Your Name Becomes You

aw, jeez

Family legend has it that my parents took days to decide what to call me. Finally, they settled on “Ruth”, but what made up their minds? Did I tell them myself? Did something in my eyes speak of my nature and they took the cue? I do know that my mother’s cousin had a daughter some weeks after I was born and also called her Ruth. Mum was peeved at that. I guess she’d hoped that my name would make me unique among my peers, and as it happened, she wasn’t far off the mark.

My fifth grade teacher once took me into the hall and had me wait there while he returned to the classroom. “This room,” I heard him say, “is now Ruth-less.”

I remember rolling my eyes while my classmates groaned. Even ten-year-old kids know a lame joke when they hear it..

After I started writing in earnest, I got a baby name book to help me with a story set in France. I found a ton of names with French comparatives, not to mention German, Norse, Italian, Spanish, Old English, Celtic, Hebrew, etc. Naturally, I looked up my own name to see what it meant.

(Insert laugh here.)

Ironically, the few Ruths whom I encountered growing up were not particularly pleasant individuals. The one in ninth grade was a nasty acquaintance, the complete antithesis of what the name actually means (she might have been a better friend but I can’t say because she definitely wasn’t a friend of mine). Through work recently, I had a conversation with another Ruth who asked me if I liked my name. “I must do,” I replied. “since I haven’t changed it.”

We agreed that now it’s cool to have a name that missed the top ten of our generation, though at the time it was awkward to stick out so formally among all the Debbies and Lindas and Karens and Pattys in school. (No one called me Ruthie until I reached my thirties, when it burst on scene alongside other nicknames such as “Ruthless”, “Rufus”, “Rufie”, and my personal favourite, “Ru”.)

Then there’s the Biblical connection—despite having her own book in the Old Testament, Ruth was hardly a superhero. “Whither thou goest, I will go,” she said to her mother-in-law after she was widowed—and off the two went like Thelma and Louise without the guns or a bare-chested Brad Pitt. I was, however, a third of the holy trinity at one office, working for years alongside an Esther and an Eve. Now I’m paired with a Naomi who is not my mother-in-law but is most certainly my mentor at work. and as for my role at home … whither Ter goes, I also goest—and I’m totally good with it.

A few years into our friendship, Nicole sent me the card pictured at the top of this post with the explanation that “Ruth” was the name of the heroine in a novel she was writing and the definition had helped her to find the character’s voice. She sent the card to me in propinquity, with the reminder that I was often in her thoughts (who’s the beautiful friend here, eh?), and it sat on my desk for months before I thought to tuck it into one of my journals.

I might have laughed when I first learned that “Ruth” means “friend”, but it may actually mean more than that. Check this out:

So now, my name is subjective depending on my relationship with the individual. Choose your definition, but don’t tell me what you’ve picked!

With love,

“Diva IV”

Alfred always surprised her. She seldom thought of him anymore, yet just as she realized it, he invariably came to mind, usually to tell her that it was over. That she deserved better. That the man she was with was not the man for her.

He was always right.

Sometimes she wondered if Alfred himself would have remained the man for her, then she banished the thought and scolded herself for doubting the dead. She had known at first sight that he was meant to be hers. She knew it still, though perhaps she had not been intended for him. The Japs might have bombed Pearl Harbor anyway, but Alfred would have survived. Instead, he had perished and her relief at a domestic posting had run the gamut from shock to denial to rage to grief to something that defied naming but felt uncomfortably like resentment.

“Ellie?”

She sipped her scotch and lit another cigarette.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Her lover spied the script lying open in front of her and made a disgruntled sound. “Oh.”

“The table read is tomorrow,” she told him.

“Haven’t you read it yourself yet?”

She blew a smoke ring before she answered in a dispassionate voice. “Funny.”

He circled to face her, tousled and handsome in his old man pajama bottoms. “Do you want me to read it through with you?”

“No,” she said, “I want you to get dressed and go home.”

He stared as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Ellie sat and smoked until he finally broke the silence with an astonished, “What?”

“I’ll have your things packed up and sent along later.”

“What? Ellie—ˮ

She met his baffled eyes with nothing in her own. “It’s over.”

He argued—they all did—but she stood firm until acceptance, however temporary, won out and he stormed from the room like a petulant child, swearing vengeful profanities as he went.

Ellie took a long, slow drag on her cigarette and waited for the door to slam. A few seconds later, the sportscar revved and roared into affronted obscurity. Ellie finished her scotch, stubbed out her smoke, and settled in with her script.

Right again, Alfred.

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.