Just about any country in the world identifies with a single notion that defines such country to the rest of the world. Some of these identifiers live through centuries in immutable mould of tradition, some change depending on vagaries of political coups and military fortunes. Some are so small that nobody bothers to find out. Some are larger than life and cast either praise or aspersions where they do not really belong. When it comes to Canada of the last fifty years, the only plausible identifier to friend and foe alike is “HOCKEY”.
Sure, we have made some significant strides in many aspects of human endeavour. We boast not to be Americans, we taunt Medicare, we promote world peace and accept immigrants with open arms. All these things count for a great deal and the country would suffer should any of them be taken away. “Hockey” on the other hand - take it away and the country will cease to exist as we know it – period. Take soccer from Brazil and it still might survive on coffee beans and carnivals. Take golf from Scotland, and it would still exist on haggis leftovers. Take wine from Italians and they would contraband something else instead. Take hockey from Canada and a true calamity of unpredictable proportions would take place. Quebec would lose its tenuous ties with the rest of the country since there would be none from Fleur-de-Lise between the goal posts to marvel at. CBC would close its doors, Don Cherry would finally fulfil his dream in moving to the USA and Ottawa would once again turn into a small, unnoticeable and unilingual dot on the map.
Canada is the only place in the world, where an under 20 sporting event causes people to cash in on sick days in such massive numbers that mercilessly drops national productivity and reduces wealth of the elites. Sure Americans like their college sports, but these notoriously relentless pursuers of wealth typically do it on the weekend and in primetime. Here, who cares about economics when our very destiny is on the line!?
The World Juniors in BC just confirmed my thesis. The overwhelming majority on tickets were sold out one year before the actual event. Many spent thousands just trying to make sure that any game Canada played was covered. The whole city was electrified and hardly any other topics were on the agenda for whole two weeks and all this despite competing with a famous Canadian pastime – federal politics.
Due to my deeply seeded roots that echo back to the monumental clashes of Russian and Canadian armies on many a famous ice rink around the world, my allegiances remain unmoved. This however does not disqualify my claim of a true patriot of my adopted country. Canada never shied away from fierce competition and I am on the standby to stir it up. So whenever Canada competes my colours remain staunchly red and Soviet.
Start of Proceedings
Form the first go I decided to play cagy and not to plunge into the ticket chase madness that was swirling around like a true Rockies avalanche. My boys were playing preliminaries in Kelowna and I needed to sit tight on this side of the Coquihalla, waiting for chips to fall where they may. In addition, I could hardly afford to get emotional in already volatile business of hockey, saving my emotions for crucial games was of essence.
The only thing closest to watching my Russian team was to partake in less glorious fortunes of the Russian speaking boys from Latvia. They were scheduled to play a couple of exhibition games in the Lower Mainland. One of them in the old New West arena at $15 per person failed to disappoint, as a good natured crowd of two thousand cheered them on to take on higher rated Slovaks. Teenagers hailing from the banks of Daugava did very well and outplayed their opponents by 4 to 1 – may be they had a chance to avoid the infamy of relegation after all. We shall see…Sophie saw her first conscious game with some degree of interest by issuing many “GO, GO” calls supplemented by wild hand waving and sporadic clapping. While her hockey education has many milestones ahead, I was banking my unspent dollars to be ready for Russia to hit town.
USA Factor
A couple of days following the New Years, preliminary placing was fixed and my options were stark clear. The game I dreaded would have to be played in the semi final. You see, while Canada and Russia have delivered many a blow to each other over the past thirty something years, Russians and Canadians have always found ways to come to grips with certain misfortunes. If you think that Canada won the 1972 Series, think again. In the Russian lore it was a win for the hammer and sickle, as the famed NHL superstars were expected to take every game when facing poor Soviet “amateurs”. When remembering the wins at Canada cup in 1984, Canadians conveniently forget the score line of 1 to 8 in 1981. Russians always remember Red Army beating indomitable Oilers by 6 to 1 in 1986 while just forgetting the 3 to 4 score line of 1984. Canada loves to celebrate the famous 1987, skipping on the infamous Madison Square garden 0 to 6 debacle of 1979.
In other words, this rivalry will always survive – mostly to due to severe cases of amnesia and a good dose of mutual respect. In this case, losing to the opponent has always been a viable possibility for both sides, especially since Russians could always count on vodka and figure skating as palliative measures. It has been like two fierce inter galactic rivals clashing just to test their mettle on each occasion and then retire to their respective domains without a threat of ultimate conquest.
Now, with the US it is a completely different story. Ever since the unthinkable loss to the real amateurs of the US Olympic fame in 1980 – the true turning point in the international hockey, Soviets wished the infamy to be erased from history books. Since then any loss to the US was, is and always will be a national disgrace. Russians could have accepted losing the Cold War, but 1980 Olympics never. Americans still regale in their vintage glory by making their movies and displaying their heroes at the opening ceremonies in Salt Lake. The gestures that can only be an affront to any respectable Russian hockey fan. The harder they persist in their collective memory exercise, the hotter our latent fury becomes.
While Canadians were rejoicing in the denigrating loss to their main rivals of the time, they forgot to notice the rise of the new hockey super power right under their noses. It took sixteen years for Canada to figure out true dimensions of their beloved game under siege – enter World Cup 1996. Since Canada and the States have always been uneasy neighbours, just remember the war of Independence and the war of 1812, newly acquired American claims to hockey glory brought in new dimensions in the relationship. The very strange one at that – an elephant versus a mouse – the elephant never notices the mouse, and the mouse, while quietly despising the elephant, hardly affords loud objections lest breaking its vocal cords. Unless it dealt with the sacred thread of hockey of the course – the mouse was getting seriously disturbed! They can have anything they want – football, basketball and right to bear fire arms. You take our actors, signers and doctors but do not touch our hockey!
The new rivalry was born. Canada joined Russians in despising the powerful upstarts. While tolerating one another by trading offsetting and respectable blows, Canada and Russia viscerally share their distaste for American hockey for yet some time to come. Most people in Canada know and understand it despite feigning impartiality. We do not like admitting it. We prefer to do it in quiet privacy so not to lose face as perennial peace makers. But hockey is hockey and we have to stay our ground at all cost. Nobody is safe.
For instance, when mixed with politics hockey can become really explosive and unpredictable. Just recall the upheaval when war in Iraq appeared to be a good idea to a couple of hockey idols - Wayne Gretzky and Don Cherry. When hockey greats start fraternising with the “enemy”, they become liable to be sacrificed on the altar of hockey. And that was exactly the outcome. We can afford branding Gretzky a traitor, but we cannot lose our game to the elephant below the 49th. Losing to Russia could be honourable; losing to the States equals national shame.
Plunging In
The prospect of experiencing first hand the clash between civilizations at the Russia – USA semi final threw me off balance in a pretty quick order. I would not miss this for hardly anything. I was ready to be fed to scalping sharks alive, limb by limb. Mercifully, by turning to very useful E-Bay I discovered that majority of folks understandably rushed in the direction of the Canada – Finland game leaving some major holes in the Russia-USA ticket front. Exploiting one of these I rushed in to snag a couple of prime seats at $45 a piece.
Sharing in the delight with my friend Curtis, my red capped self could hardly wait. I found myself shivering and sweating, as if I was going to be on the ice myself – giving a helping hand to erase the stains of 1980. The hymn-less start to the game did not help, as I could not loosen my nerves by bellowing “Souz Nerushimiy” (Indestructible Union – hmm). The players on the ice seemed to feel the same. The game was tight and nerve-laden for the first two periods. Eventually, the third frame brought in much jubilation to the Maple Leaf crowd that was only delighted to favour more graceful and decidedly non-American Russian side. The Russian star Malkin got much of adulation. While the perpetual cat calls were heaped on Jack Johnson of the Downy cheap shot fame, Russians found a way to the back of the US net on a number of occasions, relieving the pressure and bringing the game to its glorious and appetising end. I was so happy that I wanted to share with every one around exchanging smiles and high fives. I even turned around to the sitting behind Stan Smyl and promptly requested a couple of fresh Russians for the struggling Canucks. The evening was crowned with the winning anthem, saluting Russians and celebrating crowd – the crowd that was decidedly more anti-American than pro-Russian. Alas, not everybody in Canada gets it yet, as many a commentator persisted in their incredulous comments regarding fan preferences. Populism in politics might be fraught with pitfalls, populism in hockey it is where it’s that. Just listen to the fans and you might get it one day.
Well, I was in. I could hardly sleep and wait two more days for the final game. The game that promised to be not only highly entertaining but also very, very expensive – I was loosing my grip on the tightly managed checking account.
Bronze Match
The browsing of E-Bay did not bring much in the way of good news – the cheapest pair of tickets was going for about $400 and was hardly expected to drop. The last hope was to get in after the game start unlikely counting on meeting a distraught scalper. The passion for the game was clearly interfering with my cheapness – the ultimate nerve wracking experience. Who would give in – wallet or heart?
Unable to stop the urge to partake in the spectacle, I even dropped to see my long-forgotten Latvian friends fighting to avoid the last spot against smaller Norwegians. Although, both teams had already been relegated, the fight to salvage face went on. Latvian team handily succeeded in this less than pleasant undertaking by manhandling their opponents with the score line of 4 to 0. My delight was further enhanced by a free ticket that the Coliseum box office staff bestowed on your truly. Even $5 parking in the nearby lane indicated by an extremely fit and exclusively Chinese grandma was a bargain.
The irresistible lure of cheap fare sucked me into catching a part of the third place game between Finland and USA – seeing the US lose one more time is just like kid getting unexpected Christmas gift – very pleasant. The cheap fare was promising to be a slight relieve from the inevitable prospect of spending a fortune on the next game. By now, the desire to share a special moment with my dear wife was overwhelming – my pocket book was losing its dogged fight with emotions.
Arriving at the scene at the tail end of the second period of Finland-USA did not look good, as all of the nearby parking opportunities demanded a $25 entry fee – no more fit oriental grandmas on milk run operations – these people wanted money. Fortunately, some folks in Chinatown failed to grasp the significance of the nearby proceedings by charging regular parking rates. The navigation so far has been quite successful…
Arriving at the scene in the GM place, I rushed right to the box office to see whether free tickets experience bestowed by the provincially owned Coliseum could be repeated here. Not so, as the busy minters of profit were looking for at least $68 per ticket. Not to be deterred I quickly spotted a familiar scalper with a bunch of tickets that were expiring faster than March snow. He was in no mood to let the last trickle go to waste though, as we got fourth row seats on the blue line for $15 total – fantastic!
The game did not disappoint, as Finns managed to squeeze a 4:2 victory after the notorious Johnson tied the game at about 10-minute mark. We celebrated together with the Suomi warriors aided by predictably anti-American crowd that chanted “overrated” through the last two minutes of the game. The celebration achieved its crescendo when the giant replay screen showed a jubilant kid wearing a Finnish jersey who after noticing himself on the screen elicited a deafening roar by revealing yet another jersey under the Suomi blue – Canadian Maple Leaf!
Sure, we have made some significant strides in many aspects of human endeavour. We boast not to be Americans, we taunt Medicare, we promote world peace and accept immigrants with open arms. All these things count for a great deal and the country would suffer should any of them be taken away. “Hockey” on the other hand - take it away and the country will cease to exist as we know it – period. Take soccer from Brazil and it still might survive on coffee beans and carnivals. Take golf from Scotland, and it would still exist on haggis leftovers. Take wine from Italians and they would contraband something else instead. Take hockey from Canada and a true calamity of unpredictable proportions would take place. Quebec would lose its tenuous ties with the rest of the country since there would be none from Fleur-de-Lise between the goal posts to marvel at. CBC would close its doors, Don Cherry would finally fulfil his dream in moving to the USA and Ottawa would once again turn into a small, unnoticeable and unilingual dot on the map.
Canada is the only place in the world, where an under 20 sporting event causes people to cash in on sick days in such massive numbers that mercilessly drops national productivity and reduces wealth of the elites. Sure Americans like their college sports, but these notoriously relentless pursuers of wealth typically do it on the weekend and in primetime. Here, who cares about economics when our very destiny is on the line!?
The World Juniors in BC just confirmed my thesis. The overwhelming majority on tickets were sold out one year before the actual event. Many spent thousands just trying to make sure that any game Canada played was covered. The whole city was electrified and hardly any other topics were on the agenda for whole two weeks and all this despite competing with a famous Canadian pastime – federal politics.
Due to my deeply seeded roots that echo back to the monumental clashes of Russian and Canadian armies on many a famous ice rink around the world, my allegiances remain unmoved. This however does not disqualify my claim of a true patriot of my adopted country. Canada never shied away from fierce competition and I am on the standby to stir it up. So whenever Canada competes my colours remain staunchly red and Soviet.
Start of Proceedings
Form the first go I decided to play cagy and not to plunge into the ticket chase madness that was swirling around like a true Rockies avalanche. My boys were playing preliminaries in Kelowna and I needed to sit tight on this side of the Coquihalla, waiting for chips to fall where they may. In addition, I could hardly afford to get emotional in already volatile business of hockey, saving my emotions for crucial games was of essence.
The only thing closest to watching my Russian team was to partake in less glorious fortunes of the Russian speaking boys from Latvia. They were scheduled to play a couple of exhibition games in the Lower Mainland. One of them in the old New West arena at $15 per person failed to disappoint, as a good natured crowd of two thousand cheered them on to take on higher rated Slovaks. Teenagers hailing from the banks of Daugava did very well and outplayed their opponents by 4 to 1 – may be they had a chance to avoid the infamy of relegation after all. We shall see…Sophie saw her first conscious game with some degree of interest by issuing many “GO, GO” calls supplemented by wild hand waving and sporadic clapping. While her hockey education has many milestones ahead, I was banking my unspent dollars to be ready for Russia to hit town.
USA Factor
A couple of days following the New Years, preliminary placing was fixed and my options were stark clear. The game I dreaded would have to be played in the semi final. You see, while Canada and Russia have delivered many a blow to each other over the past thirty something years, Russians and Canadians have always found ways to come to grips with certain misfortunes. If you think that Canada won the 1972 Series, think again. In the Russian lore it was a win for the hammer and sickle, as the famed NHL superstars were expected to take every game when facing poor Soviet “amateurs”. When remembering the wins at Canada cup in 1984, Canadians conveniently forget the score line of 1 to 8 in 1981. Russians always remember Red Army beating indomitable Oilers by 6 to 1 in 1986 while just forgetting the 3 to 4 score line of 1984. Canada loves to celebrate the famous 1987, skipping on the infamous Madison Square garden 0 to 6 debacle of 1979.
In other words, this rivalry will always survive – mostly to due to severe cases of amnesia and a good dose of mutual respect. In this case, losing to the opponent has always been a viable possibility for both sides, especially since Russians could always count on vodka and figure skating as palliative measures. It has been like two fierce inter galactic rivals clashing just to test their mettle on each occasion and then retire to their respective domains without a threat of ultimate conquest.
Now, with the US it is a completely different story. Ever since the unthinkable loss to the real amateurs of the US Olympic fame in 1980 – the true turning point in the international hockey, Soviets wished the infamy to be erased from history books. Since then any loss to the US was, is and always will be a national disgrace. Russians could have accepted losing the Cold War, but 1980 Olympics never. Americans still regale in their vintage glory by making their movies and displaying their heroes at the opening ceremonies in Salt Lake. The gestures that can only be an affront to any respectable Russian hockey fan. The harder they persist in their collective memory exercise, the hotter our latent fury becomes.
While Canadians were rejoicing in the denigrating loss to their main rivals of the time, they forgot to notice the rise of the new hockey super power right under their noses. It took sixteen years for Canada to figure out true dimensions of their beloved game under siege – enter World Cup 1996. Since Canada and the States have always been uneasy neighbours, just remember the war of Independence and the war of 1812, newly acquired American claims to hockey glory brought in new dimensions in the relationship. The very strange one at that – an elephant versus a mouse – the elephant never notices the mouse, and the mouse, while quietly despising the elephant, hardly affords loud objections lest breaking its vocal cords. Unless it dealt with the sacred thread of hockey of the course – the mouse was getting seriously disturbed! They can have anything they want – football, basketball and right to bear fire arms. You take our actors, signers and doctors but do not touch our hockey!
The new rivalry was born. Canada joined Russians in despising the powerful upstarts. While tolerating one another by trading offsetting and respectable blows, Canada and Russia viscerally share their distaste for American hockey for yet some time to come. Most people in Canada know and understand it despite feigning impartiality. We do not like admitting it. We prefer to do it in quiet privacy so not to lose face as perennial peace makers. But hockey is hockey and we have to stay our ground at all cost. Nobody is safe.
For instance, when mixed with politics hockey can become really explosive and unpredictable. Just recall the upheaval when war in Iraq appeared to be a good idea to a couple of hockey idols - Wayne Gretzky and Don Cherry. When hockey greats start fraternising with the “enemy”, they become liable to be sacrificed on the altar of hockey. And that was exactly the outcome. We can afford branding Gretzky a traitor, but we cannot lose our game to the elephant below the 49th. Losing to Russia could be honourable; losing to the States equals national shame.
Plunging In
The prospect of experiencing first hand the clash between civilizations at the Russia – USA semi final threw me off balance in a pretty quick order. I would not miss this for hardly anything. I was ready to be fed to scalping sharks alive, limb by limb. Mercifully, by turning to very useful E-Bay I discovered that majority of folks understandably rushed in the direction of the Canada – Finland game leaving some major holes in the Russia-USA ticket front. Exploiting one of these I rushed in to snag a couple of prime seats at $45 a piece.
Sharing in the delight with my friend Curtis, my red capped self could hardly wait. I found myself shivering and sweating, as if I was going to be on the ice myself – giving a helping hand to erase the stains of 1980. The hymn-less start to the game did not help, as I could not loosen my nerves by bellowing “Souz Nerushimiy” (Indestructible Union – hmm). The players on the ice seemed to feel the same. The game was tight and nerve-laden for the first two periods. Eventually, the third frame brought in much jubilation to the Maple Leaf crowd that was only delighted to favour more graceful and decidedly non-American Russian side. The Russian star Malkin got much of adulation. While the perpetual cat calls were heaped on Jack Johnson of the Downy cheap shot fame, Russians found a way to the back of the US net on a number of occasions, relieving the pressure and bringing the game to its glorious and appetising end. I was so happy that I wanted to share with every one around exchanging smiles and high fives. I even turned around to the sitting behind Stan Smyl and promptly requested a couple of fresh Russians for the struggling Canucks. The evening was crowned with the winning anthem, saluting Russians and celebrating crowd – the crowd that was decidedly more anti-American than pro-Russian. Alas, not everybody in Canada gets it yet, as many a commentator persisted in their incredulous comments regarding fan preferences. Populism in politics might be fraught with pitfalls, populism in hockey it is where it’s that. Just listen to the fans and you might get it one day.
Well, I was in. I could hardly sleep and wait two more days for the final game. The game that promised to be not only highly entertaining but also very, very expensive – I was loosing my grip on the tightly managed checking account.
Bronze Match
The browsing of E-Bay did not bring much in the way of good news – the cheapest pair of tickets was going for about $400 and was hardly expected to drop. The last hope was to get in after the game start unlikely counting on meeting a distraught scalper. The passion for the game was clearly interfering with my cheapness – the ultimate nerve wracking experience. Who would give in – wallet or heart?
Unable to stop the urge to partake in the spectacle, I even dropped to see my long-forgotten Latvian friends fighting to avoid the last spot against smaller Norwegians. Although, both teams had already been relegated, the fight to salvage face went on. Latvian team handily succeeded in this less than pleasant undertaking by manhandling their opponents with the score line of 4 to 0. My delight was further enhanced by a free ticket that the Coliseum box office staff bestowed on your truly. Even $5 parking in the nearby lane indicated by an extremely fit and exclusively Chinese grandma was a bargain.
The irresistible lure of cheap fare sucked me into catching a part of the third place game between Finland and USA – seeing the US lose one more time is just like kid getting unexpected Christmas gift – very pleasant. The cheap fare was promising to be a slight relieve from the inevitable prospect of spending a fortune on the next game. By now, the desire to share a special moment with my dear wife was overwhelming – my pocket book was losing its dogged fight with emotions.
Arriving at the scene at the tail end of the second period of Finland-USA did not look good, as all of the nearby parking opportunities demanded a $25 entry fee – no more fit oriental grandmas on milk run operations – these people wanted money. Fortunately, some folks in Chinatown failed to grasp the significance of the nearby proceedings by charging regular parking rates. The navigation so far has been quite successful…
Arriving at the scene in the GM place, I rushed right to the box office to see whether free tickets experience bestowed by the provincially owned Coliseum could be repeated here. Not so, as the busy minters of profit were looking for at least $68 per ticket. Not to be deterred I quickly spotted a familiar scalper with a bunch of tickets that were expiring faster than March snow. He was in no mood to let the last trickle go to waste though, as we got fourth row seats on the blue line for $15 total – fantastic!
The game did not disappoint, as Finns managed to squeeze a 4:2 victory after the notorious Johnson tied the game at about 10-minute mark. We celebrated together with the Suomi warriors aided by predictably anti-American crowd that chanted “overrated” through the last two minutes of the game. The celebration achieved its crescendo when the giant replay screen showed a jubilant kid wearing a Finnish jersey who after noticing himself on the screen elicited a deafening roar by revealing yet another jersey under the Suomi blue – Canadian Maple Leaf!
Final
Now, came the tricky bit. Buying with more than one hour to go before the game was not an option. The scalping crew was charging prime rates with the worst seats going for $400 a pair. Anything in the Lower Bowl commanded an easy $500 price tag. The only option was take a two prong position – a spot in the long queue waiting for the last minute miracle and pace around for scalping price drop at game start. While Tracy stoically stood in line I, armed with cool $300 in the pocket took a position on the outer limits of insanity that was GM place. For the first hour things did not look all that promising, as crowds of happy and decidedly less rich ticket holders went by. I was bracing myself for the worst, fully prepared to walk away if my $300 cache failed to satisfy the wolves. Nobody in line was leaving and I was not unique in playing Russian roulette with the scalper crowd. Passing time to the fateful puck drop I observed some of the interesting characters in the crowd.
Few thug-looking types dressed in Russian jerseys stood in front of us in the queue. While I refrained from wearing my true colours trying not to jeopardise the situation, these dudes did not care to hide their identity – faces and shoulders of professional bouncers afforded such luxury. With about fifteen minutes to go, we were still waiting for any improvement in our lot. In fact, things looked just as menacing as before, as one type who was stubbornly asking $600 for a pair of sub-par Lower Bowl tickets finally managed to get rid of his loot. If people like that were closing their deals we did not stand a chance…
I even prayed a short prayer – something I never do in such self-serving ventures. A miracle though must have been in the Lord’s play book, as the box office suddenly opened right before the game start. While true jubilation erupted at the front of the line, our position at about number thirty still left much to be desired. Every new face nudging its way to the fairy tale window prompted ever increasing emotions from the ranks behind. Initial indifference gave way to slight hope, the growing hope turned to desperation, with the latter turning into jubilation when my credit card number was being entered by the clerk. I did not even ask where the tickets were or how much it would be. I just signed my name below $166 for the pair and ran to the game under way. On the way to our seat we realised that the tickets we got were truly a miracle, as these were the prime centerline 12th row – the cream de la cream! We could not and still cannot believe our fortune that would have cost us at least $600 in the open market. Here we were the riff-raff from Surrey witnessing one of the best and loudest sports spectacles on the Canadian soil in the presence of many a notable including Brian Bourke who persistently challenged his ear drums by making some big deals on his cell.
Our seats were right above the Russian bench, which provided me with a prime opportunity to exercise my long forgotten “shaibu” and “davai” while hopefully affecting the hearing of my intended recipients. I did that despite being surrounded by the sea of red, the wrong kind of red including my wife’s. I had to endure some friendly verbal abuse, which I welcomed as nothing relieves the tension like friendly banter. Since I was such obvious target, everyone around seem to take a notice of my persona – taking pot shots at my old Soviet sensibilities. A loud East Indian fellow sporting a woollen Canuck helmet was especially colourful, willing to challenge me one for one on anything that left my lips toward the Russian bench.
At first, the pressure on Canadian defences kept the crowd volume relatively low allowing for a constant set of instructions arriving at the boys from the row 12. However, after a cross bar and a fantastic save by Pogge the goalie, the feisty locals turned on their wheels, throwing their bodies under the tanks in red shirts. The push paid off in two quick goals at the end of the first period. Russians were downtrodden; they could not hear their instructions from the row 12 any more. The latter were drowned in the impenetrable wave of jubilation that swept the building.
The welcome intermission brought only temporary relief and did not help with immediate strategy since nobody was left on the bench to receive my pointers in this critical moment. The rest as they say is history as the fortunate tide was lifting the Canadian ship inexorably away into ever-nearing horizon of victory. My system was falling apart and the Russian vessel was bashed to pieces against sharp reefs of bad luck. Even their only legitimate goal in the crucial second frame by the streaking white skated Lemtyugov was not allowed, striking a deathly blow to bleeding heart of the injured bear.
Closer to the end, there was nothing Russian left afloat to cheer about so I joined in the deafening celebrations. Nobody bothered to ridicule my wrongly coloured hat and strategy instructions any more. Instead, I got a great deal of sympathy. My state was to be mourned and pitied. My despair was slightly relieved though by wild jubilation waves rolling all over, Tracy was understandably elated. After all she had a point, we still had vodka and figure skating, please leave hockey gold in Canada.
The crescendo reached its peak during the last two minutes of the game, when the whole crowd stood up and applauded their boys skating happy circles around distraught Russians. The noise level was probably the most intense I have experienced in a long, long time. It was nearly as loud as a rock concert in its last throes, and amazingly most of it was generated by raw throats as opposed to artificially induced electric variety.
The celebrations of boys in white appeared most painful for my crew. They could hardly bring themselves up to participate in the obligatory closing rites. Once finished with decorum they crowded out into the tunnel to start yet another exercise in amnesia as soon as possible. They did not seem to be too enthused by my energetic slaps on their armoured shoulders when I sneaked right up to the tunnel. My desperate pleas for a commemorative stick fell on deaf and grieving ears. Only white skated Lemtyugov was in better spirits, as he stayed behind giving out a stick to a shapely blond and signing a couple of autographs. I summoned my best for the last chance at brushing with greatness and called our loudly “Comrade Lemtyugov, please sign my cap!!!” He suddenly stopped, slightly stunned by my still accent-less Russian, picked up my hat and signed an autograph. I was on cloud nine! Despite the loss, I managed to secure a bona fide relic. Giving a double slapping to my new comrade, I wished him all the best in the NHL. May be I am to something here…
Conclusion
Although discouraged by the loss, I was not entirely crestfallen. After all I shared a memorable experience with Tracy, got a signed hat from future NHL star, witnessed Americans lose twice in a row (!) and, saved some scalping money for 2010, and above all, saw once again the whole nation say no to vodka and figure skating. Tradition and rank preserved, Canuck bragging rights live yet on for another day!
2 comments:
Wicked awesome story. Love it.
T
interesting perspective on the '72 summit series. ask any of the Soviet players involved and to this day they will tell you that September 28, 1972 was the most crushing and difficult defeat of their careers to take, even more so than Lake Placid 1980. Of course September '72 was more than just a friendly game of pick up, it was war plain and simple; western culture against the big red machine. good point about Canada's whole identity revolving around hockey. Henderson's goal is to us what JFK assassination is to Americans.
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