The good old hockey game

I will admit it: I am not a fan of hockey.

I will admit it: I am not a fan of hockey.

I don’t begrudge those who do (and I know your numbers far outweigh those of us who do not like “Canada’s Game”). If you wish to spend your evenings glued to a TV screen watching little men chase after an even smaller puck, go right ahead.

I’ll admit, watching the guys fight is amusing, if pointless. What if that person you just decked is on your team next year?

But I’ll leave that logic to the players doing the decking.  Obviously, they know what they’re doing. They are paid millions of dollars, after all.

Oh, I wish.

So anyways, maybe you’re at a friends, having a brewsky, watching this game unfold.  Throw in a couple of chicken wings and you’re a stereotypical Canadian, even more so if you have this fabled “play-off beard”.

What correlation there is between the chances of the Canucks scoring a goal to the length of one’s facial hair, I certainly have no clue.

But as I’ve mentioned before, I am no genius when it comes to things scientific. Ask my science teacher, who probably passed me out of pity. Or out of the fear of seeing me in his class the next semester, trying once more to dissect a poor, harmless little perch.

I’m thinking my woe betide over the needless death of said perch, may it rest in peace, and deciding to hold a memorial for it before chopping it into pieces also made the decision to pass me through an easy decision.

But if facial hair makes one happy, then so be it. Go Canucks!

Then there is the ceremonial drive around town, Canucks flags waving, horns blaring, people cheering after they’ve won.

A show of support, or a traffic hazard?

It was blissfully quiet last Monday evening, I really must say. No traffic congestion, no worries about other drivers who may have had a couple too many before getting behind the wheel, all was great, commuter-wise anyway.

As I was visiting a friend that evening who loves the hockey game, I can tell you with certainty the Canucks were slaughtered that evening. I tried consoling him, after he dejectedly checked the score (we changed the channel after the end of the second period as it was futile to watch anymore, he said) by excitedly pointing out the Canucks had scored one goal, just seconds before the Bruins scored their seventh.

The timing could have been better, I suppose.

He glared at me as I oohed over the spectacular play by the Bruins in slow motion again and the channel flicked back to Criminal Minds.

I suppose if we’re to watch a slaughter, it may as well be a fictitious one.

No, I am not a hockey fan. I’ve been told by many that I’m a horrible Canadian for even admitting so, but admit to it I will.

Nor do I understand the many ways of celebrating, or traditions you must not break lest your team suffer a drawback.

But as a resident of the Bulkley Valley, I feel I must show support for our home-town player Dan Hamhuis. He and his team have made history, no matter if they’re knocked out by the Bruins or not. We, as a town should celebrate that, and celebrate we have. Everywhere you go, there’s a sense of community spirit, all cheering for one thing: the Canucks.

So in this small way I will throw in my own voice: congratulations Dan on an amazing year.