Issue #56 — The Rememberance of Things Past Issue
“A change in the weather is sufficient to recreate the world and ourselves.” -Marcel Proust (Remembrance of Things Past)
Vancouver is a city whose serotonin transporter is directly affected by two things: the weather and hockey. Coincidentally (or not) two things that the average citizen is unable to control.
In search of lost time:
Back in 1915, with the help of a sniper by the name of Cyclone Taylor, the Vancouver Millionaires became the last professional hockey team in the city to win the Stanley Cup. A Vancouver club has since challenged for the Cup on five other separate occasions, losing each time (three more as the Millionaires and twice as the Canucks). That means no generation in Vancouver, since the end of the Great War, has tasted the champagne of victory out of Canada’s holy grail.
Sadly, the bitterness of defeat is all this town truly expects these days.
The Vancouver fan can be compared to the jilted love from time-to-time, swooned by an appetite for victory and all her splendor, yet unprepared for the gamble that is at the root of any infatuation. Like we’re some sort of Jane Austin meta-fantasy whereby Darcy perpetually asks Elizabeth to marry her and then perpetually skips town before the wedding.
The art of being a Canucks fan is based around how one braces for crushing blows.
Once bitten, twice shy they say — but in the land of Canuck it often feels as though the fanbase is feeding off her own body, tearing herself apart limb-by-limb like an autocannibal, thirsting on the taste of her own blood.
Oh negative:
Whatever the reason, the culture of losing is so rampant here that it seems as though defeat, while still disappointing, is almost a point of collective pride for the city. Yeah we lose, fuck you, we got mountains and tonnes of green shit, and no snow an shit…fuuuuuuuckkk (said in a drunken bridge-and-tunnel slur). It’s almost like we have twisted our inability to win into a deftly accrued ability to lose.
And the rest of the country scoffs, rolling their eyes at our self-inflicted-delusion.
A few questions for you Vancouver: Are you even interested in winning? What would you do should the occasion actually arise? Could you handle that much joy Vancouver? Have you possibly dug yourself an existential hole of self-loathing so deep (hypothetically anyways) that you are now too petrified (or disinterested or too comfortable) to dig yourself out?
The one thing important to keep in mind during this week of remembrance is that this team might be ready to win: maybe. Although I highly doubt it. Coach Vee could manage to staunch the flow of blood oozing out of this bitch and slap her with identity harder then a trick walking away from a free blowjob — but that is a gargantuan if. (We’re talking Cinderella-bringing-her-pumpkins-home-to-roost type shit.)
Mike Gillis with his methodical approach to steering the ship; Vigneault with his steady precision keeping the boat on course; Forsberg with his annual will-he-or-won’t-he-sign Canuck cocktease — all of them leaving anything possible behind in their wake.
Might:
This team might win a championship one day but not before they find a city worth winning one for. That, however, is something the average citizen does have control over.
Next Up – Colorado
(Note: I’m becoming formally aware of my growing endearment to fellatio themed images. I imagine it will continue. If you don’t like it you can suck my cock.)