Please Come Back
You have an after work function. A co-worker is leaving tomorrow for paternity leave. You will miss him dearly and know you have to go. But it is Tuesday - race night, and you promise yourself that you will be home in time to catch a beloved TV show. And also, to save money. But it's at a sports bar. And tonight is the World Junior Hockey Championships. Gold medal game. Canada versus Russia. But you're going home early. It's a promise.
The puck drops and something takes over. Somewhere in the first period, with a score of 2 to 1, even though you know that Canada is far outplaying the Russians and by the end it will not matter if you saw the end or not. Something takes over. A memory. Something you have not felt in a while.
The Russians are playing poorly. The Canadians masterfully. You say to yourself, they have an amazing defense, it cannot be penetrated. The refs are clearly American and calling everything for the Russians. You mock spit at them. A pass, an open net, a beautiful shot. It brings you to your feet. Gretzky is there - playing the good luck charm. What player wouldn't play his best knowing that Gretzky was in the crowd? Good hussle brings your man all the way from centre back behind the net and slamming into a Russian opponent, lifting him off his feet. You find yourself cheering "Good hit! Good hit!" (Something you would never say under ordinary circumstances.) You say to yourself, the defense doesn't matter, look at their offense! Television is gone, forgotten, abandoned. This is hockey night and you are staying. It may be your only chance this year.
And you know now, that you miss hockey more than any Molson commercial - with its house-husbands singing to Culture Club - could ever tell you to. You miss it because it is primal. Because it is part of you.
You are no expert. These boys are under 20. You don't know their names, their positions, or who they were drafted to. You don't know every single rule of the game. You just know that you miss the game dearly. Because it is a part of you.
And it has been a part of you ever since the day in 1993 when you mastered the look of utter disdain when someone asked you if Gilmour would change his jersey number at the coming of the new year. It has been a part of you since you dialed your brother long-distance to Japan during the playoffs: one ring for Leafs goal, two rings for Kings goal. It has been a part of you for longer than that still. It is in the glow of the television set - your mother gathered round it as a child to watch the black disc fly across a fuzzy grey screen. It is in the hum of sports radio - your grandfather sat listening intently on a Sunday afternoon. It's the CBC and all that was playing in generations of your past. Third period. 6 to 1. Gold for Canada!
You know this. God exists somewhere between ice and skate.
Hockey, please come back.
The puck drops and something takes over. Somewhere in the first period, with a score of 2 to 1, even though you know that Canada is far outplaying the Russians and by the end it will not matter if you saw the end or not. Something takes over. A memory. Something you have not felt in a while.
The Russians are playing poorly. The Canadians masterfully. You say to yourself, they have an amazing defense, it cannot be penetrated. The refs are clearly American and calling everything for the Russians. You mock spit at them. A pass, an open net, a beautiful shot. It brings you to your feet. Gretzky is there - playing the good luck charm. What player wouldn't play his best knowing that Gretzky was in the crowd? Good hussle brings your man all the way from centre back behind the net and slamming into a Russian opponent, lifting him off his feet. You find yourself cheering "Good hit! Good hit!" (Something you would never say under ordinary circumstances.) You say to yourself, the defense doesn't matter, look at their offense! Television is gone, forgotten, abandoned. This is hockey night and you are staying. It may be your only chance this year.
And you know now, that you miss hockey more than any Molson commercial - with its house-husbands singing to Culture Club - could ever tell you to. You miss it because it is primal. Because it is part of you.
You are no expert. These boys are under 20. You don't know their names, their positions, or who they were drafted to. You don't know every single rule of the game. You just know that you miss the game dearly. Because it is a part of you.
And it has been a part of you ever since the day in 1993 when you mastered the look of utter disdain when someone asked you if Gilmour would change his jersey number at the coming of the new year. It has been a part of you since you dialed your brother long-distance to Japan during the playoffs: one ring for Leafs goal, two rings for Kings goal. It has been a part of you for longer than that still. It is in the glow of the television set - your mother gathered round it as a child to watch the black disc fly across a fuzzy grey screen. It is in the hum of sports radio - your grandfather sat listening intently on a Sunday afternoon. It's the CBC and all that was playing in generations of your past. Third period. 6 to 1. Gold for Canada!
You know this. God exists somewhere between ice and skate.
Hockey, please come back.
posted by nerdifer at 11:31 p.m.
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