Where We Live*

So much potential,
So little follow through.

Will today’s attempt be fortuitous or shameful?
Their guess is as good as yours.

The Bible thumping heart throb only works in the red,
His skill set is weak, still stumbling in to miracles.

Sure, we can run,
But prefer to take a step back.

A clusterfuck of mediocrity.

* - P.O.V. –The pillagers, who sit next to the electricians, “leaders,” and untamed nags.

First Match

It’s what we do.

We don’t find jobs, we find careers. That’s what dad said, and it begins tonight. Here. Now.

“Professional wrestling refereeing is in our blood, son. It is a damn honorable choice for a career.” He said.

“It’s what we do.”

First match. A dark match, but a match nonetheless. A match to begin a career. Here come the introductions now.

Wow, look at this guy. He’s a monster. OK, I know he’s not really a monster. They don’t exist. Still, I bet if you go further down his family tree, you would find at least some monster blood. You know, from when they did roam the earth. Boy, are the people here not afraid to shout. I might be inclined to do the same, were it not for the high probability of monster ancestory. Have to drown that fear, right now. Call it down the middle. Still, it is nice to see that his management recognizes the need for professionalism in the workplace. Dressed for success, he seems to be shining his way down to the ring. A man of principles if ever I saw one.

I’m getting twenty five dollars for my work tonight. I wonder if they will be writing me a cheque? What does our company letterhead look like? Maybe I should frame it. The first cheque of a long career. It’ll be a conversation starter.

His opponent. All muscles and smiles. It looks like these people have found their monster slayer. Hundreds of people are high fiving and cheering. Well, a hundred and a half of people maybe. Can’t let them sway my rulings. “Right down the middle. That’s how we call it.” Dad always said, “It’s a code we maintain in this glorious career path we take.”

Twenty five bones. Maybe I will buy my dad a steak dinner. Yeah, that’d be nice. Show the old man what the new career can bring. Show him just how much I have grown. How much I can provide.

Time to get to work. Step one: check the fighters for foreign objects. We will start with the big one. Get it out of the way. It’s always the tights first, followed by the two wrist tape jobs, and finally the boots. The well-dressed man is up on the apron.

I appreciate your input, sir. Thank you. If you will just let me check your man for objects that he could conceal about his person, I will then do the same to his opponent, and this contest can begin.

Tights are ok. Always the first place you check.

Sir! I will check the other combatant once yours has been deemed fit to fight. If you will just take your place at ringside, I will continue with my duties.

Nothing in the tape on the right hand. So far, so good.

Look, I understand that you want me to get to him. I will. There is a procedure we have to follow at this level of athletics, my good man. Without it, we would have anarchy, and I am sure that this is not something desired from a fellow of good standing like yourself.

Left hand’s tape is safe. Almost through with this behemoth.

I will not say it again! I have a responsibility to the sanctity of this bout and that begins with an assurance of the safety of the two individuals involved! Please, sir. Step aside and let me finish the professional obligation to which I have committed. Thank you.

Right boot. Seems OK.

Obviously I am not making myself clear. If I do not complete this exercise, then we do not have a match. This is clearly a--- I will get to him! Don’t worry about it! He is surely losing patience, just as you are right now. Your man came here to fight, so did he! It only happens when I declare it so. Your interruptions only serve as confusing distractions at this point! I cannot see why you would wish this. Please. For the sake of competition, go to your designated corner on the outside of the ring. Thank you!

What’s this? The giant. Offering up his last boot for me to check. What a breath of fresh air. I may have been wrong about his upbringing after all. Thank you. Final boot, the right one. Checked. Moving on.

Wait a minute. What am I going to eat tonight? Maybe I could get something that I could share with my father. Yeah, that’d be nice. A dinner together as I begin to walk the same path he once took. It’s almost like a metaphor.

Ol’ smiles is no problem with the foreign object check. I seem to notice a sense of doubt in my abilities as I give him the once-over.

Down the middle, fighter. Nothing more nothing less.

Alright, let’s get this going. Step two: call for the bell. Keep it clean, lads!
They’re locked up. The happy guy has definitely got some strength, but the abnormality that he faces has at least two feet on him. It only makes sense that he should get the first move off. Oooh! And he does. A hard body slam to the canvas. The joy has left the smaller one’s face for a moment. Colossus is in control.

Maybe we can split a nice pasta. Those restaurants seem to have healthy servings, right? We will enjoy a hearty pasta and revel in the new career afterglow. “Like father, like son.” He’ll say. Just like that old movie from the 80’s.

The ogre of unusual size is continuing his dominance. A series of hard lefts have put his opponent in to a grin-less daze. Those were borderline close fists.

Watch the punches, my ample friend.

He throws the brawn toward the ropes. A bounce back in to… a sleeper hold! This could be over quick! “When a submission hold is applied, only you are on their side.” I’m on it, Dad.

Have you had enough son? No shame in submission. It’s your livelihood we are talking about, here.

He says no. I shall inform the scorekeeper as much.

No submission!

How about now? Shall we call it a match? How about it? Hedge your bets and return to fight again someday? Do you give, sir?

He expresses once more in the negative. The color is beginning to leave his face.

The combatant has chosen to remain in competition!

The fancy suit shouts. He wants me to call for the bell. He must be under the misconception that the man being choked is wishing to concede. I can only call the match once he does or once he seems to have lost consciousness. At which point I will—oh! He’s out. It’s three lifts and drops of his arm now. Only after the arm has fallen for the third time do I deem the match over. First arm grab. It drops.

Who was in that 80’s film LIKE FATHER LIKE SON again? I can remember bits and pieces only. Something happens where a dad and son switch places somehow. They have to find a way to get back to their regular bodies. Hilarity ensues.

Second arm grab. Lifeless, it drops again.

Judge Reinhold and Fred Savage. One of them is suddenly having to deal with paperwork and the day-to-day grind for the first time, and the other with puberty… again. It writes itself.

Third arm grab. I let go. Inexplicably, he has found new life. The hundred or so in this community hall have begun to cheer him on. The manager is beside himself. He believes I should have called for the bell by now.

Only after three drops of the arm, kind sir! Surely you know this to be the ways of our sport!

The fan favourite has returned to his feet, but the beast keeps his hold. An elbow to the gut, and it is loosened slightly. Two more has broken him free. He runs to the ropes. Bouncing off, he hits the large half-creature with a flying clothesline. As the mass of meat falls, the beam returns to the other one’s face. He begins to work his opponent over some more. The tide of this match has clearly turned.

Wait, I think that may have been another film with those two. Same plot though. I can see the movie poster. Judge Reinhold on a skateboard jumping through the office of a disapproving Fred Savage. VICE VERSA, I think it was. What movie was I thinking of? Didn’t Tom Hanks become a kid somewhere as well?

Boy, this blissful brawler is really taking it to his counterpart. A series of exciting, fast and high flying moves have really thrown this crowd in to a frenzy and put him in the driver’s seat. Should be getting ready for a pin count any minute now. Oh my! He’s pointed to the turnbuckle. A desire to jump off the top perhaps? A legal move, this much is true, but it is still a very high-risk maneuver. If he can pull it off, we would not only have some real fireworks, but it may be enough to make it curtains for his—

Hey! Sir! Please get down from the ring apron! If you are to interfere in this match right now, you will leave me with no other choice but to disqualify the challenger that you represent here tonight! No! I do not want to hear any more from you! I can tell you quite honestly, that whatever your intentions are, pure as they may be, you are only causing havoc with my ability to call this match! I mean you no disrespect, clearly a man of your disposition should be able to see my point of view! Why are you even up here right now? I cannot discuss matters with you any further, as once again, you are only providing more of the confusing distract--…

****************

I’ve got it. It was Dudley Moore. Dudley Moore and Kirk Cameron. That’s who was in LIKE FATHER LIKE SON. We saw it for my twelfth birthday together.

What’s happened? I blacked out for a moment there. Oh right, the match. Why is that enormous left boot sitting on the floor of the ring? So dazed. Wait, the savage has his adversary rolled up in a pin. Must… make… the count. It is my job, no my career. Down the middle. It’s what we do.

One. “Shoulders on the mat, is when you start to tap.”

Two. My first match, dad. The start of a real career.

Three.

I call for the bell. The crowd is irate. I only did what was asked of me. The shiny suit wears the smile that the hero of the eighty something people here once did. I have to raise the half-demon’s hand in victory. My head is killing me. He raises his fist before I can grab it.

Fine! You are the victor! Congratualtions!

Man, these people are upset. They seem to be directing their venom at me. What have I done except call things fair and square? I need to lie down. Maybe after I stop at the pasta place. Dad’s going to be so proud. We’ll rent a movie maybe. Not sure about those 80’s comedies though. I doubt that anyone is naïve enough to believe such nonsense.

A rough first step, but a first step regardless. Things can only get easier from here, right? Tonight I began my career.

It’s what we do.

So What's the Story?

It has been a while. Let's try and recollect the events, shall we?

*

1908 - Draftsman, architect, and owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers , Charles Ebbets begins buying up parcels of land in a garbage dump called Pigtown in Brooklyn, New York.

1912 - Construction begins at this location on Ebbets Field, home to the Brooklyn Dodgers for forty-three years.

1957 - At the end of the season, then Dodgers owner Walter O' Malley follows through on his threat to move the team to Los Angeles. He demanded a new stadium for Brooklyn, because Ebbets field's seating capacity was too small. He is both despised and seen as a visionary for this business-based move.

February 23, 1960 - A home without a family, Ebbets field is demolished.

Sometime in the 1980s - It is decided somewhere in Tampa Bay, Florida that the city will begin to try and acquire a major league baseball team. Proposals for a new stadium begin in 1983.

March 9, 1995 - Tampa Bay is awarded a major league baseball team. A stadium that completed construction in 1990 and was originally named the Florida Suncoast Dome would be their home park. Previously home to such events as arena football and hockey, it would have to undergo some renovations to be baseball-friendly. Chief architect Stan Meredith and his group would have to add all the bells and whistles that the newer parks had, (shopping, restaurants) but they also chose to seek historical inspiration in its design. There would be a large rotunda entrance that was a near exact replica of that of Ebbets Field in Brooklyn. The old barn's influence would not stop there.

Ray's owner Vince Naimoli wanted the newly named Tropicana Field's outfield to be uniquely asymmetrical, much like that of Ebbets field. Meradith understood this. "As a student of the game, you want your outfield fence to play like no other. You want your guys to play the outfield wall like a fiddle,'' Meradith said in 1998. "And then the other guys have a disadvantage. The outfield wall will obviously be to the advantage of the Devil Rays.'' The dimensions in right field would be a mere 322 feet, and like the former home of dem bums, it would be uniquely different in left. That part of the outfield's dimensions would drop to 315 feet.

December 8, 2010 - The man with the longest serving tenure as a Tampa Bay Ray, Carl Crawford signs a seven year, $142-million contract with the Boston Red Sox. His numbers for the upcoming season would drop significantly.

September 3, 2011 - Pennant and wild card races for the big leagues are non-existent. The Boston Red Sox have a nine game lead on the next closest team, the Tampa Bay Rays. The Atlanta Braves would have an eight and a half game lead by the 6th of the month.

September 28, 2011 - Through a combination of improbable runs and unprecedented collapses, there are a pair of tied teams in both leagues for the final wild card spot. The events would play out in four games on the last day of the regular season.

The St. Louis Cardinals were one of the teams that went on an improbable run. They took care of their last game, disposing of the Astros by a 8-0 score. The Braves, who fell in to the latter category of disintegration, took a 3-2 lead in to the 9th. If they could hang on to win their game, a one game playoff for the wild card would be played with the Cards.

The Boston Red Sox were playing the team that would finish last in theirs, the toughest division in professional sports. The Orioles squandered an early lead and the Sox had a one run lead going in to the seventh. The sky opened up and a lengthy rain delay began.

Meanwhile, at Tropicana Field in Tampa Bay, the New York Yankees took a 7-0 lead to the bottom of the eighth. In this inning, through a series of odd pitch choices, smart hits, and a big three run shot from the Rays' Evan Longoria, the Rays would pull to within one.

Carl Crawford would watch this game unfold with his Red Sox teammates in their clubhouse as the rain continued to fall in Baltimore. He would also see Atlanta's debacle reach its apex. The Braves gave up a run in the 9th to the Phillies, and would later lose in extras. It was decided. The Philadelphia squad would play the victorious Cardinals in their NLDS.

Tampa would be down to their last out in the bottom of the ninth. Rays' manager Joe Maddon called on an unlikely source in pinch-hitter Dan Johnson. Johnson was a .108 hitter, appearing in only thirty games up to that point in the season. Down to their last strike, Johnson hit a ball to deep right. Barely fair, it cleared the 322 foot part of the park by a few feet. Tie game.

The downpour stopped in Maryland. Similarly, the Red Sox took a one run lead in to the bottom of the ninth, eventually to two outs with nobody on. A ground rule double from the O's Nolan Reimold would tie the game. Next up was Robert Andino. He got a hold of a ball that drove out to shallow left field. Carl Crawford would have to chase it to make a play. Carl attempted to trap the ball, but dropped it. Reimold would come around to score, winning the game for the Baltimore Orioles.

The Rays and Yankees had fought their way in to the twelfth inning. Slowly but surely, starting with the Rays dugout, word of the Orioles victory made its way to Florida. When the final score appeared on the Trop's out-of-town scoreboard, the stadium was even more abuzz than it had already been. Evan Longoria, a player making $2,000,000 for the 2011 season, came to the plate once more with no one on base. He connected with a low, hard drive, this time to left field. It would clear the lowest 315 foot part of the outfield by an even smaller measurement than Johnson's homer in the ninth. The Tampa Rays won the game and the final wild card spot in 2011 big league baseball, at their home park of Tropicana Field.

*

As you can see, some things have happened since I last posted. I will try and find more in this ongoing exploration that I assure you was only set aside, not abandoned. I hope you will stick around for this journey that lives for nights like that of September 28th, 2011. These were just a few of the stories that came to fruition on this night, but I know there will be others to further our discussion.

Glad to be back.

'Cuz I'm a Dirt

As the 2010 Stanley Cup playoffs come to a close, it is important to recognise that there are in fact times when the sports writers' hyperbole is appropriate. It IS the most difficult trophy in sports to win. It basically takes playing a third of the regular season at a ridiculous pace and intensity level. You need to reach the elusive "higher level" of play and stay there. This does take all the cliches to achieve this: will, determination, heart, etc. Watching the playoffs this season, it isn't hard to see that it also takes a healthy dose of scumbaggery.

There are all sorts of things one can do during a hockey game that are seen as dastardly, dishonourable, and douchey. I like to call players that have these traits "dirts." Players understand this, and most fans do as well. The real interesting thing is that we cannot really decide which acts are to be the most detested.

I will give you an example. I personally despise any sort of embellishment in hockey. To take a dive or feign an injury is (outside of attempting to injure another player) pretty much the weakest thing a player can do. Not only does it fall in to the three 'Ds' from the previous paragraph, it also disrespects the players that are not dropping like they have been shot. I know it is a different sport but I think of players like Steve Nash every time I see someone flop. In what turned out to be his last playoff series of the year, he took elbows in both eyes, (and lit it up with one of them closed shut) and broke his nose during play, but kept on keeping on. Any player that dives or embellishes, looking for a call is basically saying, "Go to hell, Steve Nash. I have found an easier way out."

If you look at it from the athlete-as-artist point of view, a basic parallel is auto-tune in pop music. I know it is pretty much here to stay and there are in fact instances when it is used in a creative and interesting way; however, there are those who still defy it, and let their own goods do the talking. Then there are those that use so much of this supposed "crutch" that it is basically their personal walking machine and they end up sounding like the blue chick from The Fifth Element. Maybe Daniel Carcillo is the Ke$ha of the NHL.

Speaking of which, diving was much more of a story earlier on in the playoffs. Remember when it felt like that guy would do it nearly every game? I do think it has generally increased somewhat over the last couple years in the league, though. I suppose it has always been around, but while about 5% of the players would be known for these things in the old days, that number has gone up by 10 or 15 in the last 5 seasons. I believe that this is part of the reason that some of my friends in our game discussions do not see this act as abhorrent as I do. If there are more of them in the league doing it, there is a better chance that there is one on your team doing it, so it may seem more forgivable in ones rose-coloured eyes.

It should be pointed out that it is still detested among the league's smarter minds. Gold Medal and Cup winning coach Mike Babcock made a remark after a questionable call on a Shark that had visibly simulated to draw a penalty. He explained that it was an especially magnified dirt move because the player in question was from Western Canada. To examine the geographical distinction further would only end up in stereotyping and finger pointing. It is probably best to move on from the dive and its place in today's game and look at what else makes a dirt a dirt in our game: chirping.

When the finals started I was neutral as far as the teams were involved. They were both teams full of the dirtiest bunch of dirts that ever dirted a dirt. Then, in game two, Ben Eager barked something at Chris Pronger, and the former Hart winner raised his hand and did the "yap yap yap" sign. I immediately felt compelled to cheer for the Flyers.

I mean, why can't you just shut up and play, for God's sake? There are those that see trash talking as part of the game, and there is a razor's edge of limitations that some masterfully seem to walk during a game. There are all sorts of youtube clips of players bringing up wives and that sort of thing. There are even some players known for doing specific background checks on members of the opposition. The Hawks received a warning from the league last playoffs for their mouthiness, so there must be a line somewhere, right? Again, much like diving, this can give you that edge that your pure talent cannot. It's an underhanded way to try and reach your goal, and it takes a certain kind of player to do it. You know what I like to call them.

Now, I do see the irony in writing about the assholes of the league and championing a move by none other than Chris Pronger. This guy wrote the book on skulduggery. He has never dove or brought up a player's kid mid-game, he just finds a way to do the little dirt moves. There have been instances in the past where he has crossed the line, but he continues to back things up with amazing shutdown and momentum-dictating play. Somehow he is a dirt that has gained respect in my eyes. I suppose the personal trophies, cup, and four (!) Olympics help out his cause.

Once again the athlete-as-artist label works for this examination, and perhaps an explanation of my Pronger love. Any artist is known to have honed their craft and developed their style through a study of the masters. This guy has clearly paid his dues, and his influences are evident. Dennis Potvin, Scott Stevens, even Bobby Orr can be seen in his work. For those of you that have had the opportunity to see Exit Through the Gift Shop or have followed the ever-expanding street art world, I see Chris Pronger as a Banksy or Shepard Fairey, whereas the Blackhawk dirts are a bunch of Mr. Brainwashes. They are using and participating in an art that perhaps they do not quite fully understand the way some of their contemporaries do.

Again, that's just me. I am not saying that the game is progressively going down the toilet or anything, just that there are always new approaches to winning. An action can be seen as within reason to some, and the same act can infuriate others. I am sure there are tons that might think Pronger's post-game puck stealing is more dishonourable than anything I have even mentioned. The truth is, there is an art to embellishment, to chirping, to the general getting under of an opponent's skin. We hate them and we love them.

But whatever our conclusion, deep down we know: they are all dirts.

Gotta shout out to Wade for remaining a loyal reader and sending us this link. It seems there are indeed artists out there that see sports as important.

We've All Got Baggage

This is something that I had been wanting to write about for a week or so. The absolutely wild day in sports that was April 17th has made it a lot easier to do so.

In sports we all have attachments. Favourite teams, favourite players, that sort of thing. I have remarked in the past how my biases towards things like this, make it difficult to relay my thoughts in an "unfiltered" way, so to speak. I have the utmost respect for sports reporters and journalists who can maintain a level of neutrality in their work. You do see some that do not even try to hide the fact that they have personal preferences, and you have others who might believe that they are staying even-Steven, but their love for the home team somehow seeps through. It is a natural occurrence. They are sure to have grown up loving some team, some player from somewhere, and maybe they have been fortunate enough to write or report for them.

It is not just the scribes and presenters either. It is the fan by definition with their connections of passion to the event's parts and sums that aid in the presentation of these events. Not only that, it is the love (or hate) of player and team that makes a game that much more valuable an experience to the viewer. Even if a straight up aficionado with no allegiances went to a game that turned out to be an absolute masterpiece, he would end up having favorites. As a spectator of performance and creativity, he might begin to follow the ones that impressed him the most.

Then there are the things that could happen wherever you happen to be lucky enough to get a ticket for. Imagine how you would feel to see your home team go down 2-0 on the first two shots of a hockey game in a playoff series that you are not only favoured to win, you are expected to dominate. Then, after going down 4-1, managing to tie it at fours, drop a late goal, score an even later goal, and win it in quick and skillful fashion. With a hat trick, no less.

Or just picture yourself going to see your beloved Atlanta braves and catching the first No-no of 2010. Sure it was those cherished Braves that failed to get one goddamn hit, but that's a pretty big deal. On a side note, I was kind of choked to see those fans sitting on their hands as Jimenez got the final out. It brings to mind a much different reaction to El Presidente's perfection against the Dodgers in 1991. I could describe it, but you are better off listening to the great words of the great, great Vin Scully here.

Orrr imagine going to a nooner and getting home close to midnight. If you felt like sticking around for it. I mean, a booster's gotta get home at some time, right? Now, this does create the possible argument of whether or not the emotions felt in say, needing to feed your cat or getting your grandma her medicine effect one's analysis of the events; however, this game serves as an better example of what is at the heart of any examination of emotion in sports: the athletes.

Think about being a participant in this double Lawrence as I like to call the real long ones. Not only are you trying to maintain your same level of concentration and intensity, frustration might begin to sneak in around, oh I dunno, the 14th. Now put yourself in a shortstop's cleats who has to throw cheese. Or a hurler's who has to play left. There would have to be some nerves or at least a feel of alienation, being in this unfamiliar spot. Finally, there is the feeling of sheer relief if you are on the winning side of the coin, and the exasperation of spending the last seven hours trying to win game eleven of one hundred and sixty-two, only to come up short. With that cat and grandma stuff to boot, I suppose.

The modernists were championed for, among other things, "mapping the human condition." In sports, the human condition is on display. We see the obvious, like the jubilation on the faces of the recent overtime winners, or the anger in a goalie getting chased for his bad play. For every easily identifiable emotion, there are several enigmatic ones. What makes a cager want to check on a fallen teammate on the side line, only to eventually throw elbows at an opposition player that was too close to him? With all of the crazy traffic happening in front of tenders' nets, what are they feeling that makes them believe the best thing to do is embellish interference? Why can certain players bring the right head space consistently- nearly every night, producing at the peak of their abilities, while others struggle to find this spot? Let's face it, sports therapists are pretty busy folks.

Now, there are some out there that might suggest a stressing of emotion hinders proper analysis of a text. There are pieces considered to be manipulative in their execution. I could throw out a Sandy Bullock or Jenifer Aniston vehicle right now, but I'm not feeling especially mean today.

Further clouding emotion's place in art is the weight of importance attached to desired emotional reaches by an artist. Take two recent music videos: Hot Chip's I Feel Better and Hanson's Thinking 'Bout Somethin'. The first example illicits feelings of bizarro-humour and eerie disturbance. It succeeds in creating something that makes the audience try to wrap their heads around the creepy gooffiness. The other is good times innocent joviality through a love letter to a celebrated film. Is there a proper criteria to say which is the "better" video, based on these emotional responses? Is it Hot Chip, because it could be considered more "cutting edge?" Is it the three silly kids because they are clearly presenting a less complex mood, but in doing so reaching higher heights of that fervor? There are also of course the emotional reactions to these pieces. One could just as easily scoff at the fluff factor of "Somethin'," as they could at the attempt at irony in "Better."

The point is that no two people watch the same event or analyse the same piece in the same way. Everyone takes different stock in different emotional punches. Everyone has their favorite texts and qualities therein, as well as the players with their desired traits. This is what leads to their unique taste.

Like I said, I had started thinking about writing about this a while ago, when something not so happy happened to a favourite team of mine. I found myself as many do in these situations, searching for an emotional detachment. I eventually resigned to this being an impossibility. We love what we love and we hate what we hate, as well as everything in between. This is integral to the process of following, examining, even participating in any piece. Emotion is embedded in art and sport and sometimes it takes a day like April 17th, 2010 to remind you just how lucky we are to have it in such great abundance.

I Like Your Style

So it has been ten days since the circus left town and where to begin? Part of me wanted to come on here and echo Stephen Brunt's now famous video essay, and go off on how it is in fact, really "easy to be cynical." I was thinking about how truly difficult it was to sit through CTV's god awful "I Believe" motto and song, yet how much an arguably equally cheeseball Olymp-o-slogan "With Glowing Hearts" seemed to nail it. For the record, I plain do not care for any sort of "Believe" attachment to sports and their teams. In sports, believe is the marching song of the loser. Ask the fans of The North Siders how much belief in a championship has helped their cause in the last century. I considered going off not on that, as I just kind of have, but on the hearts slogan thingy. That really just ended up feeling trite and tacked on.

Another part of me wanted to applaud those that stood against the games during the opening ceremonies. I do not mean the two dozen from the next day that gave The Bay the ol' what fer', but the 2000 that protested peacefully during day one. Them and all the other gatherings and marches that took place during the games deserve accolades, even if they had nothing to do with the games themselves. I am not saying I agree or disagree with any of the causes, it's just that I live in a country called Canada, sir. If you do not like the sort of place that allows you the freedom to do these things my friend, then in the immortal words of Barney Gumble, "Go back to Russia!" That just ended getting all nationalistic and uppity, so I bailed on that too.

Speaking of which, it needs to be said that anyone that passes of this whole shebang as pure nationalism at its worst, is prreeetttyy out of touch. Look, I have not watched more than an hour and a half cumulatively of figure skating over the last decade, but I can tell you two things I learned: 1. Pleschenko is probably right. Men's figure skating does not need any more feminizing. They have that part covered. 2. If you were not at least moved a wee bit during Joannie Rochette's work, then I sincerely feel sorry for you. It's not because you think she lives in the most powerful figure skating country on earth. It's because, fuck you. When have you ever had to do something like that under similar circumstances? That was quite simply amazing, inspiring stuff and that is why it is applauded and embraced. Clearly this conversation is just going to lead to more "glowing hearts" so I think it best we abandon it as well.

Actually no. I guess you could argue that what I really want to write about is bordering on nationalism. I do think Canada is best at hockey. To me it is more like your ultimate favorite sports team, only your team invented the sport. One of the things that made me rest easy was that the Canadian "style of play" as many like to refer to it, is alive and well. I could decipher it. It was there, both tangible and intangible. It is in the grit of the Morrows and the flash of the Getzlafs and everything in between. This is the subject from the grand ole' Olys that is worthy of at least my examination at this point. And let's face it, it kinda sticks with this site's purpose, right?

I have to say I had a weird sense of calm throughout the gold medal game. I was unbelievably thrilled and jumped in to the arms of my brother following Crosby's goal, but I never once got the heart palpitations that I usually get. I am not sure what it was either. Maybe it was my acceptance of the hockey Gods letting things play out as they were meant to be. Maybe it was the weird feeling that this was it for the tourney, and after this game was over we would have to wait another four years (or more...or less) when we would see this level of hockey. Maybe it was the fact that I had already lost my shit in the lead up to and the first two periods against Russia, two games sooner. Let's go with that one.

That game was described by hockey brainiac Bob McKenzie as the best he has seen by one team in international competition. It exposed what may be wrong with what has been traditionally seen as a Russian style of play. Offence and power, but no more than two defencemen capable of shutting down the world class. In looking at the Canadian style of hockey, it is best to look for an instance when the approach was successful. Fittingly, there is a goal within it that can be used as the encyclopedia video entry for Hockey - Canadian Style of Play. The game can be still be found at this link and the events leading up to the goal begin at the 1:01:45 mark of the video.

It begins with Mike Richards doing everything in his power to regain the puck from three different Russian players. He is eventually knocked down by Alex Semin, who manages to push the puck about a foot past Team Canada's blue line only to land on the stick of a covering Scott Neidermayer, who wisely taps it up the boards. It goes to the skates of Richards, still down but clearly not out, as he pushes the puck up a little further. Evgeni Malkin steals it for a moment, but our downed Flyer is now up to one knee and finally manages to retake and shoot the disc up out of his zone for the last time until this play ends.

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The rubber goes from there nearly to the stick of Jarome Iginla, who has literally just stepped on to the ice. His stick is lifted by the aforementioned Conn Smythe winner Malkin. As his stick remains off the ice, he is pushed in to the boards by Fedor Tyutin. The puck continues to inch forward and the pride of St. Albert first uses his strength to keep distance between himself, the Russian defender and the boards, so as the puck can continue to pass through. The puck nearly comes to a stop when Iginla, now stopped against the boards, uses this strength further as well as his skill and creativity in recognizing Jonathon Toews as being behind him and capable of creating a scoring chance. He manages with his only free limb to kick it up to the stick of the streaking Manitoban.

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Toews then swiftly carries it across the line, and passes it cross-ice to Shea Weber, who has exhibited insane hockey smarts in recognizing this as an opportunity and reason to jump up in to the play as a defenceman. The son of Sicamous lets the puck touch his stick once, so as he can properly wind up, and lets go of an absolute bullet that goes off the blocker of Nabokov and in to the net.

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So what are the recurring traits from this goal? Tenacity, responsibility, creativity, skill, speed, strength, and calculated risks. These are all distinctions that have defined great Canadian hockey players for decades, and in one play you see it all. It is also important to point out that the play lasts no more than fifteen seconds, yet all five Canadian skaters touch the puck. So one would have to add to the aforementioned list a symbiosis of sorts. It is like a great band playing to the peak of their abilities, but working well because they make each other better.

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The goal is followed by a subdued celebration. We were up by 5 goals at this point for heaven's sake; however, this is part of the Canadian style as well. Some suggested that the American hockey team was able to succeed as much as it did, because they were able to emulate this operandi. The behaviour of someone like Ryan Kesler revealed evident differences. When he put in the empty netter against Canada in the first game, he acted as though he had won the gold all by himself. This, combined with some of his questionable off-ice comments show that despite being able to find success by modeling their game after that of the Canadians, they are still missing a key ingredient: grace.

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It is a shame that you cannot slow the entire play down and watch it frame by frame. I know I did about a dozen times when I had the thing recorded on my PVR. Perhaps that explains my easy-breeziness during the final match. Unlike 2006, where nothing seemed to go right, I could tell at this point that things were clearly clicking, and if we were to eventually lose, it was not because we had the wrong players. There was a commitment there. Every team has to have that, and it is not unique to a Canadian style of play. Any country can exhibit the features I discussed in Weber's goal, it is just that our cumulative efforts have led to those "glowing hearts" of victory. This quality is what has made things right in the hockey universe once more, and is the defining characteristic of our nation's style at its very best.

Heats, Shoots, and Works

There is a language in professional wrestling. Actually, there are several of them. It starts with the concept of Kayfabe and an understanding of what that entails. This long established "carny code" of the business is essentially the "entertainment" portion of what has become known as sports entertainment. You don't break character, you don't stray from the storyline, and you do the work. The more you watch, you start to see that there are other unwrittens and intangibles that make up this concept, (putting over the young talent while making sure you are creating a name for yourself, but not creating too much heat among your fellow wrestlers, and still remaining a good worker for starters) and you begin to understand the language, so to speak.

It is not unheard of for a break in the code to arise. The most infamous instance of this happened in 1997 with what has since been known as The Montreal Screwjob. (I apologize for the repeated Wikipedia references, but honestly, is there really a "credible" source for this sort of thing?) Basically, one guy decided to alter the end of the match prematurely in order to save his own face, effecting the real life and real career of another guy. A shoot forced its way in to a work, forever changing the face of an industry.

I have said before that I am a long time wrestling fan, and find it to be a format of possibilities that are so far from being explored to their limitless potential. I am of the opinion that there are thousands of approaches to a match, an angle, a character, and even a general attitude that are not even on the radar of the bigger companies. There have been some interesting developments in the way of match pacing and creativity of bumps in the on-the-rise Ring of Honor brand, but they still seem stuck in this adrenaline-fuelled EXTREME!! way of doing things that has remained a staple in the industry for more than a decade now. I see something further down the fringe like Kaiju Big Battel as something striving for a new form of presentation. There is definitely less chance of a shoot unexpectedly occurring when Los Plantanos are involved. Watching any episode of RAW, it is evident that the WWE and its audience are pretty far away from embracing the absurdity that is their business to the level that Kaiju has reached.

This is not to say that the big boys of the industry are not finding new ways of telling these stories. The aforementioned biggest break in Kayfabe is finally being reexamined, with Bret Hart making his return to the company that abandoned him more than twelve years ago. It is an approach that has been done before - a shoot that becomes a work; however, in the past it had generally been about something backstage. A female wrestler who may have been involved in a real-life relationship with one of the guys might start dating another, and it becomes an angle where we are not supposed to know where the script ends and the genuine hatred between the two begins. This new storyline is different though, because it was so very, very public. Aside from the screwjob taking place at a PPV event, it was further explored through documentaries, novels, and interviews from all sides. Like I said, this was landmark stuff when it went down.

"So I guess Hell froze over." The Hitman's return to the ring began with a recognition of the past tensions, and was followed by a clearly sincere shoot about his situation and his fans. He invited Sean Michaels down, and the work had begun. After patching things up with him for the show, he tries to do the same with Vince McMahon, the man who changed his real life forever. This ends with a kick in the guts from McMahon, and the episode fades out with the heel standing over the face, who lies in a crumpled heat.

Those of us who have followed our hero's career post-1997 Montreal, know that the proverbial hatchets between these two men had been buried years ago. Well, not quite all of us. I heard from a source close to the Hart family that Bret received calls from old friends shocked and dismayed that Vince would do such a thing. The way we watched wrestling as kids sticks with some folks, I guess. Anyways, the storyline has advanced over the last couple of weeks, with Vince and his writers attempting to be topical with thinly-veiled references to things like Reitman's Up in the Air. He explained to the hard-working viewer when one must let go of employees like "bubble gum that has lost its flavor" sometimes. If this was not enough to build up heat, he swam further in to the current pop-culture waters by quoting everyone's favorite real-life heel by saying Bret's untimely dismissal was "just business." The Chairman was also put in his place by other wrestlers coming down and supporting Bret and his return. Vince has since double-crossed him once more, (as part of the angle) and the story is building up to an inevitable match between the two.

They will continue to milk the McMahon-as-pure-evil in build up to what will surely take place at the industry's biggest event, Wrestlemania. I am eager to see how it all plays out of course, but in this case it is the unmentioned shoot that should really take precedence. Since 1997, Bret Hart has tragically lost family and friends because of the business, had a stroke and was confined to a wheelchair for an extended period of time. When he finally takes the ring one last time, it will be bigger than any pop, any work, any shoot. It will bring a real form of redemption to someone that has maintained a level of honour and integrity in a world where these attributes are basically unheard of. I can say without any sense of shame that his life story is of great inspiration to myself, and I cannot wait to see him enter the squared circle once more. That is bound to be something really special, no matter what language of wrestling that you speak.