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.