#i do not harbour a lot of respect for american football

[keepyourlife]

What do you think about the speech from Harrison Butker?

PR disaster for the chiefs, naturally. apart from that, it's laughable how a man whose mother is a respected woman in STEM says things like that. and at a college graduation, where countless smart women who have worked harder than that sorry excuse for man ever did, had to listen to him yap for 20 minutes.

mahomes said he barely talks to the guy, which is why i like patrick mahomes. (apart from the fact that he's an amazing QB)

also, love that jason kelce has said something about this. father of three girls, it doesn't surprise me that he has distanced himself from that.

[gayjaytodd]

For the “I’m not from the US” questions: 10, 20, 28

10. most enjoyable swear word in your native language? this one is actually kinda difficult bc i usually prefer swearing in english, but my fave danish swear-word is probably either “fandens” or “satan i helvede” which mean “devil’s” and “satan in hell” respectively

20. which sport is The Sport in your country? mmm either football (or as americans say “soccer”) or handball -- handball is pretty exclusive to dk as far as i know, like, not completely but it’s a lot bigger in denmark than anywhere else in the world

28. does your country have a lot of lakes, mountains, rivers? do you have favourites? lol i think the only country in the world with less mountains than denmark is holland 😂 and we don’t have a lot of proper rivers, either - mostly smaller streams and such; and barely any lakes - this is bc denmark is an island country (except for the jylland peninsula which connects to northern germany) so you’re literally never more than an hour from, like, the sea ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ still, having been raised in a harbour town, i absolutely adore the sea with all my heart - the sound of gulls, the taste of saltwater on my lips, the cold wind in my hair, the smell of rotting seaweed; that’s home to me

thank you for the ask, babe xx

ASK ME ABOUT MY HOMELAND

[for-that-cotton-candy]

Sidney Crosby Should Have Done Better

_

Crosby's choice to prioritize a photo opportunity with Trump doesn't only harm those protesting in the United States. For black Canadians it is yet another reminder that we are not included in Canada, that white Canadians can safely ignore us and be excused for doing so. For black Canadians who love hockey, or who play hockey, it yet another reminder that the sport does not welcome them. For all the African Nova Scotians who initially sided with Crosby, hoping he would speak out, it let them know that he does not side with them.

_

EL JONES

On Monday, the UN released a report condemning anti-black racism in Canada, singling out the "deplorable" conditions facing African Nova Scotians.

This report was published just after the Pittsburgh Penguins released a statement confirming their intent to visit the White House, and threw into stark relief the comments of superstar Sidney Crosby, a native of Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia.

"It's a great honour to be invited there," the Penguins captain said.

His comments came as Donald Trump attacked black athletes protesting police violence as "sons of bitches," declaring they should be fired for "disrespecting the flag." Following his comments players from all 28 NFL teams responded on Sunday by kneeling during the US anthem in mass solidarity. Faced with responding to athletes protesting police brutality and systemic racism, the Penguins sided with Trump. Any pretense that their intent to visit the White House was apolitical was rapidly debunked by Trump's gleeful tweet praising them as a "great team."

In recent sports history, there has perhaps not been a clearer "which side are you on" moment. When news of the Penguins' cowardice broke in Nova Scotia, home of the Colored Hockey League where butterfly goaltending and the slapshot are said to have originated, some African Nova Scotians defended Sid the Kid. After all, people argued, he had a black roommate last season whose mother's funeral he had attended.

This wishful thinking disappeared when Crosby was found to have told the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette he saw the visit "as an opportunity." But he also said there had been "little to no discussion" in the locker room about the decision to go.

"I'm pretty aware of what's going on," Crosby told the Post-Gazette. "People have that right to not go, too. Nobody's saying they have to go. As a group, we decided to go. There hasn't really been a whole lot of discussion about it."

That players in the overwhelmingly white NHL (take a look at the faces of the 2016-2017 Penguins) were able to have "no discussion" about this issue while black athletes in other leagues faced the president's harshest language says a great deal about white privilege. Their suggestion that "agreement or disagreement…could be expressed in other ways" positioned the very white people who admitted to giving the issue little thought—and who are not the ones who are seeing their people killed—as knowing better than black people how to fight for our own liberation.

Sidney Crosby, a 30-year-old man and hometown hero in Nova Scotia, has been defended by apologists who suggested that as a Canadian, he simply did not understand race issues in America. Canada, they argue, does not have the same issues with race.

That fantasy about Canada as a haven from anti-black racism should be put to rest by the UN report that details all the ways, from slavery until today, black people have faced injustice in Canada. Crosby himself grew up in a province where black hockey players, descendants of slaves, once pioneered the sport. In Cole Harbour, where he was born, in his own lifetime there were two "race riots" at the high school. If he is not aware of racism it is not because it does not exist, but because he has chosen not to see it.

Crosby's choice not to side with black athletes should not be seen as representing the absence of racism in Canada. It is instead the exact face of "polite" Canadian racism, that has continually denied and erased black presence and suffering in Canada. This is what racism looks like in Canada, where everything is so comfortable (for white people) and nobody can understand why those protestors have to be so rude about it.

Crosby's choice to prioritize a photo opportunity with Trump doesn't only harm those protesting in the United States. For black Canadians it is yet another reminder that we are not included in Canada, that white Canadians can safely ignore us and be excused for doing so. For black Canadians who love hockey, or who play hockey, it yet another reminder that the sport does not welcome them. For all the African Nova Scotians who initially sided with Crosby, hoping he would speak out, it let them know that he does not side with them.

Racism is a problem in the NHL. Sidney Crosby, the sport's biggest name, had a chance to speak, not only in support of his colleagues in football and basketball, but for players like Dustin Byfuglien.

This is a league where PK Subban played in front of Montreal fans who went to games in blackface, and where he was memorably accused of not playing the "white" way (a telling slip). A league where Evander Kane endured vicious racismin Winnipeg, the town famously called Canada's most racist city by Maclean's magazine. Where even Jarome Iginla – the model for many respectable, humble, black athletes—experienced racism severe enough that his mother spoke out about it. Wayne Simmonds, a descendent of African Nova Scotians, had a banana thrown at him on the ice.

Racism is a problem in the NHL. Sidney Crosby, the sport's biggest name, had a chance to speak, not only in support of his colleagues in football and basketball, but for players like Dustin Byfuglien. Byfuglien was the only black player on the USA roster at the World Cup of Hockey, where coach John Tortorella threatened to bench any player who protested during the anthem. That tournament was played in Toronto, where Black Lives Matter protesters have taken numerous actions to protest police killings and carding of black people. The children of Toronto's significant population of African and Caribbean immigrants are the hockey players of the future, the future roommates of white players who will ride with them on the bus, buddy with them, and then let them know that when it comes down to it, their lives do not matter.

_El Jones is an activist and professor living in Halifax. She is the __former Halifax poet laureate._

VICE

[3one3]

The Sequel - 902

The Numbers

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“How was training? I saw pictures of you smiling.”

“We had a little fun.”

“You don’t sound like you’ve had any fun today.”

“I’m tired and- To be honest, I’m thinking too much about numbers.”

“Which numbers?”

“Goals, assists, minutes played.”

“Oh. Don’t do that.”

“I miss you.”

“I love you.”

“I wish you were coming early. Sunday, or Monday.”

“Schü got tickets for The Nutcracker at the ballet in Berlin on Sunday night.”

“You told me.”

And I really wanna go. It looks dark and magical, and it was so cute of him to bring me cookies. They even match my holiday decor. He’s running a points surplus right now, Christina thought about one football player while on the phone with another. She was on the couch in the master bedroom, waiting for the first one to finish his video games, and very ready to go to sleep. But the second one needed her.

“I have to ride both days anyway,” she told him, referring to the two days before her flight to London for Olympia. “You said I should get back to work, and I have, and I feel good about it. I wanted to tell you a bunch of times today when I got like...a tiny shot of adrenalin or happiness or something looking at my training plan for the week, or when Tom just seemed...I don’t- I know this sounds ridiculous,” she smiled. “But I feel like he kept looking at me differently today, like he knows I’m back to doing things the old way and he’s happy about it and respects me more or something.”

“That’s good cariña. I’m very happy for you,” he yawned. The rider snorted and laughed.

“Yeah, you sound it.”

“I am! I’m sleepy. I was watching shows,” Juan needlessly explained. He sent her the equivalent of a “please call me and tuck me in” message around dinnertime in London, at the Chelsea Harbour Hotel, and his girlfriend was more than happy to accommodate the request. It didn’t matter that André hadn’t instigated any fights in over a week, or that he asked her to the ballet and brought assorted Christmas cookies from the bakery he visited to try to replace the lemon bar they had to abandon at the bookstore on Sunday when Lukas’ stuffed pony went missing and the world was about to end. She still missed being able to hug and kiss the Spaniard just the same, and wanted to hear his voice every day in her ears and not just in her head when she read his texts. It was her pleasure to get cozy in new winter home decor and lend him those ears so that he could vent his building frustration with his own performances on the pitch, as it were. She didn’t know what the problem was but she knew from the message that there must be something, or that he was going to be passive aggressively upset that his calls the prior night went unanswered because she was out with André and then watched a movie with him and without her phone.

“I was so sleepy at dinner that I dipped my pita bread in my Coke instead of tzatziki.” And now I’m extra sleepy because this corner of the couch is now like the inside of a mountain cabin. I have fur, the rider narrated happily while rubbing her face on her new pillow. I have cashmere, she added, moving her legs together to feel the new plaid, fringed, scarf-like blanket. There were fat rib-knit throw pillows too. I have a proper winter nest. I have a yuge credit card bill, the happy girl finished. Zoe invited her out for a mom date during the week with the kids- lunch and shopping- and took her to a home furnishings place with beautiful stuff. Christina wanted all the textiles, and the bonus rewards from American Express.

“How did it taste? They’re both lemony.”

“Not so good. But not so bad that I didn’t eat it anyway.”

“Am I going to score a goal tomorrow night?”

“No, but you’re going to run the game. Grab it by the neck. Run the show. You’ll set someone else up to score. It’s a perfect matchup for you. While everyone else on the pitch is focused on the physical fight and keeping it tight, you can use your brain and create space.”

“Were you in the briefing today?”

“No, but it doesn’t take a UEFA Coach of the Year nomination to anticipate how it might go between a resurgent Atletico fighting for their European lives and a prone-to-only-giving-as-much-as-absolutely-needed Chelsea in self-preservation cruise mode.” Christina was very certain in her matchday forecast. And she was calm about it, not letting her desire for her prediction to come true make her sound like a salesman. It was what Juan called her for. “Be the one who starts in a top gear while the others ease into the game. Then you can dictate a role for yourself instead of waiting for them to give you a chance to have an impact.

“Smart advice.” He was smiling on the receiving end of the little pep talk.

“I’m gonna yell at the TV all night if you don’t take it.”

“Consider it taken, cariña.”

“If you do score, your celebration should include a secret shoutout just for me.”

“Like what?”

“Liiiike...walk up to Eden and pinch his butt.”

“No.”

“Take a bite out of it.”

“No.”

“Pretend to ride a dragon.”

“No.”

“Do the Matarena.”

“No.”

“Do nothing because you’re lame and no fun.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Bah ram you.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I feel in danger of becoming Mata, the guy who does the charity thing, instead of Mata, the good football player,” Juan confessed, out of nowhere. “I’m going to be on the cover of FourFourTwo this week with other winners of their annual awards, and people who see it are going to go, “Mata? What? Why!” I don’t fit on a cover with Guardiola, Kane, Buffon, Modric, and Neymar. The award is for the Common Goal project. The other guys get awards for how they play, or coach.”

“Yeah but what your award is for actually matters more than what they do,” Christina shot back, anxious to reassure him and convince him that his magazine cover, which she already knew about, was something to be proud of, not fear.

“What I’m doing with Common Goal could help a lot of people, yes, but think of what football’s stars mean to hundreds of millions of people. You know,” the uncertain Chelsea man insisted. “You know what football means to you. Millions watch every weekend and the score might influence their mood for the whole week, and their interactions with friends and people at work. You’re proud for a week if your team wins big at the weekend, or you’re the wrong side of the jokes if they lose. You get such a good feeling when you see a ridiculous skill, or a beautiful goal. So those guys are doing a lot for people too. It’s not just that they score and change games. I still want to play. I want to be known as a good person and a regular guy- that’s important- but I want to be known as a top player too. I want to have big performances.”

“You don’t want to be Neven Subotic,” his understanding girlfriend said in summary for him. She felt around inside her blanket too for the two furry friends in residence. Spencer and Lucky had been comatose in there since 30 seconds after she tapped Juan’s name on her Favorites. They were “working” the same long hours at the barn as she did. “Everyone knows he’s a great guy, and he spends all his free time getting water for kids in Africa or something, and Dortmund wheels him out as their good-guy player for interviews and events and stuff, and then once in a while he actually gets to play.”

“I don’t think it’s quite on that level yet,” he chuckled. “Thankfully.”

“You’re a long way from that. You’re a great player, Juanin. I dunno about other people but I still get excited watching you do stuff with the ball. I still go “oh my god how did he know” when you pass to set someone up and you didn’t even take a single second to plan it out- you knew before you got the ball. I can see your brain working in the game and it’s always so much better than everyone else’s. I see you between passages of play telling guys to calm down, or urging them to move up. You read the pulse of things. Yeah, you’re having a bit of a quiet period now and the manager is trying different systems with different personnel and he needs to get guys from the bench into the game earlier to keep them happy, but I don’t think you should be having...feels about what your legacy is going to be. You’ve won almost every major trophy in world football. You have way more to give football yet than just 1% of your salary and your face on the recruitment packet.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so. I’m not even just trying to make you feel better. You are objectively brilliant, Juanin. Don’t get anxious because of a little unsatisfying spell.”

“I know the difference between when you talk to pick someone up and when you say the more realistic truth,” the Spaniard smiled. The fondness in the answer gave away the grin, small as it probably was. He wasn’t usually the one who needed boosting, but Christina had provided the service for him before, and she’d administered it for others in front of him too. Unbeknownst to her, most people in her life knew the difference between her lip service and her genuine testimony. And she wholeheartedly believed, without hyperbole, every word she said to her friend about the current state of his play. “I have always appreciated that you wear your heart on your sleeve with people you’re close to.”

“I don’t even have to open my mouth for you to know what’s in my heart most of the time so it doesn’t matter what’s on my sleeve.”

“I know how I’ll celebrate if I score a goal tomorrow night. Let’s see if you notice your shoutout.”

“It’s gonna be pretty obvious if it involves your sleeve, Juanin.”

“I think I can be more creative than that, cariña.”

“You know what might help you be fabulous in the match?”

“What?”

“Shaving your face.”

“Send nudes.”

“Haven’t got any.”

“Take some.”

“I’m wearing clothes. Hey, you should get naked on a magazine cover.”

“Yeah, everyone wants to see that.”

“Naked but with your reading glasses. That would be so hot.”

“Send me videos while you’re riding tomorrow. I’m going to be bored most of the day.”

“That I can do. Any horse requests?”

“Cartagena.”

“I can’t remember if I’m doing him tomorrow.”

“Do me tomorrow.”

“I wish.”

“I miss you. I miiiiiiiiiss youuuuuu,” Juan whined, mostly playful. Christina laughed at him and whined back that she missed him too, and suggested that boredom was the primary reason he missed her so much. She suggested he just needed someone to make background noise and be annoying and generally keep him company, and the player largely agreed. He also said though that he felt left out from her recommitment to her reliable training methods and psychology- that he wished he were “there” to see her work, and see the effect it had on. The Olympic star realized that he used to be able to drop in on her at the barn whenever, or grab a meal, or go for a drive with her and see the immediate aftereffects of however her riding made her feel on any given day. That was something he told her he appreciated very much.

He loved to watch and listen to her rattle on and on about some battle of wills with one of her horses while playing DJ in his car and stopping to comment on things she hated about other cars that pulled into their spot at the Observatory, for example, and her companionship when she was just in a bubbly mood because Dirk did something amazing that afternoon. Christina knew the lack of companionship thing had been a struggle for a long time, but she never realized that extended to the lack of access to her professional life too. She didn’t know or anticipate that his distance from her stuff- the activities that were really just hers, and meaningful on their face only to her- would have such a significance. Missing the things she did with him made perfect sense. It was sort of flattering to learn that he felt like she shared the other things with him without even realizing it, and that it mattered to him.

They rounded out their chat with a discussion about how she would actually use excitement about the big Champions League features to fuel her throughout her training on Tuesday, and then Christina said she needed to get to bed. That was true, but she needed to go collect her husband first. Someone would have to get a jumpstart on warming the bed for her. It was much too cold to just slide in there. André could preheat it while she brushed her teeth, set alarms, took off jewelry, etc. She went downstairs to tell him it was bedtime, and discovered that the only advance he was interested in was sleep. He was snoring, kind of tipped over to one side, with his game controller in his hand. There was a prompt on the big screen asking if he wanted to restart. His girl bent down with her hands on the couch cushion to smooch his cheek.

“Time for bed, handsome,” she said near his ear. I think I said the same thing to Luke a couple of hours ago. Is that weird? They’re both so cute when they sleep. “Baaabe?”

“Did I die?” the sleepy blonde inquired without opening his eyes. He did yawn, and reach to cover his mouth. It didn’t require sitting up.

“It seems so, yes.”

“Is this heaven? Or did I go the other direction?”

“Jury’s still out,” Christina told him, deadpan. It prompted him to open one squinty eye and kind of glare at her, skeptical. His girl laughed. “Come to bed.”

“This is the part where you usually ask me to carry you, when I’m standing there and you’re here.”

“I would totally carry you to bed if I were physically capable. I would carry you everywhere.”

“C’mere.” André held both arms out like he wanted a hug, and his wife shook her head to refuse. She made him get up to hug her, because otherwise he’d pull her down and over with him and they’d both be lying on the sofa instead of getting into bed. It was a good hug though- all consuming, and warm, and full of sweet whispers. It was capped by a loud “mwah” on the rider’s neck. The two tired athletes gave their pets some goodnight treats, unplugged the Christmas tree in the foyer, and ascended the two staircases on either side of it separately, because André was going straight to their room and Christina was stopping at the other end of the upstairs hall to check on Lukas. The littlest member of the family was sound asleep with his thumb in his mouth and his pony under his arm in his safari-themed room with slow rotating constellations projected on his ceiling. Sometimes when she checked on him, his mom was tempted to squeeze into his little bed with him and have a sleepover. His room was enviable. Even the gurgle of the filtration system in the fishbowl was nice.

“Snuggles,” Christina requested flatly, in her little kid voice, when she was finally able to get under her satin covers with her bed heater, who rolled over to hug her with both his arms and his legs.

“Your eyes are all red. Did Juan upset you or are you very tired? Tired, eh?” He asked and answered his question with his hands on her butt, inside her candy cane striped panties.  

“So tired. I’m going to bed early tomorrow since you won’t be here.”

“No you won’t. The matches won’t even be over until almost 11.”

“That’s early.”

“Early is when you used to come to the living room at 9 o’clock to kiss my cheek and warn me that if I woke you up coming to bed later you’d murder me.”

“That was before Lulu Schü.”

“I was looking forward to being in London with you without him for a couple of nights...” André commented, rueful. His wife made the executive decision that her extra days in London post-horse show could be best maximized if he came alone and Lukas remained at home with his nanny and grandparents. Half of her wanted to take him to Winter Wonderland, and to see the decorations around the stores in Knightsbridge and Chelsea, and maybe even go ice-skating. The other half of her dwelled on how difficult it would be to navigate Christmas Retail City with a stroller, with a little boy who needed the bathroom every 10 minutes whenever they left the house, with someone who was too old to just ride quietly through hours and hours of shopping anymore, and how they’d have to go to kid-friendly restaurants, and couldn’t go out at night to enjoy the seasonal festivities in adult capacities. Christina wanted two romantic dinners and unencumbered, special-operations-like shopping to complete the Christmas list she hadn’t even begun to work on yet. She also wanted a little slice of pre-Lukas life.

Unfortunately, neither she nor André realized when they made that plan to spend Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday at The Savoy that Borussia Dortmund would end up in a DFL Cup third-round tie in Munich on that Wednesday night. The player was furious after the draw. He didn’t know all the games were to be played that week. He thought he’d be free for mid-winter break after the weekend fixture. The worst part of it for him was that about 5 minutes after his wife got done lamenting the change of plans and offering to call to cancel the hotel reservation and change her return flight and cancel his roundtrip ticket, she proposed staying with Juan two extra nights, and moving her flight to Wednesday afternoon, so that she could “still get the shopping done”. Instead of being there to see her ride in the Olympia Grand Prix on Monday night and having that time alone with her, and the romantic dinners, he’d be home and then on a trip to Bayern with his teammates, and she’d be having the romantic meals and doing the shopping with Juan.

Then he felt a perverse pleasure at seeing his wife’s second plan detonated when she found out Chelsea would play on Wednesday too, so Juan couldn’t take her out on Tuesday night either. It was Christina who really paid the price. She was the one who really wanted a couple of free days in London, and it didn’t even matter to her much who she shared them with. She wasn’t getting them. She’d be staying an extra night at the Spaniard’s- Monday, after the evening feature at the horse show- and then flying home Tuesday night. All she was getting was a couple of hours to have breakfast with him and then an afternoon of shopping by herself, or with Natasha if her friend could get away.

“Me too.” She turned her lip over in an exaggerated pout. André gave her butt a double squeeze and kissed her forehead.

“We’ll have a nice time in Berlin before you go,” he reminded her. “I’ve never been there at Christmas but I’m sure it’s just as pretty and...festive.” The appeal of London at Christmastime wasn’t quite a mystery to him, but he didn’t fully understand its draw on his girl. He just knew it existed. He knew how much that time of the year and the buzz of the city meant to her. He liked the holidays. He liked the decorations, and the special air. They just didn’t matter that much. It wouldn’t have bothered him one bit to spend the whole of the holiday season somewhere tropical, maybe in some ironic snowman print swim trunks. His ex-New Yorker wife liked the cold. She enjoyed layering up between stores. The burning in her cheeks as she thawed inside was terrible and wonderful in equal measure. Full-body shivers were treasured. Having to wait forever for the car to be returned to the valet stand while holding 7 shopping bags was like a weird rite of holiday passage. Christina even enjoyed the smell of car exhaust and street-cart roasted nuts mixed with damp December air. She once told him the only thing London Christmas shopping really missed was the scent of boiled kosher hotdogs and the faint whiff of Chanel No.5. That would make it just like Manhattan, and thus, perfect. That year- their first together in Germany- more than any other, André wanted to help his favorite girl have a perfect Christmas. In a time when there was very little he could do to make most of the other things in his life perfect, showing her a good time and making her happy seemed like the best chance of feeling the satisfaction of delivering, of a job well done, of doing something right. The Staatsballett production of Der Nussknacker was a play in the game that he hoped would make up for the London loss. Tchaikovsky, and sugar plum fairies, and athletic guys in tights, were her favorite.  

“I’m excited for fine dining and my poofy red dress,” Christina yawned. “Squeeze my butt more. It feels nice. Butt massage,” she mumbled as she shut her eyes and tried to nuzzle her face into his sternum.

[mitchnardi0811-blog]

Blog 1: Hockey- The Canadian Way

If you were to describe Canada as a county, what would come to mind? Some would say it’s the people of this great country. People that were quick to coin the phrase “sorry” or “eh”. Maybe it’s the Rocky Mountains or great lakes that have painted the landscape. For myself and many other Canadians, it’s a love affair between a country and a game. Hockey and Canada have been intertwined since the game was first invented. Hockey has captivated Canada and its audience, it has created a passion and love for a game that can only be described by bright lights, freshly groomed ice or being glued to your television on a Saturday night. From a young age, dreams of playing for the Montreal Canadiens or the Toronto Maple Leafs have been played on frozen ponds from coast to coast. For most, the dream ends, however, that dream can be short lived through the speed and finesse of NHL hockey. Whether its live or on a big screen TV, Canadians have been enchanted by hockey since the beginning. It is something entirely different from any other sport in any other country. It is rivaled to that of major league soccer in Europe and American football in the United States. What makes hockey so important to Canadians? For a nation, at times, that struggles to find national unity, belonging and purpose, hockey has created all those things and continues to be the focal point of national identity for Canadians. If you want to teach someone from another part of the world about Canada, you tell them to watch hockey in Canada and it becomes crystal clear. To others, hockey is a game, an activity, or physical exercise, but to Canadians, hockey is a culture and a lifestyle. Let’s go back to the very beginning and go through the evolution of hockey in Canada.

So, is hockey really Canada’s game? It can be argued that hockey wasn’t even invented in Canada but rather in England. According to hockey historian, Jean-Patrice Martel, “There’s nothing that you can find about Canadian hockey that hadn’t been done before in England” (Hudes, 2017). It is argued that hockey originated across the pond and the English were the first to lace up skates. However, it was Canada who skated past the rest and used hockey as its national game. “Hockey is a truly Canadian game”, says Martel. “Canada took it and transformed it and became the dominant country and changed the rules. Everywhere in the world that hockey’s played today, you can trace it back to Canada” (Hudes, 2017). Even if Canada wasn’t the originator of hockey, nobody can argue the impact we have had on the game and the reason why it is now considered our national sport. The passion Canadians have didn’t happen overnight. NHL hockey has been around for over a hundred years. For instance, The Montreal Canadiens were founded in 1909 and joined the NHL eight years later in 1917. Montreal is one of the most storied franchises in all professional sports. With 24 Stanley Cup wins, 11 Hall of Fame inductees and record breaking seasons, they have one of the greatest fan base in all of sport. The Canadiens have enjoyed record home attendance records and have sold out every home game for the past 12 seasons (ESPN, 2016). This shows how passionate Canadians are for one of their original teams and it doesn’t stop with Montreal. Everyone knows how important Toronto is to Ontario and Vancouver is to western provinces, respectively. Teams like Edmonton and Calgary have even coined the phrase “Battle of Alberta” and have opened their seasons against each other over the past few decades. This is a rivalry that dates back to the days of Wayne Gretzky, Theo Fleury and Marc Messier, who all happen to be Canadian players. It’s safe to say that hockey in Canada isn’t slowing down anytime soon. With the re-boot of the Winnipeg Jets and talks of Quebec bringing back the Nordiques, hockey is stronger than it’s ever been.

Hockey doesn’t stop at the gate either. Even with prices of minor hockey gradually increasing, parents continue to spend money for their son or daughter to play. Why? It’s simple, they love it. “Once you’ve signed on for the season, you’re expected to be there and play…we know the costs can get ridiculous, but we try and find creative ways to make it work for our kids, because we love it” (Brady, 2011). Theresa Dostaler is a mother of two boys and she understands the costs and time hockey takes up and her family is still willing to let her boys experience Canada’s national sport. This is one example of the length that parents will go to so their kids can enjoy the same experience that they once had as a kid.

           Let’s rewind a bit. How did this all start? Where did the Canadien’s sell-out crowds start? First, we must look at audiences as a whole. “The audience experience during the Greek and Roman eras was radically different than the kind of audience experience to which we are accustomed to today” (Sullivan, 2012). For example, participants would be more interactive and have more of a face-to-face interaction with the audience in ancient times. Even though the era of the Greeks and Romans is a lot different than now, the development of audiences is relatable to how hockey’s audiences have grown to what they are today. “The Industrial Revolution and the arrival of mass media such as motion pictures, radio, and (much later) television crystallized two long developing trends: one toward the expansion of audience size and the other toward privatization of the audience experience into individuals’ domestic spaces” (Sullivan, 2012). Obviously, the arrival of mass media after the industrial revolution is more relatable to hockey in Canada. For example, radio and television created personal spaces for people to enjoy hockey. Canadian coach and television personality, Don Cherry talks about growing up in Canada and listening to Hockey Night in Canada on Saturday nights. He reminisces about the days of crowding around a radio and listening to Foster Hewitt do the play by play. I think this is a great example of how Canadians fell in love with hockey in the comfort of their homes and how these developing trends directly impacted hockey and its fans.

Hockey Night in Canada has played a crucial role in the development of consumption of hockey in Canada. HNIC has given Canada its own segment and for a lot of people who didn’t have the luxury of going to games live, was the only way they watched and listened to games. People have cherished memories of watching Paul Henderson score the goal to lift Team Canada over the Soviet Union in the 1972 Summit series, or watch Sidney Crosby score the “golden goal” that beat the United States in the 2010 Vancouver Olympics. It’s moments like these that programs like HNIC have been able to give to Canadians. It’s on par with programs like Monday Night Football in America, NBA on TNT and Fox Sports Baseball and has one of the most recognizable theme songs in all of sport.

Looking at James G. Webster’s three basic models of media audiences, we can take a closer look at what type of audience hockey fans in Canada classify as. First, “audience-as-mass, are seen as a large collection of people scattered across time and space who act autonomously and have little or no immediate knowledge of one another” (Sullivan, 2013). I believe that hockey fans are a good example of “audience-as-mass” because they are a large collection that are scattered across time and place. They may not have immediate knowledge of each other in the grand scheme of things however, they do have a cult-like following for their favourite teams.

Canadians don’t just associate themselves with a team. For most, a specific player or coach is the reason for watching hockey in Canada. For some, maybe it’s the ability to relate to the boy from small town Brantford that turned into the greatest hockey player to ever lace up skates. Maybe it’s the Coal Harbour, Nova Scotia native who coined the term “Sid the kid” and has become the greatest player since the new era of hockey was established. Something about being able to relate to some of the most recognizable faces in our country, knowing that they once came from a humble beginning and rose to stardom through hard work and passion for our sport.

I always had favourite players growing up. Montreal being my favourite team, there was never a shortage of talent and superstars to pick from. From the Russian star, Alex Kovalev, to the bone-crunching Albertan, Sheldon Souray. I became mesmerised by the Bleu, Blanc et Rouge and the bright lights of the Bell Centre. Even with all that talent, I didn’t realize until later in life that my favourite player growing up was my dad. Although my dad was never a major-league hockey player and only played locally in our hometown of Hamilton, it was the effort he put in so that I could learn to love the game like he did, unconditionally. Minor hockey growing up was never a chore, my parents never made it hard and never put me down. SInce the beginning, my parents, especially my dad, were my biggest fans. I could do no wrong in their eyes. I started getting better and attracting a lot of attention at higher levels, which ultimately lead me here to play for Brock’s varsity team. I think I was able to pursue my dreams of competitive hockey at the highest level because my dad always made hockey fun and easy. I would get into the car after a bad game and it was always the same, “there’s always next game son.” I’m a huge believer that my dad is still one of the biggest reasons why I play today. I can walk into a hockey rink, let out a sigh of relief and forget about whatever troubles I have on my mind. However, the competitive drive and passion didn’t start in organized hockey. It all started on a frozen pond, at the local park, built by my dad. The countless hours he put into the public outdoors rinks during the cold winter months went unnoticed by most locals and neighbours, but not by me. He gave me the opportunity to hone my skills, lift fake Stanley Cups and pretend to be the Wayne Gretzkys and Sidney Crosbys of the world. I think he got the most enjoyment out of it all of it. Being able to watch the kids of the neighbourhood enjoy what he built was the only pat on the back he ever needed. Frozen toes and fingers were a regular occurrence and the odd argument usually ended in one way, on the ice. Hot chocolate and Timbits were lunch and extremely fitting for games that lasted longer than a couple hours.

Hockey has helped shape some of the greatest moments in Canadian history and will continue to do so. From captivating thousands with fast skating and beautiful plays to playing on backyard rinks and frozen ponds, hockey has inspired, driven and compelled millions of Canadians. 

References: 

Hudes, S. (2017, June 29). Is hockey really Canada's game or is that a Canadian myth? RetrievedOctober 04, 2017, from https://www.thestar.com/news/canada-150/2017/06/29/canadian-myths-our-game-or-as-canadian-as-cricket-and-crumpets.html

  Montreal Canadiens Yearly Attendance Graph. (n.d.). Retrieved October 04, 2017, from http://www.hockeydb.com/nhl-attendance/att_graph.php?tmi=6929

 (n.d.). Retrieved October 04, 2017, from http://www.espn.com/nhl/attendance

 Brady, R. (2011, December 6). Minor hockey costs add up; Canadians keep paying. Retrieved October 04, 2017, from https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/sports/hockey/minor-hockey-costs-add-up-canadians-keep- paying/article4246871/?ref=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.theglobeandmail.com&

 Sullivan, J. L. (2012). Media audiences: effects, users, institutions and power. SAGE.