I sat transfixed as young, male Vancouverites re-purposed their party-heartiness towards a less honorouable, though more predictable, mission: MAKE SOMEONE PAY FOR MY ANGER AND MY DISAPPOINTMENT.
Vancouverites (Vannies for short from now on - its waaaay tooo long a word to re-type over and over again) had made significant investments in their hockey team in the way that most ardent fans do. Money spent, sweat cast, blood splattered, passion channeled and corralled by the tens of thousands. Fueled by the most potent combustibles of all: mindless rage and good ole alcohol.
Alcohol, that alchemical substance that carries with it its own invitation, excuse and alibi. "C'mon, we'll have a few beers and have a good time." "C'mon, you can't blame her for bedding that douchebag; she was drunk.". That kind of alchemy.
Anyway, much invested, little returned, the peasants rise in anger and want to thrash those responsible. Personally, I think the Canucks should have thrown Luongo and the Twins to the mob, let them re-pay the shirkers with fists and cusses. Okay, that maybe just a bit frontier for Vancouver (perfectly okay for Dallas, though). But I understood the rage. I had a biting pain in the bottom of my stomach for the team.
They had come so close, had sacrificed so much, had the minor parts and bit players step up when needed. The big 3? Shirked their responsibilities. It would have been different if Luongo would have lost all four games 4-2, a good goalie beaten by a better one. No shame in that, really. But one of the self-believed 'world's best' replicating some of my performances? Ultimate fail; unremovable stain.
The Twins? Can I make fun of their sissiness? Could I call them the Twinkies? Soft on the outside, softer still in the middle? Well, that was a performance for the ages of coming up small.
So I had this stomach ache as I watched the fires burn and the soft boys preen and pose. One rush by the cops, finally, and it was all over but the crying. The boys in blue blew it from this perspective. Should have been a bigger, stronger presence and power projection right from the last whistle. Waiting gave the bravest drunks a chance to take another sip of liquid courage and escalate with flame and fury.
Couldn't eat breakfast this morning. I was shell-shocked. I was following the Finals with growing interest, hoping against hope that a Canadian team might just win it after 18 futile, Bettman-dominated years. Giant nope. Stunning result, really. Up 2-0, just knocked out their most clutch scorer, killed off the 5minute PP, sneak into the dressing room even at zeros. One brave period of WE ARE SPARTANS, taking abuse and refusing to retaliate, leaving the Bruins to hunt for a non-existent foe. Nope. They couldn't beat them face to face so they jumped them from behind, cowardly betrayal of the hockey code of conduct.
The heroes failed, the peasants revolted, the city burned. That's happened a few times in the history of humanity. Happening a lot right now what with the Arab Spring and the European Belt-tightening going on. And I'm without an appetite and in need of 20 more lbs.
Enter my luncheon savior, a flavour so divine as to inspire Elvis. The grilled PB&B (peanut butter and banana). Love it!! Never made it before even though my usual favourite sandwich is a toasted PB&B. The grilling part was taboo to my ritual. The ritual was stupid - and the grilled PB&B was delicious.
Just thought you might like to know, Mr. Tree Explorer. Note that hockey made Canadians so crazy that we'd riot and lose our appetites as a result. Not sure that we'll always be that way, but we were last night.
Oh yeah, and the grilled PB&B is now my new favourite sandwich. Paradigms are meant to be shattered. Nothing can be built unless the old and unuseful are removed and cleared.
Have an enjoyable day.
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