Wait, hockey’s back on? Oops. Was I the only one who hadn’t noticed it was gone?
Well, that’s not quite true. Thinking back on it, it was obvious to any Victorian that hockey was on hiatus.
The bars were more laid-back, more pleasant, more convivial. You could find a seat in Garrick’s Head on what would have been game night. There were no disappointing evenings where “Let’s find a pub!” turned into “Let’s go home, there’s nowhere to drink.”
You could sit with a friend and have a decent conversation without having to shout over the strident, self-aggrandizing wheezing of Don Cherry’s game analysis. You could strike up a conversation with the good-looking stranger at the next table without watching his eyes drift back to the TV screen every few seconds.
Yeah, I’m really going to miss it.
But before I get smacked with the unpatriotic stick, let me say that there are times when I wish I liked hockey. When I moved to Montreal, hockey fandom gave my colleagues an instant topic of conversation. They had nothing in common yet, but by god, they could talk about hockey! I picked up enough clichés that I could pass for an average-level fan if I used enough bluster (“Ugh, Habs fans, am I right?”) but the pause in my sentence as I tried to remember if I was talking about the Grey Cup or the Stanley Cup usually gave me away.
Of course, I wish it weren’t so violent. I’m not OK with a sport that could be played cleanly injecting as much violence as possible in a bald attempt to up its ratings. I’m not OK with what that says about the game’s fans, and I’m not OK with what message that sends to the children who are just getting into the sport.
I’m not OK with the culture of elite entitlement and braggadocio that surrounds so many professional sports organizations.
I wish that the paycheques weren’t so disgustingly grandiose.
I really, really wish that the players wouldn’t spit and drool in interviews.
(I cannot fathom why we stick cameras into athletes’ faces when they’re sweaty and dripping in the locker room. They all say the exact same thing: “We gave it our best shot” or “It was a really strong play” or something like that. What’s the point?)
So yeah, there are some serious barriers to my enjoyment of Hockey Night in ÎÚŃ»´«Ă˝.
But despite all that, I wish I liked hockey. Explaining to people (well, other Canadians) that you don’t like hockey pegs you as suspect.
We’re almost as bad as people who don’t drink beer, or who don’t listen to rock. You just can’t trust ’em to have a good time.
On my way back from Whistler, my friends and I drove past a frozen lake. Young kids were spilling clumsily out of their parents’ minivans onto the ice, sticks in their gloved hands. It was terrific, like something out of a Canadian Heritage moment. Hockey fans, I have never wanted so much to be part of your world. (Full disclosure: Sometimes, Tim Hortons commercials make me tear up.)
So hockey fans, I don’t understand your weird love of violence on the ice, or your strange patience for the millionaires who sulkily negotiate their pay increases, but you talk about your favourite players as if they’re your favourite characters in a soap opera. You talk about plays as if they’re the plot of a comic book, and now you’re breathlessly waiting for the next issue to come out. And I get that.
While I’m not looking forward to having your silly sport blaring from the TV screens in the Beagle once again, I guess I’m happy for you. I imagine it’s like waiting for Scott Lynch to finish his next book, or for Downton Abbey to get renewed, or for Star Trek to hurry up and get into theatres already.
I don’t get your obsession, but I’m glad you’ve got it back. I just wish you weren’t so loud about it. The rest of us are trying to drink in peace, goshdarnit.
