Black Ice Vancouver

“For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world-rulers of this darkness, against the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly place.” –Ephesians 6:12

Moments after Game 3 in Boston I had this image cross my mind. I looked down and saw that my belly had been sliced open with a samurai sword and all of my innards were spilling out. That is a what a 8-1 pounding does to the psyche of your everyday, run-of-the-mill Canucks fan.

Today, I have been thinking all day about what it might feel like to get hit by a train. For anyone who watched Stand By Me as a child, it was a not so pleasant reminder not to play on the train tracks. Those speculations I once had as a child have come throttling back. I wonder what part of my body gets hit first. Perhaps my chest. I can imagine my cage splintering first, then shattering. All of my organs would explode, in alphabetical order, upon impact. The force of the steel would tear my body into three parts. My right leg ripped clean off. My right arm, neck and and head would fly a few hundred feet upon impact and lay pulsing in a bloody lump in a ditch. The rest of me strewn all over the rails and possibly the front of an engine.

Many parts of me would never be found. I’m sure it would be over quick. Which makes this analogy not quit sufficient to describe the feelings of what it might be like to get beaten by the Bruins tonight.

No, perhaps a more apt description would be that of getting torn apart by a large predatory animal. You do the math. First it gives us an edge. Let’s us think that they are the prey. Then it takes a swipe with it’s mighty claw. Possibly across the face. Just to make a real mark. Then the beast draws back. Looks to see if anything is coming, then strikes with it’s face, mauling a couple of limbs and taking out the chest cavity. But there is fight in us. We never say die. Us humans. Us Canadian humans. Strewn out here in the Northern timberlands to carve a life out of the wilderness, both inside out hearts and in the landscape that consumes us, that which becomes, our will to survive.

I wonder about being a Canadian sometimes and living in the most peaceful city in the most peaceful country in the whole wide world. And rich to, we are. But there is still a thirst for blood that seems to never cease. Never has that been more apparent in this Stanley Cup finals. Where nothing short of bodies wheeled out on stretchers will do.

This is not a moral judgement at all. This war of flesh and blood brings to mind another war we all fight each and every day. That one of principalities and powers. It is this war that we project onto our athletes, our team, our men.

Imagining the outcome of this match is a microcosm for trying to imagine the outcome of life. How I will feel. What I will do. What mountain I will conquer and what mountain will conquer me.

But mostly–mostly, I just don’t want to get hit by a train, or eaten by a bear.

–Joseph F. Delamar

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” — John Keats

We listened to the first period of Game 2 laying in the sun in Crab Park, not the game, but the roar of the crowd. The sound caromed off of Burrard Inlet and let out a holy yop which thundered out toward the furthest reaches of the Fraser Valley. It was an awesome sound to behold.

Then we walked up Main St. and caught the final berths of the game at the Rumpus Room. The experience of being a long suffering Canucks fan has left my tender heart in tatters. Today we have reason to celebrate, not because we won (that will take two more wins) but because we have percervered. We have crawled through 40 years of shit and we are on the cusp of coming clean. We are on the cusp, and it is a beautiful thing.

Burrows OT winner at the 11 second mark was a perfect execution of speed, skill and intelligence. It is a part of our game that Canadian failed to invent, but seem prone to perfecting these days in the NHL. Burrows has been accused of having an insatiable appetite (sorry, couldn’t help myself) knowledge of the game. He is a student of the game, and when all is said and down, he will be a benefactor of not just the game, but the very notion of percerverance. Consistancy and perservearance.

Fuck Disney. We have an entire team filled with feel-good stories. One only has to peak into the dressing and see what this team (much like it’s battered and bruised fanbase) has endured. The Sedins endured years of verbal abuse off the ice and physical abuse on it before settling in, without a hint of complaint, as superstars. Sami Salo has recovered from a league record: 40 injuries. Kevin Bieksa recovered from not one but two potential career threatening calf lacerations.

Fuck Disney and fuck the script. All we need are two swift brushstrokes and we will have a masterpiece to celebrate all on our own.

–Joseph F. Delamar