jersey, two tickets to the team’s home opener and the opportunity to shed excess blubber.

For Steve Phillips, only the Iceoplex guest list mattered. His intention was to play in that opener, not watch it, to be an athlete, not an observer.

The elementary pursuit of any athlete, from high school to professional, is to remain an athlete, though in all cases--even those of Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle and Gordie Howe--such is an ultimately impossible task.

His athlete status listed tenuously as day to day, Phillips left Tujunga at 6 a.m. on Sept. 7, believing he was an athlete.

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He was born in 1971 in Canoga Park, but there must have been an icebox adjacent.

Encouraged by his father, who shared King season tickets with his sons, Phillips began playing at age 3 with his older brother Jeff. At 11, he competed evenly with players four years older.

For four consecutive years he traveled to Quebec, where he participated in tournaments also graced by the likes of Eric Lindros.

After graduating from Flintridge Prep, Phillips enrolled at college hockey power Northeastern in Massachusetts, majoring in architecture, engineering and exasperation.

“In college, everything’s about practice, not about the games,” said Phillips. “I didn’t really enjoy that aspect of the game. I had to leave there and see what I could do.”

He left a couple of credits short, and a couple of inches taller. He was no lithe, Lilliputian center anymore. He was 6 feet 3, 210 pounds, a large man with a smaller man’s game.

“Every coach wanted to change me, make me play more physically,” Phillips said. “My strengths are my speed and my offense.”

Still, he almost latched on with the IHL’s Minnesota Moose. When he didn’t, he went to Roanoke, to play for the San Jose Sharks’ East Coast Hockey League affiliate.

There he struggled with the transition from a 30-game collegiate season, tore a quadriceps muscle, and played only two fruitless games before being released.

Another ECHL franchise in Nashville was next, and the results were better: 34 games, seven goals, six assists, only 24 penalty minutes. ECHL rival Tallahassee, an affiliate of the New York Islanders, fancied him enough to invite him to its 1995-96 training camp, which begins Sept. 29.

But the International Hockey League’s Ice Dogs are a step above. More money. More fans. More exposure.

Fewer miles from home.

Dog Day Workout

Ping! Ping!

The audio reverberates and echoes through the vacant Sports Arena, as if the latter were an IMAX theater. The puck caroms off the goal post and eludes the stick of the grimacing shooter.

Amid the clatter, a man sits alone in the second tier of seats parallel to the red line, staring at the ceiling. Yawning.

Coach John Van Boxmeer didn’t expect much from this tryout, and neither did the shooter, Phillips, who anticipated soft ice and even softer competition today.

The ice has pleasantly surprised him. The competition?

Phillips pauses from the scrimmage and his perpetual state of pleasantness: “It’s hard to play when things are so disorganized.”

In five shifts, Phillips has not distinguished himself, clanging the post twice and, aside from the sporadic spirited puck rush, appearing generally lethargic.

If only a Zamboni machine could smooth out his skills’ rough edges before his next five turns.

No Zamboni. No goals. A few crunching checks. A couple of careless defensive giveaways. One assist, a backhand flip to a cutting linemate. One exhausting day.

“You can list my weight at 160 pounds now,” Phillips says at 3 p.m., sweating profusely, smiling characteristically.

“A few guys looked all right,” Van Boxmeer says. “I have to talk to my assistants, but I don’t know if there will be anyone.”

Phillips?

“He looked good, pro poise, pro size,” Van Boxmeer says. “He’ll come skate with the pros tomorrow, informally, and we’ll make a decision.”

Another day.

The Flip Side

Jeff Phillips, 26, stands behind the desk at his father’s Glendale hockey shop--flanked by retail warehouses and industrial complexes--and utters words his brother might deem blasphemous:

“I just got sick of playing hockey. So I decided not to continue.”

He played for Cal Lutheran, then for Team California. The University of Massachusetts Lowell offered him a chance to walk on. He turned it down, attending Glendale Community College instead.

Now he operates his father’s cozy shop, which boomed before Wayne Gretzky was traded to Los Angeles and more hockey stores opened. The store is currently awaiting a fresh shipment of jerseys, which may include the Ice Dogs’ inaugural threads.

On the wall, above an Ice Dog schedule, is a bumper sticker: “Jesus saves, Gretzky shoots and scores.” As Jeff picks up the phone to check on a shipment, a relic of the pre-Gretzky years, Pat Benatar, yowls on the stereo:

“Hit me with your best shot. Fire away.”

On Friday, Steve--pursuing a dream Jeff let go--will do just that.

2 Dogs Have Their Day

Jack Mildengren, a Van Nuys resident who attended Valley Sherman High, was one of three tryout participants invited back for Friday’s morning skate-a-round.

He demonstrates jitterbug speed during the sedate, playful scrimmage--a media skate briefly intrudes, and most of the signed players are present only to loosen muscles before camp--but can’t seem to satisfy himself.

After accelerating past a backpedaling defenseman, he shoots weakly wide, then shakes his head while skating to the bench.

Born in Sweden, Mildengren spent much of his last four high school years sending homework from Alberta, where he played junior hockey.

Unable to make a professional roster, he began teaching power-skating at Pickwick Ice Arena in Burbank, where Steve Phillips is a borderline Friday night pickup hockey legend.

Now the teacher wants to play.

“I’ve trained hard for two months in Canada to get ready,” says Mildengren, 23.

He hurdles the boards, his thighs throttling, skipping second gear, revving into third.

“This kid’s not bad,” says one signed Ice Dog. “Fast.”

“Yeah, but he’s got to pass the puck,” says another.

Passing is not Phillips’ problem: on most possessions, he is overly unselfish. He scores but once, with his skate. “I was just turning,” he says, laughing. The goal still doesn’t count.

At 11:30, the game is waning. Most of the players are halfway to the freeway on-ramp. Van Boxmeer is rustling, and perhaps evaluating, in arena parts unknown.

“Is that it?” Phillips asks.

That’s it. As if stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, 20 minutes crawl while Phillips and Mildengren await the coach’s verdict.

Finally, mercifully, Van Boxmeer pulls them aside separately, to tell each if this extra day was merely suspended frustration.

It was not.

“We’re going to invite them both to camp and see where they are,” Van Boxmeer says upon leaving the dressing room. “Jack has great speed, a willingness to play in traffic. Steve has necessary size and skills. But still, guys are going to have to have an outstanding camp to make our team.”

Says Mildengren: “I’m really thankful that they are giving me the opportunity. Hard work pays off, I guess.”

Says Phillips: “This is what I was hoping for. “At the very worst, I’ll be in very good shape.”

Hold the phone, Jeff. You may yet need to order a jersey with your surname across the back.

For your brother, the athlete.