Black Ice Vancouver

“It is sadder to find the past again and find it inadequate to the present than it is to have it elude you and remain forever a harmonious conception of memory.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

I went and saw Inception yesterday and it has been knawing at my craw all day what it might take to break into the sub-concious of the Vancouver fanbase and plant a seed. THIS IS OUR YEAR VANCOUVER. The writing is on the wall. We got a Hart Trophy winner, 20-goal scorers coming our unholy openings and we got depth, DEPTH, down the middle (should Cody Hodgson take flight the plot bifurcates).

Raymond got his term and management got their money, so there is one more piece in an ever expanding arsenal. What else can an anorexic fan ask for? What more does one need?

Vancouver for so long has been hampered by a civic-wide parasite of negative self-talk. THEY’RE A BUNCH OF BUMS. LUONGO SUCKS. BURE IS GAY. Call it, the curse of Cyclone Taylor or the curse of the Denman Arena. Call it whatever. The fact is, every time “this is the year,” the team in question 1981, 1994, 2003, 2010 stumbles at some point in the post-season and the collective fan base loses confidence. Then, like a line of parasitic dominoes, the entire team loses their collective shit.

So getting back to Inception. What we need this year is a mantra: THIS IS OUR YEAR. We cannot waver from this accord. Ideas are too powerful, too dangerous if used incorrectly in this age.

The curious case of Sami Salo has turned what was once a head-scratching, head-shaking, WTF moment, into a casual understanding that the Fragile Finn has nothing less then a glass jaw. At some point in the season commentators will miss him because of a dip in numbers from the defence. This will pass.

There is no feeling so bad that it will not pass eventually.

Salo will be missed but he must be sent to the Albatross graveyard in the sky. His presence, much like Nathan LaFayette’s goal-post in ‘94, is far too much for the the fragile psyche of this city to handle.

In the interim let it be of comfort that MG has assemble THE TEAM and this is THE YEAR. Quite frankly because this is THE WINDOW.

If the Canucks don’t accomplish in the next two years what they are capable of doing than they can have another curse to draw on. One of a strange Finnish man who came all the way to Canada to gain his soul through hockey, but somehow lost his body in the process.

“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.)