On love and the power of cliché.

It is cliché, but kids change everything.

At certain times clichés are truer than you can imagine.

Somebody once said something like, "the value of anything is the amount of life you are willing to trade for it". I'm fucking up the quote but that is essentially right. It is a Thoreau quote, maybe. If not, it's one of those guys--old, dead, white, straight, smart as fuck, but wacky in some of their views.

It is impossible to describe the love I have for my boys. As I always suspected, love is exponential. If your love dimishes then you probably are in trouble. I love my boys more than I thought possible. This also means I love my Poohead more than I thought healthy. Love grows like the Grinch's heart. Except, it doesn't only grow once. Each day it grows three sizes. Seriously. It's fucking ridiculous. It makes me love my Mom and Dad more. It makes me love my older sisters too. The love I have for my twins rewrites my past, and retells my story.

Don't misunderstand me, it isn't easy and fun all the time. Sometimes it sucks worse than god. Sometimes it is frustrating and anxiety inducing and the hardest thing I can comprehend. But the love keeps growing. Maybe that's because of how hard I try. Maybe that is because I want this to be the right decision. Who knows? All I know is that my life has real, genuine meaning for the first time. It is great to try and be a good person in the abstract. But, without real consequences I was only lying to myself and fucking up my immediate relationships with apathy and disinterest. Now, my actions have weight. Currently they weight about 15lbs 11 oz and 17lbs 5 oz.

I move towards the future with nervous excitement. There is no easy enjoyment anymore. There is no decadence without consequence. But there is fulfillment and meaningful engagement with the world. This would have been a mistake 5 years ago, or a decade previous. But now, with the right person, in the right circumstance and with the right intention (ya, I'm bastardizing Aristotle, what's your point) I have all of life's possibilities in the crib next to my bed.

I hope my inevitable fuck-ups are the minor variety.

Did you ever play the game?

 

“Did you ever play the game”?

 No phrase is a lazier dismissal of the media’s role.

No words are simpler to ignore, and mock, for reporters.

No question reveals more about relationships and beliefs in the hockey world.

The hockey world loves this type of discussion. We prefer to engage an activity sharing its root with percussion and concussion. Too often we pummel viewer, listener, reader and each other with our unexamined ‘truths’. Precious few of us care about dialogue. There is little interest in bridging gaps, in going across difference. Ideas are used to identify and strike at opponents. These points of irritation, frustration, confusion, and anger are beautifully expressed by that simple dismissive question.

Instead, I wonder if we can create a dialogue across these differences. What does this question reveal about a player’s understanding of the business of hockey? How does its easy dismissal illuminate tensions inherent in a reporter’s role? Can this question speak to the position fans take in the complex relationship underlying coverage of our game?

First, and most obvious, this is a childish F-you from the players. It is an expression of frustration at the uninitiated questioning and criticizing their expertise. It’s an absolutely understandable lashing out at reporters who continually impugn the motives of players with the benefit of slow-motion replay in a game played above the speed of thought. Hockey is rarely a game of conscious effort. Yet players are expected to provide simple, clean and straightforward narratives that explain their actions each game.

For the media, ignoring this phrase is understandable and hard to justify. Presumably reporters ask endless questions because players have some insight you don’t get from the press box. If someone told you they lived with Mountain Gorillas in the Congo would you dismiss them by saying, “I understand, I watch a lot of National Geographic specials”? Everyone understands that embodied experience is important. We all get that media representations are filtered realities. But that doesn’t mean the media have to capitulate to a childish expression of superiority from players. The media has a key role that no others can perform.

The hockey media are intermediaries, trained to examine and interpret the game for easier and more enjoyable digestion. Depending on your beliefs, desires, background and mood this is a constant game of Goldilocks – some analysis is too simple, some is too complicated and some is just right. When players dismiss reporters so easily they are ignoring multiple realities of this professional game. Only a few thousand current and retired players know what it is like to play the game as they do. The rest of us need help to understand. And hockey players need the content provided by large media corporations to sustain and grow the game, and their salaries. Like it, or not, reporters and players are in a dysfunctional, symbiotic relationship. Neither exists, as we know them now, without each other.

The relationship of fans is the most complicated. There is no pretense of objectivity. Fans aren’t attempting to intellectualize a game for the consumption of others. We rarely recognize players as fellow labourers enduring their own daily grind. Fans are lost deep in their own ‘forest of symbols’ when they experience the game. Personal histories, beliefs, and complicated feelings about labour and capitalism are mapped onto hockey at various times. This makes understanding this relationship tricky.

However, fans roughly split themselves in two regarding the phrase discussed above: those who align themselves with the players; and those who don’t. Some of us see the player as the central hero in this story, harassed by lesser men. We align ourselves with the heroic ideal of a hockey player, even if we have more in common with the broken-ankle-skating bloggers from Jersey. These fans revel in the labourer telling a pencil-pushing, white collared Poindexter to shove it. We ignore decades of evidence that the blue-collar ethic of hockey is only a story now. It is part of hockey’s own history. And reporters are most like the blue-collar labourers grinding out their tenuous work contingent on the money and whims of players who have been receiving special treatment since they were kids.

Other fans align themselves against the players. Or, more correctly, they align themselves against most players. Every fan has at least one hockey player sized blind spot. These fans have a complicated relationship with hockey players and the game. They see players as rich and spoiled kids who are lucky to play a game for a living. They’re not wrong, generally. But, these fans have different aspirations. They see billionaire owners as the true elites in the game. They see media, business and teams as part of the same production. Players are mere widgets in their factories. In this tale, the owners of the means of production are the heroes. After all, without them no league would exist and there are plenty of nearly as good hockey players ready to go.

Obviously, this split in the fan base is a straw man argument of the flimsiest construction. But, these broad portrayals speak to a fundamental divide that affects the relationship between fans, the media, and players in a profound way. The primary distinction made in the hockey world is between being a player and not being a player. Each individual draws that distinction for themselves. And, to complicate things, others map their distinctions onto you as well. This is why John Scott, an NHL player under contract, is derided as a non-player by so many in the media. Fans get caught in this game of mismatched designations too.

I stopped playing competitive hockey in Junior ‘B’. More precisely, the hockey world stopped me from playing any longer. Sadly, I still consider myself a player. I understand it’s ridiculous. I can’t intellectually justify such a position. But, my ego doesn’t care. It was built on the unattainable dream of being a five-and-a-half feet tall NHL goalie. I won’t do the psychological work to unravel that childhood nest of hurt feelings and dreams. It means I align myself with players more often than not. But even that alliance shifts with circumstances and each invocation of feelings. I watch hockey to feel. I may try and intellectualize some thoughts after the game. But, during the games I am all beer-fueled excitement, and, being a Canucks’ fan, sadness.

At any moment I am a complex mess of seemingly contradictory beliefs. I am a hockey player at my core, who clearly isn’t. I see NHL players as the heroes of our story, but believe their merits are genetic predisposition, fortunate circumstances and outright luck as much as hard work. I know the media is unnecessary for our game, but understand they are vital for my consumption and understanding of it. This is why dialogue is so difficult in the hockey world. Understanding and going across difference means exploring self, situation and system in more detail than a kid’s game probably deserves.

What ideas, history, and symbolic baggage do you bring to the game? What does the question “Did you ever play” make you feel?  Can you understand the frustrations of a hockey player who uses it? Do you get why journalists dismiss it so easily? Should they? Should you?

Is dialogue worth trying?

Or, do we want the consumption and participation in hockey’s peripherals to reflect the game—a concussive battle of wills.

 

Further Lessons of a New(ish) Dad

Like the Dark side for Vader, I find it futile to resist feelings. Every time I push against anger, fear or frustration I give them power in the relationship. Long ago I learned to accept love. I allow myself to feel it in different parts of my body. No, I said love, not lust. I wasn't talking about that. Yet, I still struggle against these feelings I don't want. I should know better than to resist evil. I understand every relationship is a relationship of forces. When the moment has passed, I remember I shouldn't challenge these feelings.

Fear won't kill me. But resisting it leads to panic.

Anger won't break me. But fighting it makes me lash out.

These things are easy to understand in reflective and quiet moments. But as a baby screams, unable to soothe themselves to sleep, it is easy to forget. Feelings are not my enemy. Thoughts don't matter that much. I don't have to chase every dog that barks. I can see it, feel it, allow it and let it pass.

The boys help me with this challenge. They give me plenty of opportunity to practice.

I'm getting better, I think.

A few poorly thought out words on beauty

We are told what beauty is. How sad is that? How confining? Beauty touches us without examination. That's its power. An examination would reveal the crassest capitalist motivation, built on a flimsy excuse of symmetry and youth. What an awful way to limit our world. This notion of beauty, skin-deep and photoshopped, is a poorly mapped territory. It is a single sensory input away from complete hollowness. I want to do more than see beauty. Beauty should be a multi-sensory event. It should be found everyday, everywhere. It should be the sacred in our ordinary profane existence. It should be.....

It should......

I don't know what it should be.

Maybe I just wish I was pretty too.

A few thoughts on accepting danger in hockey and the media.

This is an edited version of a piece I published here awhile ago. Check it out, if you like. And read the comments. I'm either a genius or an idiot. Perhaps I'm both.

http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/nhl-puck-daddy/vent-plea-media-fighting-142754578--nhl.html

Bad Poetry Tuesdays (Old is New Again)

Old is New Again

Crone entered the consciously hip coffee shop.
 

One-sleaved barrista was struck by trailing wisdoms,

palpable and understated.

 

She understood things from before.

 

He was struck by a beauty of spirit,

his urban neo-tribal philosophy aspired to,

but was ill-prepared to receive.
 

The neo-tribes knew little of earth,

or how to prepare a plot of mind,

for the seedings of faith.
 

Face to face with an old love,

of what he seeks,

he could only stutter,
 

For here?

Fights, Fighting and Fighters: A mild diatribe

I wrote this column for a new Puck Daddy feature called 'The Vent". My contribution is the second piece in the column. Enjoy. Or let me know why you think I'm an idiotic asshat. But mostly enjoy.

http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/nhl-puck-daddy/vent-losing-one-appetite-hockey-fighting-flaws-anti-201511363--nhl.html?utm_source=twitterfeed&utm_medium=twitter

A few thoughts on fatherhood

I have been a father for a few months.

I'm not a Dad yet. That name must be given freely by each child. Father is just a title.

So far, I'm only certain about a few things. Besides the Father / Dad difference I understand parenting is a constant battle with attachment and ego. Every day, every feeding, every diaper change, every burping is a chance to be satisfied, gratified, fooled, frustrated and taught. Mostly, I get taught a lot about my expectations.

Trying to understand the behaviour of newborns can be frustrating. I know the basic routine, but circumstances change each time. Trying to match my learning curve to theirs is challenging for my older and less nimble brain. It's like learning how to juggle three tennis balls in the morning, and then trying to juggle four soccer balls one-handed at noon and five wiffle balls during a wind storm at three.  Being a father slaps my ego around. I drop a lot of metaphorical balls.

If you pull back the camera on my life I have a routine--help feed, burp, change, play with and parent to sleep. (Seriously! Newborns need to be parented to sleep). But, if you focus on the constantly shifting and adjusting patterns it is continually suppressed chaos. It isn't a metaphor for life.  Newborn twins are all of life's drama and beauty, frustration and joy, ecstacy and heartbreak wrapped up in a couple of dozen pound squirming sacks of fleshy cuteness.

As a first time father I get a lot of similar questions. They reduce to: "How am I doing", "How do I like being a parent", and some variation on, "How are you sleeping". To answer: The best I can. Usually it's good, sometimes it's great and occassionally I want to drop them off at an orphanage and go back to watching late night tv in my underwear and endlessly surfing the net without purpose. And, you know the answer to the sleep thing.

The question about sleep is annoying and endearing. It's both an easy narrative that requires no real thought or meaningful interaction. It is also code for 'welcome to the club'. It's a short form to say, "you are not alone". And that's a big deal. As with most of life's small interactions it is about context and perception. Do I let myself be annoyed at the mindless comment, or am I thankful for the acknowledgement that others understand the sleep deprivation, frustration and anger that can come from caring. As we grow older, life is more and more about our choices to perceive.

This is not the same for my twins.

They live in the moment. They don't decide if I meant to do something, or if I am being passive aggressive or cranky. They don't forgive me for feeding them late because I didn't hear them crying. They don't care if I have to pee, when they are wet and dirty. Everything happens now. Everything is one hundred percent real. They don't project themselves into the future, or bring their feelings from the past. It makes them so entirely different from us adults. They are pure experience, without the baggage of past trauma, or the weight of social expectations.

They will learn those expectations soon enough. They will start to remember events and project themselves into an imaginary future. They will complicate their world to match mine. But for now, I do my best to make each experience positive and loving. Because that is all they have to hold. And that is everything they are to me.

They are my perfect experiences on the journey from Father to Dad.

Words for a friend's late son after his funeral

When Jack asked me to speak I was honoured and humbled to be part of this day. But I soon became confused. I started thinking about what to say. I struggled deciding how to structure my thoughts and what to say in my opening remarks. The enormity of the thing didn't catch me. That is self-evident in this tragedy. I had no worries about opening up and sharing my sadness with a crowd. I had no fear of public speaking.

I was confused by vocabulary.

I didn't know what to call this. I thought of referring to it as a memorial. But that seemed too sad for a kid with such a genuine love of life. I wondered if it should be a celebration of life. But that seemed to mock the circumstances of a life ended too soon. I couldn't decide how to address the crowd without resorting to words too small and inappropriate. 'Welcome to our event'. 'We are glad you could be here on this occasion'. Everything sounded wrong. They sounded weird. And then I realized I had the premise wrong. Blake's concern for the mortal world has ended. But his life, for those in this room, isn't finished.

There are not many things in life I am sure of. All the big questions fall short of certainty in my mind. I don't know any truths about god or the universe or what should or shouldn't happen. What I do know is that life, at its essence, is about relationships. In that simple truth lies the tragedy and the salvation of Blake's passing.

Losing Blake is a gut punch of grief for many reasons. He was a good kid, on the verge of becoming a wonderful young man. The hard work of raising him was lessening a little and Blake's family were starting to see the individual beauty they had created.

All of this sucks.

All of this is a potent reminder that sometimes life is the exact opposite of kind and fun.

But I don't think this is the fundamental tragedy here. Life is about relationships. And a cornerstone of Blake's family and friends has been altered beyond recognition. For Jack, Erin, and Donna a pillar of family has been removed. For Autumn and the rest of Blake's family a hole exists in their universe. But Blake's spirit lives on. And, by that, I don't necessarily mean anything esoteric or otherworldly. His memories and actions survive in the collective of his family and friends.

Blake isn't finished here. We all have to hold his place. Our relationship with him hasn't ended.

The Bible, which is not my go to book for understanding, has a nice way of putting this: "For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them". Of course, these were the words of Christ to his followers. But the message remains true. Wherever two or more gather and speak of Blake he will be there with you. Invoke his name often. Behave in a way that honours his memory and is true to the young man he was becoming. Be kind to one another, as he would want. Have fun. Be close with your family and your friends. Because the tragedy that Blake's family shares, and the confusion I had trying to prepare these remarks makes a bit more sense when we remember.

Blake's concern for the mortal world is over. But his life, remembered and acted through ours, has lifetimes to go.

The Most Important Lesson I Learned Playing Hockey

It wasn't the value of hard work. I know it should have been. But I didn't work hard growing up. I didn't skip practices or cheat at drills. I did the minimum required. Any off-season training was coincidence. I played a lot of road hockey. I amused myself by tying pillows to my legs with my Dad's seldom used ties and threw a rubber ball against our living room wall. I played goal with myself. It wasn't a strategy. I didn't have a gaming system or cable t.v. and lived in a small Vancouver Island town. It was teenage survival in a media barren landscape.

It wasn't the importance of team work or teammates. I was a goalie. Teammates had no context for what I did. I didn’t share their hockey concerns. I liked them. Some of them I loved. A few I still do. I think of all of them fondly. But goaltending is a solitary position in a decidedly team experience. Teammates were potential screens, not shot blockers. I viewed most as liabilities. I'm sure most viewed me the same. Hockey did act as a catalyst for growing up. And those teammates were amongst the protagonists in my coming of age story. But it wasn't because of hockey. It could have been basketball, or wrestling, or drama club. Anything that forces young boys together over time will be a crucible of friendship.

It wasn't hard lessons about winning and losing. I learned them. But the odd thing about a team game is the randomness of the outcome compared to personal performances. I've won a lot games when I was terrible. I've lost games and played great. The difference between those performances is small. It's a little luck, good or bad. It's a puck that squeezes through the five hole and goes wide. It's a misplayed puck that results in a goal, or doesn't. From what I've seen, the NHL is still like that. The narrative of each game turns on a few flukes of physics.

It wasn't leadership. Captains were either the best player on the team, or the coaches son. Sometimes, that Venn diagram overlapped. Sometimes it didn't. Instead of leadership, I learned the importance of networks. Who you were, where you were from and what you've done before played a disproportionate role in the selection of travel teams. As boys and young men we didn't try and stand out. We strove for that impossible place of unique sameness. We wanted to be special and different, without separating ourselves from the crowd. Leadership is stuff of the grown up world. 

The most important lesson I learned playing hockey is how to see the world. There is a tongue-in-cheek saying about two types of people in the world--those who split the world into two types and those who don't. In that dichotomy, I do. I separate people by those who compare themselves to their betters and those who don’t. In this blunt evaluation I see people that do as seekers, explorers and friends. I see those that don't as delusional justifiers who over-estimate their importance, intelligence and skills. I realize that's harsh and a bit prickish, but it's my experience.

Playing hockey I learned to compare myself to better players. As a young kid I compared myself to the less skilled and less successful. That was an exercise of ego. I never thought I was good. When I tell people I won provincial championships, played Junior B and on a university team they think I was good. I think about how far I was from my dreams. As I grew up around hockey I learned to compare myself to those who made the show, or should have. I do this in all aspects of life now.

Forget hard work, team work, teammates, wins, losses and leadership. Hockey taught me I'm not good enough. I wasn't genetically gifted. I am short, and have mediocre reflexes. I can't overcome that. Even Ron Maclean's poetic vignettes-as-life-lessons he uses as nostalgic Vaseline to soften the hard focus of Don Cherry's scatter-shot rage did not help. Sometimes the lesson is you can't do it. I learned about hard work in a grocery store, at a fish cannery and in grad school. Now, I recognize it in my youth. I learned about team work and teammates playing Nintendo Ice hockey and watching the NHL. Through those I understood the subtle differences that teammates brought to a game, and the importance of various roles on outcomes. The only lessons I learned about wins and losses sucked. Sometimes I feel good in defeat. Sometimes I feel awful in victory. The difference is random and small and seldom in our control. Leadership I learned from Harrison Ford movies and politics. Only those reluctantly dragged to the front should be followed. If you seek power and leadership, you are not to be trusted. 

I continue to compare myself to those who are smarter, work harder, have more skill and are more successful. I spend my days working at the rink, writing a dissertation, renovating my home, exploring my faults, writing blogs and lectures for university classes, and working hard to raise my children right. I know I'll fail at all of these things, compared to those I wish to be like. But, I'll work hard and get help and I'll accomplish my goals as much as life's constraints allow. 

Maybe I learned more than I thought. 

Birthdays

I am uncomfortable with my birthday.

I'm not uncomfortable with the concept. I quite enjoy celebrating the birth of loved ones. I just like mine to pass quietly. I've never been comfortable with undeserved attention. I don't mind being watched while I play hockey, do Judo, drive Zamboni or lecture. But the feeling of being stared at for something beyond my control brings childish pain to the surface.

It's fucking melodramatic, but childish hurts never go away completely.

They are always a part of who we are. If we are lucky, or work hard to deal with them, they become small parts of a large and stable whole. But they are still there, thinly covered scars. A little irritation will open them.

That's the feeling of birthday wishes for me.

Intellectually, I understand this is ridiculous. I understand, and am flattered, that people care and want to say, "Hey! We're glad you were born". In the moments I'm usually fine. I can accept and enjoy the expression of love. But the anxious waiting brings me back. The anticipation of an awkward exchange from someone I don't know well, whose wishes feel like social obligation, disturbs the nine year old boy in me . He was having a great day with friends until someone pointed, shrugged up their shoulders to their ears, and laughed with their own friends at his fused vertebrae.

I told you it was fucking melodramatic.

But the past is only separated by context. That little boy still doesn't like new places and new people. What if they're mean too? Luckily, I'm a grown up now and I can do what I want. When looking after my children, and the shadow of myself, I try and remember the best piece of parenting advice I ever got. "Of course you can make them do what you need. That's why you're bigger than them".

I can. And I do. I go new places, meet new people and don't let that disheartened nine year old make decisions anymore. But he is always close to the surface of my feelings. His scar never healed. I do my best to keep him safe.

It means avoiding small awkwardness at the price of more love, and birthday wishes.

My Mom and the Legacy of Freedom

My Mom is nice.

My Mom is unbelievably nice.

My Mom is pathologically nice.

In other words, my Mom tends towards co-dependency. I've had a hard time figuring out why. My Dad wasn't a drinker. Like any blue collar man of his era he enjoyed it. A night at the local Legion, or a house party with friends, was the safe space for men of his generation to talk about themselves and their feelings. But, he escaped the genetic disposition for a real practice of boozing. Basically, my Pops was a flyweight. From what I understand of co-dependency my Mom should have married to a serious drinker, a real bottle of scotch a day alcoholic.

Was she just lucky? Was I?

Not surprisingly, the answer is more complicated than Dr. Drew, Dr. Phil and the other t.v. doctors made me believe. My Mom is one of the many results of WWII.

No, seriously.

I don't think my Grampa was a real drinker either. He drank a bit when he was younger, but that is hardly evidence. Like so many men the war changed him. We went from small town British Columbia to big cities and front lines. He was one of the men who moved from heavy artillery to a place in the lead boats as the Allies stormed Normandy. Without being wounded in battle he was thoroughly scarred.

My Mom says he never talked about the war growing up. It is the job of parents to shield their children after all. But, when enough time passed he told us grandkids. We were privy to stories, now glorified, about the war. They were less gory and heartbreaking and more glorious--less Kubrik and more Hemingway. As a child, I was enthralled by his stories of close calls and motorcycle escapes. I marveled at scenes of death, implied to my childish imagination, never fully disclosed.

As an adult I began to understand. I don't mean an adult in the legal or biological sense. I mean a fully realized man who embraces, accepts and works on their flaws instead of hiding and denying their truth. I pieced together my Grampa's story. The war turned him, and a generation of men and women, into a mirror addict. Too many from his generation had signs and symptoms of the disease.It was a too real reflection of their experiences. Those, like my Gramps, without the genetic burden  for alcoholism slowed. They returned, more or less, to the persons they were before.

Time may not heal, but it does provide distance from those emotional and physical scars. Time short-circuits the need to numb emotions with booze for those able to put the war behind them.

My Grampa's story, of course, is also my Mom's story. As the oldest daughter she became parentalized after the war. She had to take care of siblings and her parents more than was healthy. This isn't a story of blame. I only seek understanding and a realization of self.

My Mom's story is my own. I let myself be manipulated for a disproportionate amount of praise. I go out of my way for friends, or colleagues, in an attempt to overcome the feeling I'm not enough. I find too much self worth in others. I wasn't parentalized, like my Mom, but the war resounds in my story too. As my children grow, I'll keep looking in and back to clarify and understand my world.

I hope the echo dies with me.

A slightly more thought out discussion of the Canucks' draft day shenanigans

Everyone with a sense of proportion, not bastardized by hearing too many arguments of false-equivalence that compare Christian fundamentalism to atheism or men's rights to world-wide misogyny, understands Schneider for the ninth pick is an awful deal.

Of course, the contradictory nature of sportswriters meant a lot of carpal tunnel was developed trying to justify the deal. Yes, the Canucks need to rebuild their farm system. Yes, the Canucks are short on prospects. Yes, Bo Hor-whatever-his-name-is, is a good prospect.

But, can anyone tell me that a potential second line NHLer is equivalent to an established number one netminder?

Are you also going to tell me how hard straight white men have it? And is there a war on religion in North America too? Is 'reverse' racism just as bad as actual racism?

Snark aside, momentarily, the return for Schneider is not my real concern. As a fan, this pick signifies the end of this era. The chance for another run at the Cup has ended. The window has closed. The door is shut. (Insert your own clichéd metaphor here).

Gillis's decision to not take Edmonton's offer, which included an actual person, is a decision to rebuild the team. There aren't blue chip prospects on the verge of making the team and pushing for top six ice time. There isn't a Logan Couture to our Joe Thornton to take over the team's offensive duties. We don't have a pair of young stars to let the twins transition into veteran helpers on a cup worthy team. The defence remains suspect. Luongo's head space will be an ongoing couch-psychologists dream. This team can't win.

And that doesn't bother me much. I'm used to not winning. As I've wrote before, I find it comforting. (http://vansunsportsblogs.com/2013/05/14/guest-post-the-canucks-lost-again-a-requiem-for-hockey-dreams/?utm_medium=twitter&utm_source=twitterfeed)

What I don't like is the lie. Maybe Gillis doesn't think he is rebuilding. Maybe he thinks there is a way to turn the few prospects he has into assets for a Cup run. Maybe he thinks the twins aren't on the downside of their careers. (For the record, they definitely are). Maybe he thinks Kesler can stay healthy and he can find a couple of cheap shut down defenceman. Maybe Mr. Gillis should make a list of what this team needs, what he has and compare the two. It is easy to see a clear future when you don't sketch it out. Your brain will fill in gaps and gloss over large areas of concern.

Maybe I'm the one missing something. Maybe there is one more run left in this team. Maybe Bo will step right in and add the depth we've needed for years. But, maybe not. I fear we are entering our late-Iggy Calgary Flames era. We have a management unwilling to admit mistakes and call for a rebuild. We have fans who want to believe the magic can be captured one more time.

I hope they are right. I hope I am wrong. But I doubt it.

Who am I?

I'm the type of man who wants to live without attachments and experience the world as Zen contemplation.

I'm actually the type of man who is easily hurt and prone to displays of passive aggression.

I'm the type of man who wants to live a spartan life of rigor, small tastes and stoicism.

I'm actually the type of man who prefers watching modern Spartans clash while eating ice cream in my underwear.

I'm the type of man who wants to take his coffee black.

I'm actually the type of man who likes cream and sugar and a lot of chocolate syrup in my poor man's mocha.

I'm the type of man who wants to be a black belt in Judo.

I'm actually the type of man who stopped going when I got older, tired and received my brown belt.

I'm the type of man who never wants to say "good enough".

I'm actually the type of man who.......actually, I just covered this.

I'm the type of man who wants to be unconcerned with being handsome or chiseled.

I'm actually the type of man who can't let go of that childhood memory of looking different and feeling out of place.

I'm the type of man who wants to be able to fix cars, and sinks and trouble shoot appliances.

I'm actually the type of man who needs a brother-in-law to fix his truck, google and repeated attempts to fix sinks and a consumer culture of disposable appliances to replace broken toasters.

I'm the type of man who wants to be above praise, congratulations and adoration.

I'm actually the type of man who just wants to show off.

I'm the type of man who wants to be an intellectual and academic giant.

I'm actually the type of man who wastes too much time navel gazing and writing meaningless blog posts in hopes of instant gratification.

I'm the type of man who wants to know when it is enough.

I'm actually the type of man who doesn't know when I should have stopped--the last set was better, I think.

I'm also the type of man who can't stick to format or be happy with what I've done.

Or, is that just the type of guy I want to be and secretly I love all praise and am too rigid too often?

Now, I'm confused.

Such is the danger of self-exploration and building a narrative of self.

A quick post in regards to the 2013 NHL draft

Mike Gillis is not good at his job.

My ongoing, and somewhat existential, hockey crisis

Another season has closed.

I'm sad to see hockey put to sleep for the summer. But my anger, frustration and joy can use the break.

I'm a reasonably rational and self-aware man. Yet, I allow myself to rise and fall with the highs and lows of my team. I realize this is silly. I understand I don't  actually play for 'my team'. I'm old enough to know loving hockey is absurdity of the highest order. But I still love it. I still want to watch it. And I know heartbreaks will continue to outnumber ecstasies.

This means, I'm periodically forced into a crisis of understanding myself, my choices and my love of this game.

When I was younger, hockey taught me lessons. Some were valuable, most were trivial, few still apply. Those lessons about character and resilience are still useful, when I remember them. But, as a much wiser man told me, "Life is a game of remembering and forgetting". And I forget far more than I remember.

Why do I continue to put so much energy into this game? Is it simply habit? Am I the product of Canadian indoctrination into a culture of hockey nostalgia? Am I just too lazy to find a new sport to love?

All of this is a little true. But, hockey still soothes and angers me because it is continual practice for life. I'm not comparing hockey joys and sorrows to life's keystone events. But, hockey (any sport really) lets me understand those feelings, during a time when thinking cannot be clear. When my Dad passed, I knew the rush of grief would be followed by an empty, dull and grey vision of the world for a time. Hell, I'm a Canucks fan. I know about losing. When my sons were born I knew that a rush of joy, pride and accomplishment would be followed by a period of questioning whether it was worth it and the perception of emptiness as I came down from the peak.

Hockey connects me to my friends, family, community and country. This is all well established stuff. But hockey also connects me to my feelings. As a guy, especially a sensitive lad who spent much of his life hiding and controlling his feelings, this provides real value to my world. Hockey is safe practice for my heart.

As I, metaphorically, live and die with my team I practice for real life and death.

Melodramatic? Sure. But, I need some justification for a love with such paltry returns.

Momentum

Forget all that horse shit about 'the secret' and how life is totally fair and you make bad and good stuff happen. That New Age lie about your ability to change the world drips with privilege and myopic perspective. Sometimes we replay traumas over and over as our sub-conscious tries to control them. Sometimes we are in a good space and can see opportunities. But don't lie to yourself that your fucking thoughts were the engine of change.

The only thing I've found that changes my life is momentum. The more momentum I gain at work, in the gym or in a relationship the better the outcomes. Momentum is a byproduct of work, and a little bit of help when you feel low. It is all about practice, flow, productivity.....whatever word you use for work.

Work leads to momentum which leads to more work. You don't have to think good thoughts, or attract fame and riches.

You just have to put your head down and skate.  

(It probably should be noted I am doing this instead of writing my dissertation).

Torts: A near perfect fit

I have no opinion on the coaching skills of John Tortorella. Most of us shouldn’t. We aren’t privy to the internal decisions of a coaching staff. We don’t have access to their cabals. We don’t know which decisions are made by which coach or how much input the head coach has on the systems that often determine a team’s success.

All we know about most coaches is based on an assumption of dictatorial status. All we have is the professional face they choose to represent the team. And for that, I think Torts is a near perfect fit for my beloved Vancouver Canucks.

John Tortorella continues the more than decade long trend of un-likening my team. (What!?! It might be a word). 

It started with year that saw the failed Messier experiment, the exile of our Captain and the scrubbing of 94’s warm feelings from memory. John Tortorella may be a nice man, I have no idea. He may be wonderful to his family, friends, orphans and rescue stray dogs. But, as a coach he represents himself as angry and bitter and full of impudent rage.

Oh, for a return of Odjick and the spontaneous and joyous violence of our youth.

Obviously the game has moved on. No longer would the antics of Gino be allowed in this watered-down and white-washed NHL. Too few of the game’s keepers have the blue collar ethic the game demands. Most players still have it, and continue to fight for its preservation. The game demands the immediate response of physical play, and even violent altercation.

Torts represents the bully who never has to answer. He is all abrasive half-wit and unnecessary dismal of those that dare to question him. His collar has been bleached white, but his remarks and personality remain comically blue. He is the future of the NHL, devoid of toughness, stoicism and men like Gino Odjick.

People rarely understand that the primary job of an enforcer is to police young men’s egos. A beating, real or potential, checks the hubris of youth. The fight itself is an unnecessary intervention. Understanding the possibility is enough.

Torts comes to a team full of those unable or unwilling to do more than talk, or occasionally bite. In my, admittedly biased and disappointed, mind he is another Burrows, Kesler, or Lapierre. He is another pest who will watch their star player punched in the mouth repeatedly and do nothing. We don’t need another mouth to be punched. We need someone to stand up to the bully, not just verbally imitate one.

And, by we, I mean me.

The Canucks don’t have a long tradition of winning championships and producing feel good stories. Is it too much I actually enjoy watching the team? Please understand, Burrows, Kesler and Lapierre are all good to very good hockey players. I’d love to have any one of them on my team.

The key word there was one.

I can enjoy the antics of one skater whose purpose in life is to drive the other team to distraction. I can’t enjoy a team with such over-abundance of them. And I won’t enjoy a team whose public persona is gruff, but unlovable and over-sensitive without being occasionally kind. 

So, welcome John Tortorella to a team already built in your image. I look forward to a few seasons of your anger, divorced from resolve, and a team without joy, violent or otherwise.

On coming home, nearly

My little ones have been in the NICU for two weeks now. They are on the verge of coming home. They were 35 weeks at birth and tomorrow would have been their planned c-section. The little fellas were both breech from the start. I'm not sure who in our family is directionally challenged, but we'll find someone to blame.

Having babies in the NICU is an opportunity to see the same story in starkly contrasting ways. Should I be horrified that nurses and doctors had to save their lives when they stopped breathing after being pulled from Mom? Or, should I be thankful that I live in a country that I don't have to worry about affording such procedures? Do I need to pick one or the other? I suppose I don't, but it feels like I do.

As a general rule I choose to be thankful for the most serious of events. I save my whining and moaning for trivial things.

Their time in the NICU let us observe hundreds of years of collective nursing experience. It is always a pleasure to watch those who are great at their jobs. My favourite line was from a young nurse, Adam, in awe of one of the old matrons: "Rena could feed a bottle to a rock". I believe it. My littlest one had trouble finishing his bottle sometimes and I would ask a nurse to help. Even when I was competent, and confident I knew what I was doing, Rena could get a couple more millilitres into the little ones. It was a pleasure to see.

Specifically, I am thankful for Rena, and Adam and all the nurses and doctors that helped my slightly undercooked twins get strong, healthy and on their way home.

I may whine and moan when I get peed on, or when I have to change a diaper five minutes after it was freshly donned. But as scary as their start in life was, I am profoundly thankful for it.

Hockey Musings from a new Dad on his first Father's Day

Another guest post about the idea of loves, new and old.

http://vansunsportsblogs.com/2013/06/17/guest-post-in-honour-of-fathers-day-reflections-from-a-new-hockey-loving-dad/

Tick Tick Tick....Hide

I like the spiritual pornography of astrology. It's not actual search for enlightenment, only another simulation. In the abstract, neither astrology nor pornography are particularly damaging. As widespread systems of social influence, both are disastrous to many.

But, the metaphor of the crab works well for me.

When life's commitments and goals feel heavy, I hide in plain sight. I don't blow up, get snarky, or overcompensate with enthusiasm. I simply revert to non-engagement. I doubt this is the healthiest thing, but it has served me well. And I'm a sucker for nostalgia.

But my little ones are born, and I have a lifetime of uncomfortable choices to make. I like being an introvert. I will always prefer a few close friends over dozens, or hundreds, of acquaintances. I will be happy if my little men turn out the same. I just want them to be aware of themselves, their motivations, their strengths and weaknesses. I want critical little guys, not judgmental little fellas. It will be a hard line to walk. It has been for me.

I need to walk into discomfort. I need to be present and available at birthday parties and skating events even when I'd rather be alone with a book. I can take my crabby shell with me, but I better make sure I don't shield myself from my boys.

You are always welcome to see my tender side. I hope it helps you develop your own. And together we can work on facing life's stresses, when we just want to nap.

Things I know to be true....probably, maybe, possibly

Intelligence, self-awareness, and knowledge are vastly over-rated.

I find this sad, since I am reasonably bright, somewhat self-aware and pretty-well educated. But, these don't serve me as well as I've lead myself to believe. The truth is that practice, action and behaviour are more important by many orders of magnitude.

Shit.

Before History is Revised

I'm a new Dad, of twin boys. When I saw them for the first time I was fascinated, intrigued, and concerned. I also had no idea who they were. I should have expected this. But, I believed the popular narrative that the first look is love. That's revisionist history at work. The first look is a question: Who are you, and where are the people I constructed in my thoughts?

Of course, these little men will grow and change and I'll tell myself I loved them from the start. I wanted them. I needed to look after them. I had the instinct to protect and shelter. But I didn't love them, yet. How do you love something you don't know? Should you?

So, little ones, this a reminder for Dad to remember what is, not reinvent what was and try not to anticipate what might be.

You are here, in this moment and that is more than enough. No matter who you are.

My latest hockey blog musings

Enjoy my take on small minded analysts taking my role, as a small minded viewer.

http://vansunsportsblogs.com/2013/06/05/guest-post-stop-it-with-the-small-minded-pre-determined-narratives-thats-my-job/?utm_medium=twitter&utm_source=twitterfeed

My Favourite Time of the Year.

I love the first warm night of the year.

This isn't a deep symbolic thing about the changing of seasons and the circle of life. I love the first warm night of summer because it lets me hide. This first night, without a hint of chill in the wind, opens my world. I am not a fan of the light. I like to walk the world and not see others. My favourite memories are these nights, with friends--a cloak of night, a cloak of friendship.

Super cheezy, I know.

But there is a tangible effect to the warm late spring air, encircled by those who you let hold your heart. It's fucking magical. I don't mean that in some new-age way. I mean a real and profound way to get over the childhood nonsense that makes me want to hide, and to be present in the public space of our world. That is magic.

Warm nights and close friends let me hide from the past and be present.
Real magic.

A dark night, that sheds light still

This is a bittersweet moment.

But, it never fails to make me smile.

It was the night my Dad died.

I drove back to my home town that night, knowing the end was near. He had cancer. After my two older sisters went home for a couple of hours sleep I was left with him, and my Mom. He was awake and alert and I joked, "now that your favourite is here, you can go when you need to". He couldn't talk. He had cancer of the mouth and throat. He looked at my Mom, smiled and then looked at me and held up two fingers.

I was his second favourite. Mom was, as she should have been, his favourite person in the world. He died a few hours later, with my Mom at his side. It was sad. It made the world a little smaller, and lonelier. But, it makes me smile to know that his relationship was always the thing he treasured most in life. It wasn't always perfect, and mistakes were made. But, I was never his favourite and that makes me happy.

Other Hockey Writing

Here are a couple of guest posts I've done for hockey blogs. Please enjoy:

http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/nhl-puck-daddy/guest-post-confessions-zamboni-operator-224143521--nhl.html

http://vansunsportsblogs.com/2013/05/14/guest-post-the-canucks-lost-again-a-requiem-for-hockey-dreams/?utm_medium=twitter&utm_source=twitterfeed