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,

Fragile?

The Olympics are done for another four years. I prefer the winter over the summer, probably because I spent the entire 2002 winter games on the couch with a back injury. This afforded me the opportunity to acquaint myself with the intricacies of speed skating and snowboarding, as well as the stuff I grew up watching on Wide World of Sports—alpine skiing, figure skating and the like.

The games in Pyeong Chang were riddled with the usual assortment of political scandal, heartbreak, and upsets (some happy, some not). They also featured swan songs for a number of athletes who have been staples in competition for years, and showcased the next generation of champions who will follow them. Ter and I watched the hockey (no gold medal game should be settled by a shootout) and the figure skating, the latter being a favourite because of the artistry as well as the technical skill. Truly, I can’t tell a salchow from an axel or a lutz, never mind counting the number of rotations in midair, but the beauty of the human form in flight rivals that of a horse at full gallop.

Our compostable containers are miraculous works of engineering. The things they can do on an Olympic scale are astonishing. Strength, agility, flexibility, speed, endurance ... in every competition, I saw something amazing. The slow motion replays only accentuated the marvel that is the human body.

At the same time, it doesn’t take much to knock us out of whack. A twist in the wrong direction will tear a tendon. A sneeze will cause a muscle spasm to seize us in our tracks. A hard fall will break a bone. A hard hit will scramble a brain. A crash in training will sideline an athlete for years and maybe kill their dream of Olympic gold. That’s how fragile our flesh and blood forms are.

Then there’s Mark McMorris, who recovered from a broken pelvis to compete in the snowboard event this year. The British pairs skater who shattered a kneecap and came back to skate in Pyeong Chang. The hockey player who broke his neck a year ago and won bronze for Canada. I can’t even name the others, and there were more than a few. They came from all nations with the same story: debilitating injury and a refusal to concede. So while the human body may be fragile, it seems the human spirit is far from it.

And that’s not only true for Olympians. It’s true of every soul inhabiting the planet. The indomitable power in each of us can rise to the most daunting challenge. The nature of this mortal coil means we can’t overcome everything, which presents a challenge of a different sort: the challenge of acceptance, which can be as difficult as fighting back from injury. Knowing when to stop may be the toughest hurdle of all.

Us? Fragile? Nah.

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!

The Fandom Menace

Let’s recap:

VAN 4 – PHI 1

EDM 4 – PHI 1

CGY 2 – PHI 1 (OT)

PHI 3 – WPG 0

Of a possible eight points, the Flyers earned three during their recent Canadian road trip.

&*^$%

The good news (?) is that three of the four games were on TV, so I was able to get familiar with the new faces … and continue to lament the Hartnell trade from two years ago. My guy Giroux is sorta kinda averaging a point per game, but as of this writing, Jake Voracek has yet to score a goal despite fifty-plus shots on net, thus proving that the release of his bobble-head hero action figure earlier this year may have been premature.

Oh, I’m too hard on the kid. Top the league in points just once and there’s only one way to go. Regrettably, fan expectations remain high, and likely he’s feeling the pressure from management, too, though in my opinion, foisting a new coach on the team was patently unfair. Sure, they missed the playoffs in 14/15, but that’s ’cause they dug themselves a hella hole in October and spent the rest of the year playing catchup. They were—here we go again—getting used to a new coach and had—here we go again—goaltender issues.

The definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over while expecting to gain a different result. After years of watching pro hockey, season after season after season, I have deduced that I, along with every other fan of a sports team, must be crazy.

You Scream for Extreme

Then there is slacklining—the latest death defying “sport” to make the list of “Ways to Prove Darwin Right”. It’s walking a tightrope with some give in the tension … at an altitude of twenty metres … without a net.

I caught a clip on the news the other night: a beautiful young girl from California who’s come to compete with her peers in BC this weekend. She talked about how the practice is about finding your calm centre, overcoming fear and controlling the adrenaline “because too much adrenaline makes you shaky.”

Gee, you think???

Adrenaline is a natural response to potentially mortal peril; I’d say that tiptoeing along a clothesline strung across a chasm would justify a tremor or twelve, but not necessarily the cost of a body recovery.

I’ll seek my calm centre with green tea and yoga, thank you.

Still Out of It …

 … but at least we’re no further behind. With nineteen more games in the regular season, a miracle will have to occur for the Flyers to make the playoffs. I, however, believe in miracles so am doggedly refusing to write off the team at this late date.

Last night’s win against the Rangers was sweet only because New York took the first three games this season, twice shutting Philly out without King Henrik between the pipes. (^&%$#*) Winning this one at home took some doing, but the boys managed to eke out a victory. Checking the stats this morning, I see that “We’re #20!” and are on a current streak of … one win!

It was also hopeful to see Sean Couturier stepping up, as I lost Tyler Seguin to a knee injury a while ago and have called upon Couts to replace him on my pool team. Statistically, it’s a bit like replacing Hercules with Pee Wee Herman, but the kid earned me two points last night and I’m taking them. For a few days I was actually in danger of eclipsing my executive director in the office standings, so perhaps it was fortuitous that my heavy horse went down – now the big boss has a stranglehold on fourth place and my job is secure for the nonce.

Seriously, I doubt that Philadelphia will make the playoffs. If they surprise me, the hope is that they’ll be in “kill or be killed” mode when they get there and will slice through the competition like a hot knife through butter. The alternative is to become a temporary Canucks fan, as the kids called up to fill in for Vancouver’s injured vets are playing their hearts out and dragging the oldies toward the post-season by youthful enthusiasm alone.

Clearly, I’m expecting that miracle.

Pool Party

The winning roster for 2014/15!

Draft day at the office – at 12:15, doors closed all over the 8^th floor and things got very quiet as this year’s hockey pool draft got underway.

My strategy this time out relies more on projected stats than beauty – “Ruthie’s Rogues” were a good-looking gang in 13/14, but pulchritude only got me to 7^th spot by the end of the regular season.

“Ruthie’s Rebels” is this year’s group and, may I say, they appear to have a good mix of looks, youth, experience and potential. I did nab hometown boy Jamie Benn from Dallas. Used to be I wouldn’t pick a Star, but those days are apparently done. I doubt I’ll ever say that about the Bruins, Islanders, Devils or Rangers. I’ll quit pooling before I pick anyone, superstar or no, from any of those hellspawn teams.

Now, if we can get the Flyers to win a game sometime before Christmas, and if Voracek can rack up a few pool points for me in the process, I’ll be happy. I mean, really. Four games into the season and they’re 0-2-2, garnering a don’t-spend-them-all-in-one-place 2 points and sitting in 27^th spot. Out of 30.

%^$#*&

Playoffs 2014

This year's Swear Jar - I'll be broke before June

Heh. The Flyers are in the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The Canucks and Leafs are not. When one of the office poolies canvassed the rest of us about a playoff pool, one of the others grumbled, “No Canadian teams made it. Who cares?”

Apparently he’s not a Montreal Canadiens fan, ’cause they’re in, but national pride doesn’t extend to the big league. If you don’t cheer for les Habs during the regular season, you’re unlikely to cheer for them as sole Canadian content in the playoffs.

My father never expects the Leafs to have a post-season, so the outcome this year won’t have destroyed him. My younger older brother and co., however, have not been heard from since the Canucks were officially eliminated from contention last week. To them I say … “Pity me, guys. My team made it!”

If I ever develop a substance abuse habit, it will be during the playoffs. If I need sedation, anti-depressants, psychotherapy, or a blend of all three, it’s during the playoffs. I spend more time in the fetal position during the playoffs. Every win is a stay of execution. Every loss is cause for Ter to hide the razors. The further the Flyers get into the post-season, the tighter my springs are wound. Why do I do this? Why do I care? It’s a freaking game, for crying out sideways.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s life or death until the best team wins, and if that team isn’t the Philadelphia Flyers, then my grudge against the winner gets smaller and colder and harder and blacker until it sits like a ball of jagged ice in the very root of my being.

$#&^* Let’s get this ordeal over with …

Medallion Men

Canada 3, Sweden 0

0400 PST. Ter and I are up and in position with tea and teddy bears. I’m waiting for the anthems, but the game starts without them. Oh, duh, thinks I, this is the Olympics. They play the anthem after the game. Which one will it be? Canada’s or Sweden’s?

By now the whole world—whether or not they care—knows it was Canada’s. Jonathan Toews scored in the first period. Sid Crosby plucked the puck and scored unassisted in the second. Chris Kunitz sealed it, also unassisted, in the third. Final score 3-0. BC’s Carey Price got the shutout. I’m glad I got up to watch it live, especially since Ter is hilarious when she’s dopey and during one of Price’s few roaming moments, she loosed a stream of gibberish that sounded like Chinese though she said was more likely native to the fourth dimension. We were happy. The boys played like, well, pros. They stuck to their plan, didn’t give an inch, and pounced on the other team’s gaffes. They played like that through the whole tournament, and while this was the only one of two games I watched from start to finish, I got a look at their style against Latvia and the US, and they stayed solid against stubborn opposition. It was a better team than we had in 2010. Who knew?

I guess they did, and they’re the ones who truly mattered.

So, the party’s over. I felt a similar sadness when the 2010 Games were done. As with Christmas, you spend so much time and energy prepping for the event, get tired enough to wish it was over halfway through, then feel slightly let down when it ends. It made sense to feel that way in 2010—not only were we the host country, but I live across the strait from the host city. The party atmosphere leaked over the water to brighten the dreariest month in Victoria’s calendar. While they were on, like it or not, everyone was in to the 2010 Olympics. When they were over and the world went home, the locals stood around looking alternately lost, relieved, and satisfied. We’re probably still paying the bills (Montreal finally finished paying for 1976 last year), but at least Vancouver escaped the dubious honour of being the most expensive Olympics to date. Sochi put on a grand show, but 50 billion dollars’ worth? That’s a lot of rubles. And they didn’t win the gold they wanted. I’d be sorrier about that one except that it went to our guys instead. The spirit of the Games is one thing. Hockey is a definite other.

I will remember more of Sochi than Canada winning all the gold in hockey, though. My 2014 champion is the Latvian goalie who nearly killed himself to hold our boys at bay—57 shots and the second goal only went in because his coach didn’t call a time out to let him breathe. Being mesmerized by Yuna Kim and dazzled by Carolina Kostner in the ladies’ free skate. Laughing with Ter over the baggy pants on the halfpipers. Wondering what the heck happened to les freres Hamelin in speed skating. Sharing pins and needles with my co-workers while the Canadian women fought back in the hockey final against the States. My heart beating with the clock on the bobsleigh run. Tearing up for Teemu Selanne after the Finns won hockey bronze. Watching Virtue and Moir perform to Rihanna’s “Stay” in the exhibition skate. Feeling immense pride in every athlete who sported the maple leaf in every event, win, place or show. I don’t know why they do it; I’m just grateful that they do.

And I’m glad I was able to see so much of it. Thank you, world.

Go, Canada.

Medal Mettle

It kills me to hear an athlete say that they’ve disappointed their country when they don’t win gold at the Olympic games. Ter and I watched Patrick Chan this week, biting our nails when Japan’s Yuzuru Hanyu blew a few jumps in the free skate and thus left the door ajar for our man on blades. Four points had separated them after the short program and after Hanyu proved to be fallible, in theory, the gold was Chan’s to lose.

Only he had a rough skate, too. In the end, those four points made all the difference. Patrick Chan won silver in Sochi—twice. He also helped his mates to silver in the first-ever team skating event, and if not for those Russians …

Finnish hockey god Teemu Selanne said in Torino that bronze is better because you have to win that medal. Silver simply means that you lost the gold (Sweden beat the Finns in 2008—thanks to a broken hockey stick, of all things). Since he put it that way, I understand the disappointment and long faces often seen on the second place finishers. My attitude has usually been, Hey, you got to the final! But in sport, there’s one winner and there’s everyone else.

Patrick Chan said with tears in his eyes that, among other things, he felt like he’d disappointed his country. I’ve heard others say it, too, and every time my heart breaks not for the country, but for the athletes themselves. They’re the ones who put it on the line, who work and train and devote their lives to pursuing their passion. Wow. Olympic gold. Sure, it’s a pretty colour. It symbolizes supremacy. It’s a funny thing, but I watch the Olympics and see greater things than gold medals being awarded. I see the athletes supporting each other regardless of nationality. I see relationships being forged and differences being dissolved. Champions don’t always win a medal. Sometimes they just finish the race. And while I get that flying your nation’s flag lends some responsibility (kind of like how you behave in someone else’s home reflects on your parents), there isn’t one member of the Canadian team who doesn’t deserve to be at the Games. They’re all heroes to me.