270507/2354—Here we are once again, on the eve of my favourite two weeks of the year: Stanley Cup–final time. And for the third consecutive final, a Canadian team is battling an American team. Usually in such a case, the question of whom I’m rooting for is, to use a basketball metaphor, a slam dunk (would that be a mixed metaphor, then, using a basketball expression in a hockey context?): the Canadian team, of course. Only, this year that formula has encountered a snag, so I’m going into the Cup final with seriously mixed feelings.
Canada’s representative, the Ottawa Senators, has been dynamite since Christmas, and when the Stanley Cup tournament commenced in mid-April, I (purely objectively) picked them as a dark horse to win it all. Their performance in the first three rounds, as they tore through Pittsburgh, New Jersey, and then Buffalo, served to solidify my hunch, but also to push me closer to this abyss I’m now gazing into. See, the Sens are the Toronto Maple Leafs’ provincial rival, and I, unfortunately, am a long-time Leafs junkie (yet another example of my masochistic tendencies). So how can I in good conscience cheer for Ottawa? At the same time, how can I, a hockey-loving Canadian, in good conscience cheer for an American team? I don’t think it even snows in Anaheim.
Hockey fans I’ve talked to are divided into two camps: Leafs diehards are cheering for Anaheim, and everyone else is cheering for Ottawa. Polls across Canada reveal similar allegiances. Apparently, there’s no room in Leaf Nation for the idea of Ottawa winning a Cup. The thought is tantamount to sacrilege, blasphemy, Hell freezing over. I wholeheartedly concur. “No Sens No!” This antipathy is of course rooted in deep-seated envy and bitterness, but that just proves how neurotic Leaf Nation is. I usually laugh when I hear what Gino from Woodbridge has to say on the FAN radio call-in shows, or when I read what he writes on the Sun “Have Your Say” page (yes, I listen to sports radio and occasionally read the Sun). But suddenly I find myself agreeing with him. I don’t think I can find it in my heart to root for Ottawa. It would complicate my already-complicated feelings for the Leafs. Indeed, every time I caught myself cheering for Ottawa against Jersey (only because I hate Jersey more than I do the Sens), I felt like I was cheating on the Buds.
On the other hand, wouldn’t it be so nice for Canada to bring home the cup for the first time in fourteen years? As a hockey fan, I’d not only scream YES!, but also admit that Ottawa would be a very deserving winner. The hockey they’ve played in the last six weeks—hell, since Christmas—has been nothing short of terrific. They’re as dominant a club as I’ve seen in a long time—just look at the teams they beat in the first three rounds—and it wouldn’t at all surprise me if they win. But as much of a hockey fan as I may be, I’m an even bigger Leafs fan. And I’ve already explained what that means. If there were a Leafs Fans Anonymous, I’d have accomplished the first two steps toward joining: 1) admitting that I’m powerless over my addiction, that my life had become unmanageable, and 2) coming to believe that a Power greater than myself could restore me to sanity.
Here’s the stat that kills me: Since the Leafs’ last Stanley Cup appearance in 1967, every team except four expansionists (Atlanta, Columbus, Nashville, and San Jose) and one transplant (Phoenix) has at least been to a Stanley Cup final. (Technically, the Minnesota Wild haven’t made it, but the North Stars did.) Even the two Floridian expansion teams and Carolina (transplanted from Hartford) have made it. Now Ottawa has made it too. In the long run, then, not getting there seems tougher than getting there. Yet Toronto’s shutout streak remains intact, and hearts around Leaf Nation remain broken.
One thing I do love about the Leafs’ missing the playoffs is that I can watch the games objectively, without all the emotional turmoil of worrying that the Buds will lose. So I’ve really enjoyed the last two post-seasons. Last year, the first post-lockout playoffs, the hockey was excellent, and the Cinderella Oilers surprised and charmed a nation, only to fall in Game Seven to the Hurricanes. I rooted for the Oilers, of course, but seeing them lose wasn’t even remotely devastating for me, not like a Leafs loss would be. This year, the hockey hasn’t been quite as exciting—maybe because the refs have called too many chintzy penalties, or because the games have been low scoring—but I’ve still watched every game I can, hoping the Sens wouldn’t make the finals yet fearing they would. Now my fear has come true. So I find myself stuck on a barbwire fence. I honestly can’t cheer for either team. And I can’t cheer for both teams, unless . . . They can split atoms; can they split personalities?
One thing’s for sure: I won’t miss a game.
28.5.07
18.5.07
The Day The Lights Went On
150407/1916—So I’m walking along the street around the corner from my house. I’ve lived in this neighbourhood—Bathurst and 401—for ten years, and I’ve never felt even vaguely threatened or worried about walking the streets at night, much less during daylight. Possibly this feeling of security has to do with my being a big guy, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, I have a shawarma sandwich in my right hand and my cellphone in my left. I’m talking on the phone to a buddy, just walking along, when suddenly I feel a blow to the base of my skull.
“What the hell? ”
(Later my buddy, the one I was talking to on the phone, would say, “We were talking, and then all of a sudden I hear, ‘What the hell?’ and then a big clatter, and then the phone went dead. I thought you’d been hit by a car or something. It kinda freaked me out.”)
My first thought is that I just bumped my head really hard on something, because that’s how it feels. I mean, I’m seeing stars, Roman candles, whatever, that flashing-light experience inside my head, accompanied by a heavy, painful thrum reverberating through my skull. But then I realize you usually bump into things in front of you. My next thought, as I’m turning around to see what the hell’s happening behind me, is that someone recognized me from behind, and came up and slapped me across the head. And I’m about to say, “You know, that would’ve been funny, except it really hurt.”
Having turned around, I see a guy I’ve never seen before: white, mid-twenties, crew cut, wife-beater shirt, track pants. As I jam my phone into my pocket, I say, “What the hell, man? Why’d you just hit me? Who’re you?”
The guy has his fists up and a snarl on his face.
“You motherfucker,” he snarls, “why the fuck’d you do that? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”
“Dude,” I say, trying to collect my thoughts, “I don’t even know you. What is it you think I did?”
“You know exactly what you did, motherfucker,” he says, coming at me again.
He starts attacking. His fists fly, but slowly. With my free arm I easily block his punches, as though I know where they’re going. As though I’m a seasoned street-fighter. Then I realize my right hand is beginning to tense up, and I’m getting ready to hit back. Sure, why not? The guy slugged me. Suckerpunched me, for fucksake. And here he is continuing his unexplained attack. He deserves a shot or two to the head. Recompense, right? Eye for an eye.
Now let me make one thing clear: I’m not a violent guy (except when I’m pummelling myself). I’m not a seasoned street-fighter. I haven’t been in a scuffle since high school. But here I am getting ready to fight. I’m confused: What’s this guy’s problem? How have I offended him? I’m surging with adrenaline. I can feel the first awakenings of anger. Yet strangely I don’t feel threatened. As though I know that this guy, with his wild, ineffectual punches, can’t hurt me. That only I can hurt me.
As quickly as the situation is escalating, I still manage to keep my head. That is, I’m able to mentally step back and assess the situation. And I realize that if I don’t feel threatened, I needn’t counterattack. The only thing my punching back will satisfy is my anger. And anger, I have learned, never needs to be satisfied.
Amid the anger and adrenaline, a clear thought rings through my head: I don’t want to hit this guy. I don’t even know him. And maybe most oddly, a second thought, calm and rational: Protect your shawarma.
Immediately I relax my right hand, saving the sandwich from certain squishing. Instead of hitting back, I again appeal to reason.
“What’s your problem, man?” I say, still blocking his ineffectual punches. “Just tell me what I did to you.”
He stops punching and snarls, “You know what you did, motherfucker. I’m gonna kill you.” Now he’s trying to stare me down.
I want to just turn and walk away, but I don’t want another shot in the back of the head. And I don’t want him to think he’s stared me down. So casually I begin backing away. Again I say, “I don’t even know who you are. Why don’t you just tell me what I did.”
“You motherfucker,” he says, following me, “don’t look at me. Don’t even look at me.”
I’m opening up some distance between us, but I still don’t want to turn my back on him. He continues to urge me not to look at him. Then out of nowhere he says, “What, motherfucker, you want to suck my cock?” And he pulls down his track pants and flashes me.
That’s when it clicks for me: this guy is either on something or off something. He’s psychotic. Standing in the middle of the road, with his track pants around his knees, having finally stopped following me, he screams over and over, “Don’t look at me motherfucker!”
Once I feel there’s enough distance between us, I turn my back on him. But I continue to look over my shoulder, keeping an eye on him. Still standing there, he finally pulls up his pants. As I turn onto the street that leads to my street, he begins running in the other direction, away from me.
I walk briskly, frequently looking over my shoulder. I don’t want this guy following me. I don’t want him to know where I live. My hands are shaking, my heart racing as adrenaline slowly ebbs. My anger remains. Although it hasn’t progressed, it has begun to fuel self-doubt. Have I done the right thing by walking away? Or have I fled, tail between my legs? Should I have kicked the shit out of the guy? Cautiously I decide I’ve done the right thing.
My anger whines, “He suckerpunched you!”
I respond, “So?”
“How could you let him get away with that?”
“No real harm done.”
As if to verify my response, I feel the back of my head. No pain. I have a bit of a headache, though. Slightly concerned, I wonder if I’ve been concussed.
My anger won’t let it lie. “An eye for an eye! Be a man! Stand up for yourself!”
I ignore my anger, can feel it begin to fade, its blood slowly draining. As though fighting for life, it tries to goad me. Calls me wimp, wussy, coward. I think: worst case scenario, I have a concussion. Hitting the guy wouldn’t’ve changed that. Hell, had I fought back, I might be more injured. Looking over my shoulder, turning onto my street, I feel a comforting tickle of pride, of accomplishment, of turning away a potentially dangerous enemy.
By the time I arrive home and turn the key in my door’s lock, my anger has faded. I can’t wait to taste my shawarma.
~
180507/2248—Debriefing: I’ve thought about this incident several times since it occurred. In a calm, reflective, unangry state, I’ve reviewed it in many ways—how it played out, how it could’ve played out. Dozens of times I’ve pictured my adversary’s snarling, hate-filled face. I’ve walked past the spot where it happened (always looking over my shoulder), wondered where he came from and where he fled to. I’ve re-experienced my confusion and uncertainty as to his deluded motivations. I’ve stood in an otherwise empty room, replaying the crucial events in my head, ducking and blocking imagined punches. I’ve even punched back at an imagined target, landing that satisfying knockout blow. And each time I revisit the incident, I arrive at the same conclusion: By doing nothing, I did the right thing. I wasn’t hurt (i.e., no concussion). I didn’t hurt anyone or damage anything. I protected my shawarma. And most importantly, I didn’t succumb to the anger which so often in the past has gotten the best of me, and which could have exacerbated the situation in potentially gruesome ways.
I’ve also discussed the incident with several people. Interestingly, and without exception, the only ones who said I should’ve fought back are those familiar with punching walls as a solution to anger management. Which validates, in a bittersweet way, my conclusion that I did the right thing. My small victory that day has since helped me to win other battles with myself. Each act of resistance helps make the next attempt at resistance easier. The war, I well know, is never over.
“What the hell? ”
(Later my buddy, the one I was talking to on the phone, would say, “We were talking, and then all of a sudden I hear, ‘What the hell?’ and then a big clatter, and then the phone went dead. I thought you’d been hit by a car or something. It kinda freaked me out.”)
My first thought is that I just bumped my head really hard on something, because that’s how it feels. I mean, I’m seeing stars, Roman candles, whatever, that flashing-light experience inside my head, accompanied by a heavy, painful thrum reverberating through my skull. But then I realize you usually bump into things in front of you. My next thought, as I’m turning around to see what the hell’s happening behind me, is that someone recognized me from behind, and came up and slapped me across the head. And I’m about to say, “You know, that would’ve been funny, except it really hurt.”
Having turned around, I see a guy I’ve never seen before: white, mid-twenties, crew cut, wife-beater shirt, track pants. As I jam my phone into my pocket, I say, “What the hell, man? Why’d you just hit me? Who’re you?”
The guy has his fists up and a snarl on his face.
“You motherfucker,” he snarls, “why the fuck’d you do that? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!”
“Dude,” I say, trying to collect my thoughts, “I don’t even know you. What is it you think I did?”
“You know exactly what you did, motherfucker,” he says, coming at me again.
He starts attacking. His fists fly, but slowly. With my free arm I easily block his punches, as though I know where they’re going. As though I’m a seasoned street-fighter. Then I realize my right hand is beginning to tense up, and I’m getting ready to hit back. Sure, why not? The guy slugged me. Suckerpunched me, for fucksake. And here he is continuing his unexplained attack. He deserves a shot or two to the head. Recompense, right? Eye for an eye.
Now let me make one thing clear: I’m not a violent guy (except when I’m pummelling myself). I’m not a seasoned street-fighter. I haven’t been in a scuffle since high school. But here I am getting ready to fight. I’m confused: What’s this guy’s problem? How have I offended him? I’m surging with adrenaline. I can feel the first awakenings of anger. Yet strangely I don’t feel threatened. As though I know that this guy, with his wild, ineffectual punches, can’t hurt me. That only I can hurt me.
As quickly as the situation is escalating, I still manage to keep my head. That is, I’m able to mentally step back and assess the situation. And I realize that if I don’t feel threatened, I needn’t counterattack. The only thing my punching back will satisfy is my anger. And anger, I have learned, never needs to be satisfied.
Amid the anger and adrenaline, a clear thought rings through my head: I don’t want to hit this guy. I don’t even know him. And maybe most oddly, a second thought, calm and rational: Protect your shawarma.
Immediately I relax my right hand, saving the sandwich from certain squishing. Instead of hitting back, I again appeal to reason.
“What’s your problem, man?” I say, still blocking his ineffectual punches. “Just tell me what I did to you.”
He stops punching and snarls, “You know what you did, motherfucker. I’m gonna kill you.” Now he’s trying to stare me down.
I want to just turn and walk away, but I don’t want another shot in the back of the head. And I don’t want him to think he’s stared me down. So casually I begin backing away. Again I say, “I don’t even know who you are. Why don’t you just tell me what I did.”
“You motherfucker,” he says, following me, “don’t look at me. Don’t even look at me.”
I’m opening up some distance between us, but I still don’t want to turn my back on him. He continues to urge me not to look at him. Then out of nowhere he says, “What, motherfucker, you want to suck my cock?” And he pulls down his track pants and flashes me.
That’s when it clicks for me: this guy is either on something or off something. He’s psychotic. Standing in the middle of the road, with his track pants around his knees, having finally stopped following me, he screams over and over, “Don’t look at me motherfucker!”
Once I feel there’s enough distance between us, I turn my back on him. But I continue to look over my shoulder, keeping an eye on him. Still standing there, he finally pulls up his pants. As I turn onto the street that leads to my street, he begins running in the other direction, away from me.
I walk briskly, frequently looking over my shoulder. I don’t want this guy following me. I don’t want him to know where I live. My hands are shaking, my heart racing as adrenaline slowly ebbs. My anger remains. Although it hasn’t progressed, it has begun to fuel self-doubt. Have I done the right thing by walking away? Or have I fled, tail between my legs? Should I have kicked the shit out of the guy? Cautiously I decide I’ve done the right thing.
My anger whines, “He suckerpunched you!”
I respond, “So?”
“How could you let him get away with that?”
“No real harm done.”
As if to verify my response, I feel the back of my head. No pain. I have a bit of a headache, though. Slightly concerned, I wonder if I’ve been concussed.
My anger won’t let it lie. “An eye for an eye! Be a man! Stand up for yourself!”
I ignore my anger, can feel it begin to fade, its blood slowly draining. As though fighting for life, it tries to goad me. Calls me wimp, wussy, coward. I think: worst case scenario, I have a concussion. Hitting the guy wouldn’t’ve changed that. Hell, had I fought back, I might be more injured. Looking over my shoulder, turning onto my street, I feel a comforting tickle of pride, of accomplishment, of turning away a potentially dangerous enemy.
By the time I arrive home and turn the key in my door’s lock, my anger has faded. I can’t wait to taste my shawarma.
~
180507/2248—Debriefing: I’ve thought about this incident several times since it occurred. In a calm, reflective, unangry state, I’ve reviewed it in many ways—how it played out, how it could’ve played out. Dozens of times I’ve pictured my adversary’s snarling, hate-filled face. I’ve walked past the spot where it happened (always looking over my shoulder), wondered where he came from and where he fled to. I’ve re-experienced my confusion and uncertainty as to his deluded motivations. I’ve stood in an otherwise empty room, replaying the crucial events in my head, ducking and blocking imagined punches. I’ve even punched back at an imagined target, landing that satisfying knockout blow. And each time I revisit the incident, I arrive at the same conclusion: By doing nothing, I did the right thing. I wasn’t hurt (i.e., no concussion). I didn’t hurt anyone or damage anything. I protected my shawarma. And most importantly, I didn’t succumb to the anger which so often in the past has gotten the best of me, and which could have exacerbated the situation in potentially gruesome ways.
I’ve also discussed the incident with several people. Interestingly, and without exception, the only ones who said I should’ve fought back are those familiar with punching walls as a solution to anger management. Which validates, in a bittersweet way, my conclusion that I did the right thing. My small victory that day has since helped me to win other battles with myself. Each act of resistance helps make the next attempt at resistance easier. The war, I well know, is never over.
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