COVID Hockey

 

Elliot comforts Basher (again)

Basher may be distraught, but I’m not. Not really. The Flyers didn’t make the playoffs (again) this year. The usual suspects – weak defence, iffy goaltending – are to blame; that, and too little production from the top guns. I think Jake Voracek was the team points leader and he didn’t hit double digits in the goal count. Same with Captain Claude ... but overall, I’m willing to blame the oddball circumstances of playing pro sports during a global pandemic. Momentum was broken by COVID delays as much as by injuries and consistently slow starts. Rarely did we score first, and while the boys were fully capable of coming back from a deficit, I don’t know how often (if at all) they actually held a lead straight out of the gate. Every first period I saw was a prime opportunity for the opposition to pounce as Philly spent twenty minutes getting their act together. Second and third periods were generally better.

I could speak more knowledgably if I subscribed to the NHL channel. Cardigan and Ter would be tormented with non-stop Flyer games, but I’d have a better idea of what went wrong if I’d seen every one. This year, Canadian fans of US teams were kinda cursed, though I must admit the revised format of a team playing within its own division made for some dandy, playoff-type rivalries. Philadelphia is in an ugly division, too. Boston, Washington and the Islanders make for way more swears from my chair, though I like Pittsburgh enough to forgive Sid Crosby for scoring in every game—sometimes twice!

At least I saw some Flyer games, via feeds picked up by Sportsnet from their American counterparts. Yikes, that’s another annoyance – listening to commentaries from the Boston, Washington or Pittsburgh crew. Philadelphia broadcasts must be contracted to a secret society or something, because I have yet to hear the play-by-play from their side. And it can be painful, listening to the man-crushes over players I’d like to slam through the boards. The best US broadcast team came out of Buffalo during back-to-back Sabres games: the guy doing the play by play was genuinely hilarious (opposed to thinking himself genuinely hilarious and being genuinely mistaken). He reminded me of Rod Phillips, who used to call the Oilers’ games in the days when Ter and I listened to them over the computer. Creative play by play is a true art form and Phillips was a master. We still use some of his sayings around the house, most notably the “dastardly defensive breakdown” when something goes awry in the kitchen.

Ah, well. This year’s irregular regular season is done and dusted for my boys. I’ll keep an eye on the playoff standings, and expect Ter and I will watch the finals. All was not lost, either. Cardigan has learned a ton of hockey jargon by osmosis; he and Basher often debated whether to pull the goalie and when, and darned if he didn’t hold his own against Basher’s blunt-edged logic.

He still doesn’t understand icing ... though I’m not sure Basher gets it, either.

Seeing Stars

 

The Tampa Bay Lightning fulfilled their purpose and eliminated the Islanders in six games to win the eastern conference final. YES!!!! Despite my earlier intention to support them through the Stanley Cup final, however, I have changed my mind. It seems I’ve adopted the Dallas Stars as my championship team for the COVID-19 Cup.

But, Ru, what the ... ?

You may well ask. I didn’t mean to cheer for Dallas, but I accidentally watched the last couple of games in their series against the dishonourable Knights. Ter gets the blame for that – she’s the one who flipped the channel to prove if there’s a game on, we’ll watch it. The captain of the Stars (Jamie Benn) grew up in Brentwood Bay, the same community where Ter and I lived as teenagers before we met. It’s a small thing, but enough to pick a team for the duration of a game. That, and I was still mad at Vegas for the second empty net goal against Vancouver.

At the end of game five, Ter announced her support for Dallas to win the Cup. Not only could she not raise any enthusiasm for Tampa, she liked the idea of backing “Brentwood” Benn. I kind of agreed, but I’ve disliked Dallas in the past and, compared to my general indifference to the Lightning, that weighs more.

I waffled some when game six (the elimination game for Vegas) ended with the Stars’ overtime victory. It happened on the dumbest penalty call ever invented by the NHL: the infamous “delay of game”. By accident or design, when a player sends the puck goes over the glass in the defensive zone, it’s an automatic two-minute minor. I have no problem calling it when by design, but the puck glancing off the shaft of a stick engaged in a battle for said puck, I don’t see that being deliberate. Honestly, they delay the game by calling delay of game when they could treat it like icing or offside calls: just get another puck and have a faceoff. Anyway, it’s what happened to the Knights. Dallas scored on the power play and that was it: series over. On a dumb delay of game call that was clearly an accident. I was outraged at the injustice.

Then I remembered the snotty second empty net goal against Vancouver. Suddenly the hockey gods were repaying karma and I was good with the Dallas win. I was also a toe closer to going the distance with them, but not there yet.

At the start of Game One of the final round, Cardigan asked me which team I was hoping would win. I replied that I wouldn’t know until the first goal was scored. If I cheered, that was my team. If I swore, it wasn’t.

Dallas scored first. I cheered. Decision made.

Go, Stars.

Lightning Up

 

Sometime during the night following the Flyers’ elimination from the Stanley Cup playoffs, I decided to root full bore for the Tampa Bay Lightning. Originally, I only supported the Bolts until they served their purpose by punting the Bruins in their second round series, but I had also hoped Philly would do in the Islanders and proceed to face Tampa in the eastern conference final.

Dreamer! Silly little dreamer!

Without getting into it (because it still makes me furious), the Flyers pushed their series against New York to a seventh game, but it was only by the grace of Carter Hart that they got that far. We had no offense unless you count lucky bounces, though the defense was solid (Ivan Provorov’s got a great future), and we had a fairly effective penalty kill—but an utterly piss poor power play. The PP was so pp, in fact, that I groaned aloud whenever we drew a penalty. It got worse when, hoping to break the NYI shutout, Alain Vigneault pulled Hart with six minutes to go in the third period. “What are you doing, you fool?” I screamed. “The goalie’s the best man on our power play!”

So, the boys are off to the golf course and Basher is off to post-playoff therapy. Of course I’m a Bolts fan for the eastern final—I can’t abide the Islanders in any way shape or form. And in the west, I’d have chosen Vegas over Dallas, but now I don’t care. My Plan B preference had been for Vegas to go all the way, until I witnessed a cheap-o WTF? move by the Knights when they put out Vancouver in game seven of their series.

Give the Canucks credit—they went further than any other Canadian team and I’d have been delighted to cheer them to the Cup, if only. They had to call on their backup goalie when Markstrom was hurt in game four, and darned if Thatcher Demko didn’t stop all but one of something like a hundred and twenty shots over two games. You start to believe anything is possible when a team comes back from a three game deficit to force a seventh. But Vegas came to play, and they play rough. Not good rough, either. Not only did they out-bang the Canucks, they got away with some sneaky shots and won by a score of 3 – 0. They only beat Demko once, though. The insurance goal was into the empty net after Vancouver pulled him to get the extra man on in the last few minutes of regulation time. With eighty-some seconds left in the game, Vegas potted a second empty-netter and celebrated like they’d come from behind in the nick of time.

Really? A second empty net goal? Talk about rubbing it in—and while I may be a fan of the old Broad Street Bullies, I vehemently disagree with such poor sportsmanship. In my mind, what the Knights did in that last minute was naught but a poke in the collective eye of Canuck players and fans alike. Boo, hiss!

But, Ru, you ask, what happens if the Islanders beat the Bolts?

Don’t ask.

The bears console Basher after the Flyers are eliminated

Athletic Supporters

 

The Flyers have made it to the second round of the playoffs for the first time since 2012. They got past Montreal in round one, but now they’re duking it out with the hated New York Islanders, who are a much better team than the Habs. They’re also similarly matched with Philly—though the Flyers offense, which is more powerful on paper, would give us the edge if it was a bit more effective on the ice. We lost a meagre lead and ultimately lost game three, which shattered Basher’s confidence and means the Isles lead the best of seven series two games to one. Game four happens tonight.

I sincerely hope that Philly blows NY outta the arena.

As a pinheaded hockey fan, I wonder if the suspension of play for a couple of days messed with the Flyers’ momentum because they fought (and won) a super second game. Game three was scheduled for the very next day, then word came down that the NHL players were joining the NBA, MLS and (I think) MLB in support of their non-white teammates by suspending play for a couple of days. It’s messiest in the States right now, but systemic racism is an ongoing issue everywhere. Pro sports is as diverse an example as any—so while I may be a pinheaded hockey fan, I also applaud the players who stand in support of racial equality and justice for all.

Hockey, one may argue, isn’t that diverse given the vast majority of players are of European descent, but it’s also a very expensive sport and economic disparity is a product of systemic racism. Kids from economically disadvantaged families can’t get on the ice unless non-profits step up to help them with equipment etc. The number of non-white kids playing pro hockey is growing, but it’s almost painfully slow in comparison to other sports leagues.

How did we explain to Basher, who’d spent all day Thursday gearing up for it, why game three was cancelled on Thursday night?

The bears tend to disregard anything I tell them so Ter, being the Bear Whisperer, got down to eye level and gave Basher the news. She described the unrest and protests happening beyond our bubble, and how people are doing what they can to offer support where they can, including pro athletes. He’s a little, er, slow on the uptake, but as she talked, the other bears gradually abandoned their soccer game and gathered around to listen. Burl and Elliot are the troublemakers, but they’re also the quickest to grasp a concept. They were pretty blunt with their opinion of racist attitudes, but they are also part of a multi-hued ursine community and will notice another bear before they notice the colour of its fur. They just don’t understand social injustice or racial inequality.

They understand solidarity, though. When I got them out of bed on Friday morning, they had rallied the whole gang to the cause. I was unanimously advised to leave the soccer ball in the drawer of my nightstand. No football was played until the playoffs resumed.

Blue for Who?

 

Poor grammar in the title, I know, but bigger than that, there’s been poor language around our house of late. This past week saw our TV flipping between two channels: CBC (Hockey Night in Canada) and CNN (the Democratic National Convention). Granted, the poorest language occurred during HNIC as the Flyers tangled with the Canadiens and ultimately—by the skin of their collective teeth, by the way—won the first round. Round Two, against the hated New York Islanders, starts on Monday. This is where “poor language” will morph into full on “swears”, as Cardigan reproachfully puts it, and you just know he’s aiming the frown at me. The only time Ter uses poor language is when the goalie deserts his post in favour of playing the puck. She’s a Flyer fan by association anyway; her true heart lies in the west, with either Edmonton or Vancouver, and while she didn’t watch the Canucks’ first round, she’s happy that they’ve made it to the second. Against the defending champions, no less.

Meanwhile, over on CNN, the DNC provided an interesting diversion from hockey. I actually preferred the virtual format to the “live” conventions of yore; sure, it was a little odd seeing candidates and their advocates speaking to empty rooms but, for me, the speeches packed more punch without the distraction of a cheering, applauding, stomping, sycophantic crowd. (Let’s face it; no one at these things has come to be convinced. They’re already diehard supporters.) The Republicans get their airtime next week ... and I can’t imagine how on earth they will find enough to convince anyone in eight hours that the present incumbent deserves another term at the White House. In toe-curling fairness, they should be given equal time despite the fear of how high my BP may climb as a result. Coupled with the playoffs, the reading may spike halfway to Mars. I’m an avid orange supporter in one arena, but definitely not in the other.

Ter declared the other day that she’s keeping the blue polish on her toenails until November. With my head stuck in the bubble, I immediately commended her loyalty. “Good for you! Hoping the Canucks will go the distance, eh?”

“No,” she replied, “I’m hoping the Democrats get in!”

Priorities.

The Sum of Our Parts

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few (or the one).

All for one and one for all.

It’s not the name on the back of the jersey that matters, it’s the crest on the front.

Call me a socialist and you likely won’t be wrong. I am all for sharing the wealth in support of the whole. Everyone has resources. Everyone has a talent. Everyone can—and should—contribute. I’d not presume to dictate comfort zones, but the best thing about humanity is the way we rally to support a person, a family, a community, or a country in need.

There is something to the attitude of putting the good of the group ahead of stardom for one. Take the International Ice Hockey Federation’s 2019 World Cup Junior Champion Team Finland, for instance. Consistently outmanned, outgunned and short-handed in the final against team USA, they stuck together and ground it out to win the gold medal. There were no superstars and no obvious egos in their game. They were just a bunch of young guys doing their best to help each other.

And win a trophy, of course.

Hm. Competitive sports might not be the best example—though sport is supposed to teach kids the value of teamwork. Too often I see pro players either trying to draw a penalty or whining when they get caught themselves. Participant ribbons for all was maybe not a good idea.

I laughed out loud at a commentator remarking on Canuck wonder-rookie Elias Petterson’s understated celebration when he scores a goal. The kid is Swedish. Modesty becomes them. In fact, it’s taught to children in many cultures around the globe. The “modesty lie” is encouraged in some countries—commit a random act of kindness, but don’t take credit for it. I agree with that in part; when asked point blank if I put cookies on the office snack station, I confess because I’m busted. There’s no point in lying when I’ve been naughty, either. (And some would suggest that’s the case when I put cookies on the office snack station.)

But in this magical world of contrast and the human experience, superstars are inevitable. Everyone wants to be special, even in societies where they’re taught to be ordinary—or at least not to be extraordinary. That’s hard for an ego to endure. I get that. I also know that everyone is born special. The best thing anyone can do is be themselves. That’s why we’re all here. Be yourself and be the best at it. As Martin Luther King once said, even if you’re a shrub, be the best darned shrub you can be.

The whole garden will look better.

With love,

Philly Dips

It’s not news that the Flyers went out in six games after the regular season. The second round of the playoffs is now underway and my lads are watching on their smartphones at the golf course. I could stomp and scream and make generous contributions to the swear jar, but even if the visually-impaired ref had made the appalling “I-can’t-believe-it-was-missed” call on Kris Letang kicking the skates from beneath Sean Couturier in the third period, the boys likely wouldn’t have survived a game 7 in the first round. Not against Pittsburgh. Not this year.

This isn’t news either, but a hockey team needs more than one scoring line, otherwise it’s too easy for the opposing team to shut you down, and that’s exactly what the Penguins did to the Flyers. Mind you, Captain Claude was invisible, and Jake Voracek wasn’t worth much, either. The two top point-getters in the regular season did nothing in the post unless you count letting the kids do all the work, in which case you might be inclined to commend them for creating what public servants refer to as “learning opportunities”.

I learned that the next generation has all kinds of potential if Ron Hextall can afford to keep the current roster in place. Nolan Patrick in particular, but there’s a handful of other twenty-somethings who will make Philadelphia a force to be reckoned with in the next few years. And they should give Couturier the captaincy. He more than earned it in games 5 and 6. He was a horse through those two games, and only when it was over did we hear that he’d been playing on a torn ligament and will need surgery this summer. I love Claude Giroux, but come on. It was Coots who played like a captain.

More not-news: I harbour fantasies about the Flyers going the distance each time they make the playoffs; what hockey fan doesn’t? And the same fantasy was harboured this year, though I had no illusions against Pittsburgh, who has three scoring lines and way more experience than the fledgling Flyers. Plus, Sid Crosby is on a mission from God every time he plays his Pennsylvania state rivals. Honestly, his stats against Philly alone are astonishing … and nauseating to a gal who bleeds black and orange. I knew if we could get past him, we’d be all right – but he knew it too, and he used the negative energy of the home crowd to kill the home team in all three of their home games.

Following the non-call on Letang, when the fragile Flyer lead was lost with two quick Penguin goals and my boys were eliminated in the first round, Ter said to me, “I don’t think I can support the Pens after that crappy non-call on Letang.”

“Agreed,” I replied. “I’m going for the western conference team in the final (unless it’s San Jose), and in the east, it’s ‘go, Leafs, go’.”

Well, that was short-lived, too. The Leafs pushed it to game seven, but the Bruins are, well, the Bruins. ʼNuff said about that. And I must admit, I loosed a silent cheer on hearing that the Pens beat Washington in their first game of round 2, so …

$*^&#%

Adjö

I remember when a pair of bobble-headed brothers were drafted second and third by the Vancouver Canucks. It was 1999. The wheeling and dealing done overnight by then-GM Brian Burke that enabled the team to nab both Daniel and Henrik Sedin in the first round was Herculean in hockey scope, and for the first few years appeared to have not been worth the effort. The wonder twins of the Swedish junior league took some time to find their rhythm in the NHL, but once they found it, stardom—if not the Stanley Cup—was inevitable.

Living on the west coast makes me a Vancouver fan by proximity. My feelings for the team have waxed and waned over the years. I really disliked them when Markus Naslund, Todd Bertuzzi and Brendan Morrison made up the top line, back when the Twedes, as Ter has called them, were still growing into their potential. The adulation press and populace showered on Roberto Luongo drove me nuts because whatever they saw in him completely eluded me. Yet while I made jokes about many of the players at any given time, I had personal favourites. I loved Ryan Kesler, for instance. And Kevin Bieksa. Alex Burrows was fun to watch, Mason Raymond was yummy, I adored Jarkko Ruutu, and none dares dispute St Trevor of Linden’s greatness. I can honestly say there have been stretches when I’ve wanted the team to do well (except against Philadelphia, of course) and times when I have been equally hostile toward them.

During those amusing and bemusing years, the Sedins quietly matured into superstars. They did it so quietly, in fact, that I can’t say precisely when they became notable. They were simply, suddenly, there. And they were doing magical things on the ice, things so magical that the term “Sedinery” was coined by one of the announcers. Despite their Swedishness and her Finnishness, Ter liked them early on, favouring Henrik over his younger brother, though how someone can prefer one identical twin over the other is a mystery.

They’ve traded scoring titles back and forth for years. Each has played 1000 games and racked up over 1000 points apiece. Between them, only a handful of games were missed due to injury, otherwise, they were present and accounted for on a stunningly regular basis. They made scoring stars out of so-so players. “Just stand by the net with your stick on the ice and wait for the pass,” was how one wit put it. The Hockey Hall of Fame awaits for sure. But:

Superior stats are one thing. Being a class act off the ice is more impressive, and these young men are classy in the truest sense of the word. They have grown into fine upstanding citizens, loyal to the team and the city they have made their home, to the families they started and the legacy they will leave behind—for they have played their final game in the NHL. Yup, the Sedins retired last night.

I might not have written this post, but their final home game was worth writing about for a number (pun intended—keep reading) of reasons. The Arizona Coyotes were in town. Neither team made it to the playoffs this year, so the game was worthless before last Monday. After the twins announced their retirement at the end of this season, ticket prices soared. On game night, the Rog was jammed to the rafters with fans determined to thank the Sedins for seventeen years of dedicated service to the team, to the game, and to the community. I imagine almost every TV in BC was tuned to Sportsnet Pacific. Ours certainly was.

And Arizona scored the first goal. Geez Louise. Their goalie looked to be on a mission from God. He made some dandy saves before Vancouver got on the board.

And how they got there is wild. Get this: Daniel Sedin wears number 22. Henrik wears 33. Half a minute into the second period, Henrik’s pass is tipped by Alex Edler onto Daniel’s stick and Daniel scores his 22^nd goal of the season. 22 at :33. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t have written it and hoped to have anyone believe it. The crowd goes wild—

—and Arizona scores again. And again. At the end of the second, the Coyotes are up 3 to 1.

Then the young ’Nucks go to work. Two more goals are scored and the game is tied going into overtime. Five minutes of 4 on 4. Arizona takes a penalty a minute in and on the power play, Daniel takes a pass from Henrik and scores the winner ... at 2:33. Honestly. The numerology was numbing. I suppose you could claim it was coincidental or of imagined significance, but I choose to believe that the energy of so many people wishing the Twedes so much goodwill created a weird synergy that resulted in those oddball occurrences. It was astonishing and uplifting and just plain fun.

And now it’s over ... for now. I’m sure their careers will continue in other forms. Their influence will continue in coaching or management or scouting or something hockey-related, so last night’s game in Edmonton was not good-bye to the Sedins. It was simply adjö.

* * *

On a sombre note, it was extremely saddening to learn that the final night of the Sedins on-ice careers was overshadowed by the tragedy of a crash involving a semi-truck and a bus transporting a junior B team to a game in Saskatchewan. Fifteen members of the Humboldt Broncos hockey organization were killed outright and fourteen remain in hospital, some in critical condition. At the time of this writing, the most poignant image from the national league games happened in Winnipeg, when the players on both teams—Jets and Chicago Black Hawks—stood shoulder to shoulder in a circle, alternating jerseys, at centre ice for a moment of silence on behalf of the victims and their families. Similar scenes were played in arenas throughout the league.

The hockey world is smaller, and the people involved in it are bigger, than you think.

With love,

Overheard At a Hockey Game

Flyers 4 - Oilers 2

Cardigan doesn’t know much about hockey. He probably doesn’t care a whole lot, either, but Basher is his friend so he tries to be supportive when the Flyers are on TV.

Last month, when the Canucks were in Philadelphia, he cheered when Vancouver scored their first goal. Basher immediately pounced. “No, no,” he said, “we’re rooting for the guys in the orange sweaters, not the white ones.”

Cardie looked confused. “But, your sweater is white.”

“Yah, white with black and orange,” Basher replied, which did nothing to help Cardie’s bewilderment.

“The visiting team wears white,” I added. “We want the home team to win.”

“Oh,” said Cardigan, without any conviction at all in his tone. He cheered when the Flyers scored, however, so Basher and I figured he’d got the  message.

Until Wednesday, when the Flyers played in Edmonton. The Oilers also wear orange, and their home sweaters are even more aggressively so than Philly’s. The Flyers scored, Basher and I cheered, but Cardigan was silent. The Oilers scored, Basher said something I would have smacked his ears for except that I said it at the same time, and Cardigan said nothing.

After a while, he whispered to Basher, “I’m confused.”

“Why?” Basher asked.

“Because last time, you told me to cheer for the orange sweaters instead of the white ones. Now you’re cheering for the white ones instead of the orange ones, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

At this point, Ter chimed in to elaborate on the home versus visiting sweaters, and that it’s better to cheer for the crest on the sweater rather than the colour. Cardigan took a long, hard look at the Flyer logo on Basher’s chest, and proceeded to cheer for the visiting team (who won, incidentally—woo hoo!)

The next night, Philly played in Vancouver. “Do you know who to root for?” Basher asked his nerdy friend.

“Yup,” Cardie happily replied. “The white sweaters!”

Basher looked pleased, until Cardigan added, “Because the other ones are blue!”

No Flyer Zone

Well, shoot. No playoffs for my boys, this year. Again. It’s kind of a relief, actually. With all the hassles I’ve handled of late, I don’t need the extra stress. I’m happy to cheer for the five Canadian teams that made it to the post-season (and, failing that, Pittsburgh), but I’m not so invested that I’ll go fetal during a game. Semi-fetal, maybe, but not full bore Philly fetal!

I have a five-disc collection of the ten best Flyer games ever played (and no, they’re not all from the 1970s). I do enjoy the one where they won their first Stanley Cup, but I’ve watched none of the others. Now Ter and I are talking about another declutter and I’m looking at the plethora of unwatched season sets and once-watched miniseries in our DVD collection with an eye to offloading the deadwood. I reckon if the box is still shrink-wrapped, it’s on the block. Same for anything we haven’t watched in years (what was important to us then is not so important to us now) ... until I get to the Flyer collection. I bought it in 2008. I’ve only seen the Cup winner from 73/74.  The boys have played a lot of games since that compilation was put together, few of them likely to bounce any from the top ten, but still. Do they stay or do they go?

No brainer.

Bright Lights, Big City

Location, location, location. Is that why Vancouver is listed among the three most expensive Canadian cities in which to live? Maybe. You can’t beat the ocean on one side and mountains on the other. On a sunny day, the glittering tangle of glass and steel soaring into the cloud against the North Shore is a truly majestic sight. Awe-inspiring, even. I always feel blessed to know such a beautiful city so well, though my visits have dwindled from one or two per year to one or two per decade.

Ter and I were over for a hockey game a few weeks ago. Neither of us realized it has been almost five years since we last ventured across the strait. Normally, we stay in the west end, the oldest part of the city where the beach runs alongside the street and trendy cafes are perched on every corner. This time, however, because of my compromised compostable container, we chose a hotel within hobbling distance of the arena, which landed us pretty well in the depths of the urban jungle. We arrived late in the afternoon, close to sundown on game day.

There are pockets of the city where no matter what time of year it is, the sun will never pierce the shadow. In February, you’re guaranteed that the only sun you’ll see is on the postcards for sale at the 7-Eleven. For us, a west coast winter was in full swing. The copious and unseasonable snow had melted away, but the persistent drizzle was chilly, the wind was raw ... and everywhere I looked, I was dwarfed by skyscrapers I didn’t remember seeing before. The last time we stayed in the downtown core, Library Square was the most imposing structure in the neighbourhood. This time, it was part of the view from our hotel window, but it dominated nothing. It had been surrounded and absorbed, just like our hotel, by condo and office towers. Our room was on the fifth floor, practically spitting distance from the street, and our view was almost exclusively into the softly lit windows of the building that housed the aforementioned 7-Eleven. The suite wasn’t dark at night, given the glow of all those residential lights, but it was sure dark in the daytime.

Our visits to Vancouver used to feel homey and familiar. That sense of being welcome was sadly missing from our trip last month. The city’s sense of individuality, of unique and original personality, seemed to have been swallowed by the same indifferent towers that loom above the library. The jewel of Canada’s west coast could have been any big city that night: an anonymous and impassive host to the frenzied little parasites (us) that feed off its bounty.

Until the next morning. I stood at the window once more, gazing at the darkened glass panes across the way and over at the intersection where the morning commute was in progress. The street was in shadow, of course ... but along to the north, between the man-made monoliths posted like sentries along a parade route, was a glimpse of the mountains. A single, snow-dusted, sun-kissed peak, a National Geographic image cradled between stone and steel, identified my location far better than a Google satellite. I knew then that I was indeed in beautiful Vancouver, the jewel of Canada’s west coast.

I should have taken a picture, but I’m still not quite used to having a camera in my phone.

Oh—and the hockey game? PHI 3 – VAN 2. Power pose!!

Loui, Loui

well, shoot - he played for Boston once

I don’t mind the Vancouver Canucks. I’m not a raving fan, but I’m not violently opposed to the team, either. “St Trevor of Linden” and all that. I’m not crazy about their general manager, but that’s because he was a) with the Bruins organization before coming to Vancouver and b) he brought over Brandon Sutter from Pittsburgh, who might actually be an okay guy, but, let’s face it, he’s a Sutter.

My hockey pool policy is no secret: I won’t pick players from a team I dislike. I tend to pick former Flyers as well as member of the current roster, for all the good it’s done. This year, I decided to take a chance with Loui Eriksson, who joined Vancouver in the off season. Earmarked to play on the top line with the Twedes, Daniel and Henrik, Loui seems likely to score a whack of points off the twins’ combined genius, thus garnering a whack of points for Ruthie’s Rebels.

Besides, he’s kind of cute.

The Canucks’ home opener was against Calgary. In my list of “go, teams”, Canucks trump Flames, and I wanted to see how Loui would do in a match that really counted. (He got points in a preseason game, but they don’t count in the pool.) First period, a delayed penalty is called against Calgary. The Vancouver goalie streaks for the bench to get the extra man on to stretch the advantage. Loui has the puck. He also has three Flames buzzing him, so he sends a blind pass behind him, hoping his defenceman catches it.

Only the defenceman misses. He flings himself forward in a heroic attempt to knock the rubber disc off course, misses again, and the puck sails merrily into the empty net.

“Dear God,” I blurt, sickened. “Oh, dear God.”

Calgary 1 – Vancouver 0.

They gave credit to the last Flame who touched the puck. I might have been upset that it didn’t count in my pool total, but I was ill for Loui. The new guy, acquired to score goals, and in his first real game, he puts it into his own net. I’ve seen it before, many times. I’ve seen bad bounces beat a goalie from 200 feet and I’ve seen “deflections off their own man” galore, but none of them are easy to take—not even when my team benefits.

Which mine didn’t, this time.

Oh, Loui.

Food Porn X

“Comfort Food”

It’s a crappy rainy day. I have a cold. It’s not at the “I want my mum” stage, but it’s enough to warrant postponing a sister lunch that will likely not happen now until mid-October.

When the majority of us are still working (but not bitter), it can take that long for a lunch date to travel from inception to implementation.

Anyway, this morning Ter suggested mince and tatties for dinner tonight. “Comfort food,” she said, though I needed no convincing. Mince and tatties is my childhood favourite of all time, especially when paired with ...

“Rhubarb crumble for dessert!” I croaked.

“I can get you a can of custard at the shops,” Ter added.

I threw back my head. “Oh, God, yes!”

It so happens that I made a strawberry-rhubarb crumble yesterday, but was too sick to eat any of it. A fortuitous circumstance, if you ask me. Pour a little Ambrosia brand cukkie over warm crumble and be transported to a bliss unlike any other in existence.

Once I came down from my foodie orgasm, I said, “Check the guide! Is there a hockey game on?” Because mince and tatties are our traditional “hockey night dinner” and food is almost always associated with some emotional gratification. Plus, the World Hockey Championship starts this weekend and we’re in hockey withdrawal. Ter grabbed the remote and yep, Canada faces off against the Czech Republic at 5:00 p.m. We are set!

What is it about gloomy weather that inspires a desire for, let’s face it, stodgy food? We call it “comfort food”, but it’s really all about the stodge. Hot soup, beef stew, meat-pie-and-potatoes—okay, anything with potatoes—followed by sweet creamy puddings are probably the worst combo for our compostable containers, yet a grilled salmon Caesar salad just won’t cut it when I feel like s***. On a rainy day, I am compelled to bake, to scent the house with the perfume of burnt sugar and chocolate, toasted pecans and cinnamon, warm fall fruits and ginger. Ter, having less of a sweet tooth, craves the aromas of roasting meat, bubbling gooey cheese, and hearty herby broth. Tonight’s menu won’t do anything to help my congestion, but do I care?

I probably should, but I don’t.

*cough cough*

The End

Between “Diva” excerpts, I finally finished a story. The draft of a story, actually, and not my first crack at the concept. The little piece born of Midnight Waltz a few years back and rekindled last year by Dark Waltz found life in a third version, this one taken from the waiter’s point of view. It’s the longest of the three, being more detailed in structure and character development (strangely—for me—the second version is the shortest; only a single page long), and is likely my favourite for those reasons. I like detail and I like to develop characters. Both take time and, without whining, time has lately been in short supply.

The big deal here is that I finished something! Hats and horns! Let the bells ring out and the banners fly! A little polish, the addition of one tiny “scene between”, and I’ll type THE END for the first time since completing “The Devil She Knows” in November 2014.

This is also the first time I’ve taken the same story from different points of view. It started with the heroine—or female protagonist, because I’m unsure that anything about my absinthe-soaked siren is truly heroic—and her perception of the boy who rescues her. Eventually, it came clear that he wanted his say. Two and a bit years later, he has it. I’ll post it when it’s buffed, so please stay tuned.

Time for a hockey joke:

A Scandinavian player gets a breakaway. Clearing the defence, he prepares to shoot and loses the puck. Over on the bench, one player says to another, “All Swedish and no Finnish.”

Okay, so it’s funnier when it’s said aloud. It’s still relevant because, yup, that’s me. I’m great at starting stories, not so hot at finishing them. This isn’t a big deal, not being life or death, but it is frustrating. So finishing my little story about François and Odette feels like a huge obstacle has been cleared and I am free to tackle another stalled story until, one by one, every half-finished file in my “in progress” folder is transferred to “completed”.

Season Finale

’Tis nobler to lose by a single goal than be blown out of the arena halfway through the game. To wit, the end of the Flyers’ post-season was less painful to endure because they stood their ground and held the Capitals to one goal. But for a nifty hiccup that fooled first the defenceman and then the goalie … well, “what if” doesn’t matter. “What was” is what counts, and “what was” is a final score of 1 – 0 for the wrong team. The Flyers are on the golf course tomorrow morning.

At least the pressure is gone for the rest of the playoffs. Now Washington squares off against Philadelphia’s arch-nemesis, the evil Pittsburgh Penguins (my second-string team; what is it with me and Pennsylvania?) in round two, and you better believe I’m rooting for the Pens. They have a better chance than the Flyers ever had, but we’ll see. The stars rarely come out in the post-season. The playoffs are more often the domain of the unsung hero, the third or fourth line guy in nobody’s office pool who bursts into the spotlight and wins the day against insurmountable odds while the Ovechkins and Girouxes and Kanes disappear from the stats.

I just lost three players in my pool. In the regular season (and for other poolies who nabbed them in the draft), they racked up double digit points. In the first round, they gave me nuttin’.

I still love them, though. Always have, always will.

Now I can reclaim my higher self. The disparity between gladiatorial game mentality and a Zen state of mind does not elude me; I am well aware of my mental paradox at this time of year. Bless Ter for giving it a name. When I remarked on the mystery of how I can get so mean and nasty during a hockey game yet strive to be more kind and peaceful in my real life, she responded simply, “It’s just contrast.”

True enough. In keeping with the reclamation of honour, dignity and sportsmanlike conduct, I refrained from allowing Basher his frowny face in the blog photo. As fans, we recognize the effort our guys put into clawing out a spot in the first round and pushing the series to six games. They could have lost in four straight. They could have missed the playoffs completely. They did neither. And while it would have been skookum to knock the Capitals through the boards and onto the links, Washington deserved to win. So, handshakes all ’round.

We now return to our regularly scheduled blogging.

With love,

Not Without a Fight

Oh, they’ve had their share of fisticuffs, but the Flyers are not going away. Last night, they shut out the Capitals in Washington. I repeat, shut out. In Washington. Michal Neuvirth is a goalie on a mission from God. The shots at game’s end were 44 to 11 for the Caps, yet Neuvirth refused to let one by him.

So it’s back to Philly for game six tomorrow. I did not see it coming. Oh ye of little faith.

I missed the first half, last night. I had an acupuncture appointment and you just can’t rush a treatment. The third period is what counts anyway, but imagine my astonishment when I got home, flipped on the TV, and saw the Flyers with a one goal lead and eight minutes remaining in the second. Best of all—and no real surprise considering they logged the most ice time—the fourth line guys were the ones who scored because most of the game was played in the Flyer zone. Shot after shot was aimed right at Neuvirth and each time he said, “No.” I had the sense that he’d told his teammates before the game, “I’ve got this one, guys.”

An axe to grind isn’t always a bad thing. The way I heard it, when he was with Washington, he lost the top goalie spot to Semyon Varlamov and then to Braydon Holtby, so when he left the team, he might have been a little bitter.

Bitter is good. Bitter makes you strong. Bitter makes you a tower of strength when facing the team who bailed on you. (See what I mean about that carbon-based competitive streak messing with my higher self?)

Alex Ovechkin is so frustrated that he glared murder as he left the ice. Frustrated is good. Frustrated leads to mistakes. Stupid penalties. Giveaways and muffed shots and loss of focus. I’ve seen it in the Flyers, and now I see it in the Caps. Philly must generate some offense if they hope to win this series, or indeed tomorrow’s game, but in the meantime, I’m happily contemplating a name change in Washington from the Capitals to the Lower Cases.

Go, Flyers!

Die Another Day

Wednesday's Final Score

The governor called on Wednesday and gave the Flyers a stay of execution. They won game 4 at home against Washington (they pretty much had to, or the fans would have lynched them in the parking lot afterward). The series moves to Washington for Game 5 – gulp – tonight.

I called it. Shayne Gostisbehere darned near did score the winning goal on his birthday. He got the first one, which would have stood as the winner except that the Caps refused to give their former netminder a shutout on their watch. Steve Mason sat the game out as Michal Neuvirth took over – I did not know this, but he’d apparently been stellar throughout the regular season while Mason recovered from injury, and while I understand loyalty to your go-to guy, I also agree with Don Cherry when he says, “Don’t mess with a winning formula!” So often a second string group will fight and win while a star is sidelined, but when the star is okayed to return, the coach will bugger up the chemistry by playing said star.

It likely has something to do with the stupid salary cap. Geez, keep the high priced help on the injured reserve list and let the grinders roll.

Yesterday, I was asked if I was enjoying the Flyers in the playoffs. “No,” I replied before I corrected myself. “I mean, I’m enjoying the space between the notes, but the games themselves are agony.”

I should probably adjust my attitude, but there is something in my carbon-based unit that has great difficulty rising above the mob mentality at sporting events. Heck, at any competitive event. A few years ago, I was on the office trivia team for the Branch Brainiac Championship and we would have won if they hadn’t changed the rules during the final. I’m still choked about it, too. It’s against my higher-self principles, but even as I go fetal in my chair, I will scream for blood where I am emotionally invested … and I am all in with Philadelphia.

Go, Flyers!

One To Go

Washington had five power play goals last night. Five. Look at the score and I’ll tell you where the problem lies. Okay, one of the problems. One of the many problems. Can you say, “Penalty kill”? Better yet, can you see penalty kill?? On the rare occasions when they are short-handed (the refs are blind), Washington’s PK is fully present. Philadelphia’s is non-existent.

My nephew remarked on the weekend that he’s only watched about ten minutes of playoff hockey this year. I almost replied, “So have I, and I’ve watched two games in their entirety!”

Make that three. As of last night, the Flyers are poised for the golf course. All that stands between them and a first round departure is Wednesday’s game.

My older sister and I had a conversation at coffee a couple of week ago. At that point, the Flyers were fighting to nab a wild card spot and the Canucks were long gone. Big Sis said something about not watching the playoffs due to lack of interest. I responded with something like, “I’ll stick with it for as long as the Flyers do.” She said, “Four straight and you’re done, eh?”

She’s a riot.

But seriously, folks, last night’s loss was painful. The lads gave up in the third. After the Caps’ fourth goal, they got hit with a five minute major and left their hearts on the bench for the rest of the game. The fans were booing and earned the team another minor penalty for tossing stuff on the ice – regrettably, the bracelets that were handed out in memory of Mr. Snider, to whom they had paid respects in a pregame ceremony. Philly fans have a worse reputation for bad behaviour than the team they support. Mind you, they were given nothing to cheer about last night. Sure, the Flyers scored in the first minute … and then the Capitals took over. Penalties got us in the end, but I also believe that the officials have not helped. Philly can’t buy a break in that regard – which is why developing a watertight penalty kill should be a top priority. Clearly, it isn’t. I watched four guys standing in a cluster, screening their own goalie, while the Washington power play went all Harlem Globetrotters with the puck for more than five frigging minutes. No challenge, no pursuit of the puck, no nothing. I was practically screaming, “Are you a hockey team or an oil painting?!”

Augh!

So now I’m stuck between cockeyed optimism (of course they can come back; nothing is impossible!) and the cold reality that this Washington team is too big, too talented, and has too good a goalie. Despite anything being possible, my guys may not be able to beat them.

I guess we’ll find out for sure tomorrow.

Back to Philadelphia

Well, that one reeeeeeeally sucked. For much of the first period, it looked like a carbon copy of game one. The Flyers held their own – they got nineteen shots on goal – but when the horn blew after twenty, they hadn’t beaten the Caps’ goalie and Washington was already on the board. We blew a five-on-three power play. We lost no further players, though the talking heads suspect that Claude Giroux is playing hurt as a result of a hit he took from, you guessed it, Alex Ovechkin on Thursday. At the end of the game, Philly had lobbed 41 shots at Brayden Holtby and only beaten him once. Thank you, Jakub Voracek (who is not on my pool team).

I had told Basher they’d win this one. He kept looking at me. “Mum, you said …”

“I know,” I replied. At the end of the game, I explained that I’m a seer and was referring to game three. I’m unsure that he believes me.

So, back to Philadelphia we go. We were going there anyway; it’s a best of seven series and the Capitals have to win twice more to move on. This means we have to win four of the next five. Three at home and one – just one; one measly minuscule sixty minute game – in Washington. Of course we can do it. Anything is possible. I have seen teams claw their way back from the imminent grave – the Rockets are doing it in their WHL series against Victoria right now (game six today in Kelowna, gods help the Royals), and Philadelphia has done it before. They did it against Boston in 2010 … but they did it with Mike Richards as their captain, and guess where he ended up? Squaring off in a Caps jersey against his old team in this year’s playoffs. Regrettably, his style has not changed. It’s not nearly as much fun when he’s on the other side.

However, I am fairly confident that the Flyers will win tomorrow. Home ice, fans on their side, Lauren Hart singing God Bless America with Kate Smith and the ghost of Ed Snider present in the room. Hard to lose with that kind of energy unless it overstimulates you … which I admit it could, but doubt it will. The first period will be crucial. All they have to do is keep Washington off the board for the first ten minutes; take the game to them and make them play it our way, then we can build our momentum and win one for Mr. Snider.

Piece o’ cake.

Game One

Well, that one suuuuuuuucked. The first twenty minutes was promising, a good road period despite the visiting Flyers being unable to score on three power plays. Then Washington took over and we never recovered.

I haven’t watched the Caps much. I don’t like their “loud and proud stars and stripes” jerseys and I’ve decided that I really don’t like Alex Ovechkin. He tends to enjoy slamming guys in the numbers as much as he enjoys potting goals, and while I can admire the latter, admiring the first is not in my nature. I don’t like my guys slamming other guys through the boards, either – it’s a game and no one needs to end up on a stretcher to get the win.

That said, we lost our minds a bit after continual bruising through two periods. The Caps are bigger and uglier and way meaner than Philly, and there is bad blood between the teams. Tom Wilson checked Brayden Schenn off planet a couple of years ago, and guess who was in the thick of a scrum last night? Wayne Simmonds totally lost it at the end of the game and went right for Wilson’s throat after Wilson gave Schenn a friendly nudge into the boards. Not terribly smart, as Simmonds is the best Flyer on special teams (power play and penalty kill), and we were left without him during the most critical time of the game. Players on both sides were behaving like heat seeking missiles toward the end, so while we took the worst of it and won’t have a chance if we continue to take a physical hammering, I’d say that the stage has been set for a dandy series rife with drama, dislike and more elbows in the corner.

It’s only game one, after all. Lots of time to recover. Philly gets stronger as they go and the Caps are historically unable to win a seventh game in any series. Assuming that they don’t kill off our best players as we go (we lost Sean Couturier to an upper body injury – thanks, Ovie), we could conceivably beat them in seven.

In other playoff news – this time in the Western Hockey League – the Kelowna Rockets have evened their series against the Royals after Victoria got a two-game lead in their series. This serves as a reminder to Basher and me that falling behind is not the end of the world. Ground can be gained with patience, perseverance … and knowing thine enemy’s weakness. I just hope the Flyers can stay alive long enough to figure out what Washington’s weakness is!