So I’ve been thinking about PlayStation 2 for a while now. Destroyed mine back in November, couple days after the Phils beat the Rays in the actual World Series, because I got angry about losing a ball game after growing far too comfortable with winning. The attack totally blindsided me. Didn’t see it coming. One second I’m trying to control what seems like a moderate bout of anger and frustration — totally misplaced as it is — and literally the next I’m rising from my chair, striding toward the console beside the tv set, grabbing the console, smashing it against the coffee table. Repeatedly. Once I finished I felt calm and peaceful, and that was it for baseball and me. All winter I went without playing, recalling my incredibly stupid fit of destruction whenever I suffered an urge for a game. But in mid-February, when spring training came around, I started getting real hankerings.
I can’t say my anger management is better than it’s ever been, because I’ve been here before. I’ve been anger-less, or rather destructive-behaviour–less, for long periods of time, and I’ve always kind of stopped being vigilant, stopped seeing whatever shrink I was seeing, stopped worrying about anger management. Stopped being honest with myself, shut down communication lines. That’s when the destructive behaviour returns. And I never seem to expect it. Thus the risk of getting a new PlayStation. This time, though, I’ve continued my vigilance, continued seeing whatever shrink I’m seeing, continued working on anger management as a moment-to-moment thing rather than dealing with it only as or after it arises. I’ll continue to be proactive rather than reactive.
In this headspace, I’ve been thinking about that PlayStation for a while now. A few weeks ago I resisted an impulse to go out and buy it. I waited. And waited. And waited. And then last Friday, my day off, weekend before MLB opening day, I went. Now lemme back up a moment. In the weeks leading up to Friday, I’d also been pricing the system. One-twenty-nine plus tax, same as the one I’d gotten in 2006. So on Friday I went up the street to that blue-and-yellow consumer vortex, BestBuy, and discovered that the system’s price had that very day dropped twenty bucks. Sure, what’s twenty bucks. Well, hey, I’ll tell you, I’m on a tight budget. Well, no budget really, but I do have very little money to spare these days. Spending way too much on booze and dope. You didn’t read that. So I’m thinking, Cool, twenty bucks in my pocket. Just for being patient. Heh heh, when I’m done here I’ll just pop next door into the liquor store.
Anyway, a blue-shirt comes up to me and introduces himself, Dave, and assures me he’s not on commission, and I say, yeah, I didn’t think the commercials were lying, and he laughs, and I tell him why I’m there and we get into a discussion about PlayStation and baseball video games, and I discover he’s as much of a video game baseball junkie as I am, and he used to play the very game I used to play (EA Sports 2004 MLB something-or-other, the one with Manny Ramirez on the cover), and we talk about that game’s fun points and glitches and then he tells me about MLB 09 The Show, how it’s the same as the other one only waaaaay better, etc etc etc, until I tell him I’m sold. And even then, because he’s not on commission, we continue to talk about video game baseball.
As we’re going to the register to ring up the transaction, Dave asks what happened to my previous console. I pause, wondering if I should tell him the truth. Then I just say it. Anger management. He offers a knowing look and we get to the register and he says, This is what I’m gonna do for you. This warranty covers any damage your console might incur. Not including anger management, he adds with that knowing look. You just call this number on the brochure and they’ll send you a gift certificate for $109 to cover the cost of the system. I’m throwing it in at no extra charge. Now I do have to ring it in to activate it, and it’s twenty-nine ninety-nine, but what I’ll do is I won’t charge you for the game. So it’s a wash.
Well I’m overcome with gratitude. All I can do is thank him. Several times, until he says I can stop thanking him. Let me just say, Dave from BestBuy, if you’re reading this, you’re absolutely right: this game is the same as the other one only waaaaay better. Graphics, realism, play-by-play soundtrack, statistical supplements, degree of difficulty, everything. I’m using it to practise patience. And I’m getting tons of practice. Because whereas on the old game I was a star, kicking rawhide ass and winning every MVP and World Series, on this new one I can barely hit the strike zone or for that matter the ball. But I’ll practise, I’ll get better. I’ll practise. I’ll get better. It’s an ongoing process, requiring patience and honesty.
9.4.09
4.3.09
Stop the Presses, Cuz Ain’t No One Ever Heard This Shit Before . . . Have They?
Dunno what to write. I’m empty. Just finished a 10,000-word story. Sucked everything outta me. Dried me up and tossed away my husk. Now here I am, trying to revitalize. Trying to regain my wind and start from scratch. I know it’ll take a few days. But I want it now. That’s my generation’s defining complex. Perversion of entitlement, I call it. That’s us, that’s Generation X. Subsequent generations, too. But we started it.
(Warning: sweeping generalizations to follow. Maybe one or two already.)
As children, we had everything we could want. Our baby-boomer, doctor-lawyer-executive parents had caught a virulent strain of the (North) American Dream, and we Gen Xers grew up with the symptoms: two-car garages, cottages, kidney-shaped pools in the backyard, two- and three-figure allowances, computers, video games, VCRs, pay-tv, bitter divorces, two birthdays, two Christmases . . . in short, excess. And lots of it. So we Gen Xers coasted into “adulthood” in the recession-riddled nineties, and it was like the carpet being pulled out from under our feet. We may have been educated up the wazoo, but really, we were facing a dead end: no job prospects, no savings, no property, nothing. Just that education up the wazoo, maybe a corresponding student debt, and the parent(s) we could always go back and live with for a while, just until the cloud passed . . . yeah, yeah, the deceptive lure of home’s stunting comforts . . . How could we establish new places to call home when we had neither moolah nor moxie enough to leave the homes of our parent(s) for ones of our own?
(Warning: totally arid and possibly spurious generalizations to follow.)
The answer: We rented. Rented for years. Put close to a hundred grand into someone else’s mortgage over the next decade without coming close to actually owning anything. Lived paycheck-to-paycheck, knowing that if the bottom ever fell out, we could always — sigh — move back in with the folk(s). But so long as we didn’t, so long as we could afford to stay away, we Gen Xers forged homes of our own. Even if we didn’t have two-car garages or cottages or kidney-shaped pools in the backyard, we had the Internet. We had video games. Home entertainment systems. Satellite TV. Five- and six- and even seven-figure salaries. Bitter divorces. Two Christmases (plus Hanukkah and Kwanza). Cellphones and ATMs and fast food on every corner, for every other meal. We had everything we wanted. Because we’d been conditioned to want shallow and technological and sarcastic and chemical distractions. Not just want them; expect them. Even with time, such early and effective conditioning is tough to break. Some of us strive for advancement or enlightenment; many of us avoid any attempt at improvement if it requires real effort, falling back on a default assumption that without lifting a finger, we’ll somehow still get what we want: shallow and technological and sarcastic and chemical. (Perhaps there’s an equation in nature, a ratio — crudely put — of deadbeat citizens to conscientious citizens. The relation seems to be consistent across human populations.) That’s us, that’s Generation X. Which now we can presume stands for Generation Expectation. Perversion of entitlement. We started it.
(Warning: sweeping generalizations to follow. Maybe one or two already.)
As children, we had everything we could want. Our baby-boomer, doctor-lawyer-executive parents had caught a virulent strain of the (North) American Dream, and we Gen Xers grew up with the symptoms: two-car garages, cottages, kidney-shaped pools in the backyard, two- and three-figure allowances, computers, video games, VCRs, pay-tv, bitter divorces, two birthdays, two Christmases . . . in short, excess. And lots of it. So we Gen Xers coasted into “adulthood” in the recession-riddled nineties, and it was like the carpet being pulled out from under our feet. We may have been educated up the wazoo, but really, we were facing a dead end: no job prospects, no savings, no property, nothing. Just that education up the wazoo, maybe a corresponding student debt, and the parent(s) we could always go back and live with for a while, just until the cloud passed . . . yeah, yeah, the deceptive lure of home’s stunting comforts . . . How could we establish new places to call home when we had neither moolah nor moxie enough to leave the homes of our parent(s) for ones of our own?
(Warning: totally arid and possibly spurious generalizations to follow.)
The answer: We rented. Rented for years. Put close to a hundred grand into someone else’s mortgage over the next decade without coming close to actually owning anything. Lived paycheck-to-paycheck, knowing that if the bottom ever fell out, we could always — sigh — move back in with the folk(s). But so long as we didn’t, so long as we could afford to stay away, we Gen Xers forged homes of our own. Even if we didn’t have two-car garages or cottages or kidney-shaped pools in the backyard, we had the Internet. We had video games. Home entertainment systems. Satellite TV. Five- and six- and even seven-figure salaries. Bitter divorces. Two Christmases (plus Hanukkah and Kwanza). Cellphones and ATMs and fast food on every corner, for every other meal. We had everything we wanted. Because we’d been conditioned to want shallow and technological and sarcastic and chemical distractions. Not just want them; expect them. Even with time, such early and effective conditioning is tough to break. Some of us strive for advancement or enlightenment; many of us avoid any attempt at improvement if it requires real effort, falling back on a default assumption that without lifting a finger, we’ll somehow still get what we want: shallow and technological and sarcastic and chemical. (Perhaps there’s an equation in nature, a ratio — crudely put — of deadbeat citizens to conscientious citizens. The relation seems to be consistent across human populations.) That’s us, that’s Generation X. Which now we can presume stands for Generation Expectation. Perversion of entitlement. We started it.
3.3.09
Update
Good evening and welcome to Channel 12 News at 6. In our top story today, a plane did not crash into the Bay of Bengal, not killing all 155 on board. According to reports, the plane made a safe and routine air crossing of the Bay during its flight from Madras to Mandalay. Said the pilot, “I’m sure glad I know how to do this, otherwise it mighta been difficult.” One passenger, wishing to remain anonymous, revealed that the in-flight meal was a choice between kidney pie and tilapia.
In our top local story, this afternoon at a west-end subway station a woman was not pushed in front of a subway train. Please be warned that this story contains graphic images and descriptions. Several witnesses claim that the woman was standing on the yellow strip, close to the edge of the platform, as the 4:12 eastbound entered the station running ninety seconds late. A witness describes the moment: "Here comes the subway, and there she is, standing right on the yellow strip, watching the subway get closer, minding her own business, and all of a sudden no one pushes her! It’s an image I’ll live with forever." The woman, who survived the ordeal, went to a nearby Emergency Department seeking a sedative. The subway crew will receive trauma counselling, including the driver, who was inches away from the windshield when the woman’s body didn’t splatter against it. No one has been apprehended and no motive has been suggested.
In gun news, several people around the city were not shot and killed today. Our voice on the street, Richard Drizzle, has more. Richard?
“Thanks, Ming-Poon, yes. In this amazing development, each individual in question apparently suffered the same fate, namely, not getting shot and killed. I’ve spoken with several of the non-victims, and each one has a different story. I’m just going to play some quotes from my tape recorder here.” (click)
VOICE (woman’s): You hear about it happening all the time and you never think it could be you.
VOICE (man’s): Used to be that you could walk these streets without worrying about not getting shot. Now when I walk these streets, I worry.
VOICE (man’s): I ride the TTC every day. All of a sudden, these last few months, all these people not getting shot on the TTC, not getting pushed in front of trains, I’m thinking maybe I’ll find another way to get around.
VOICE (woman’s): As if parents don’t have enough to worry about, now they’re constantly living in fear of the possibility of their children not getting shot at school.
“As you can hear, a lotta fear and frustration. The citizens of this city have been crying out for something to be done to make the streets unsafer. And if they don’t get what they want, this being an election year, Mayor Milker might be looking for a new job soon. Back to you, Ming-Poon.”
Thank you, Richard. God knows I’m not paid to editorialize, but what the kelly is happening to our city? Anyway, turning to sports, here’s Ratso.
In our top local story, this afternoon at a west-end subway station a woman was not pushed in front of a subway train. Please be warned that this story contains graphic images and descriptions. Several witnesses claim that the woman was standing on the yellow strip, close to the edge of the platform, as the 4:12 eastbound entered the station running ninety seconds late. A witness describes the moment: "Here comes the subway, and there she is, standing right on the yellow strip, watching the subway get closer, minding her own business, and all of a sudden no one pushes her! It’s an image I’ll live with forever." The woman, who survived the ordeal, went to a nearby Emergency Department seeking a sedative. The subway crew will receive trauma counselling, including the driver, who was inches away from the windshield when the woman’s body didn’t splatter against it. No one has been apprehended and no motive has been suggested.
In gun news, several people around the city were not shot and killed today. Our voice on the street, Richard Drizzle, has more. Richard?
“Thanks, Ming-Poon, yes. In this amazing development, each individual in question apparently suffered the same fate, namely, not getting shot and killed. I’ve spoken with several of the non-victims, and each one has a different story. I’m just going to play some quotes from my tape recorder here.” (click)
VOICE (woman’s): You hear about it happening all the time and you never think it could be you.
VOICE (man’s): Used to be that you could walk these streets without worrying about not getting shot. Now when I walk these streets, I worry.
VOICE (man’s): I ride the TTC every day. All of a sudden, these last few months, all these people not getting shot on the TTC, not getting pushed in front of trains, I’m thinking maybe I’ll find another way to get around.
VOICE (woman’s): As if parents don’t have enough to worry about, now they’re constantly living in fear of the possibility of their children not getting shot at school.
“As you can hear, a lotta fear and frustration. The citizens of this city have been crying out for something to be done to make the streets unsafer. And if they don’t get what they want, this being an election year, Mayor Milker might be looking for a new job soon. Back to you, Ming-Poon.”
Thank you, Richard. God knows I’m not paid to editorialize, but what the kelly is happening to our city? Anyway, turning to sports, here’s Ratso.
24.2.09
big brother's watching from our bellies
Sometimes I wonder if my person or anything in my house is infected with an RFID chip. According to media sources whose veracity I have no way of determining, these chips are in banknotes, consumer products, car tires, passports, even livestock. Thankfully I have no cows in my house. Fun fact: RFID-implanted cows are subjected to retinal scans to confirm their identities in slaughterhouses.
Sioux City, Iowa; September, 2004---Eleven hundred pounds of pork shoulder was recalled from retail meateries when authorities discovered a tagged “research” herd had gone to slaughter without notification. Oops. But then imagine they hadn’t caught it in time.
Hey Ned, how’s that research herd coming along?
Let’s see here . . . oh my god, Cyrus, the herd’s scattered all over the place!
What the . . . Just pick a random subject.
Okay, let’s see. Here's one. Subject 2468642, where are you? Let’s see. Oh my god, Cyrus.
What?
Subject 2468642 is scattered all over the place. Possibly in people’s fridges and bellies.
Wow.
Yeah.
I mean wow. We can put readers in people’s bellies now?
Heeeyyy, there's some forward thinking. Speaking of which, what're you doing for lunch?
Sioux City, Iowa; September, 2004---Eleven hundred pounds of pork shoulder was recalled from retail meateries when authorities discovered a tagged “research” herd had gone to slaughter without notification. Oops. But then imagine they hadn’t caught it in time.
Hey Ned, how’s that research herd coming along?
Let’s see here . . . oh my god, Cyrus, the herd’s scattered all over the place!
What the . . . Just pick a random subject.
Okay, let’s see. Here's one. Subject 2468642, where are you? Let’s see. Oh my god, Cyrus.
What?
Subject 2468642 is scattered all over the place. Possibly in people’s fridges and bellies.
Wow.
Yeah.
I mean wow. We can put readers in people’s bellies now?
Heeeyyy, there's some forward thinking. Speaking of which, what're you doing for lunch?
18.1.09
The Dreamer
Mel’s leaning toward bacon . . . The ceiling fan twirrhhing along his neck, carrying the smell of hot bubbling grease, frying and deep frying . . . Footfalls of approaching waitress . . . Swivels his head on that twirrhhing trajectory, cigarette dangling from weathered Texan mouth.
“I gotta goda sleep, but I gotta do somethin first.”
Middle-aged waitress with thick amphibious features and natural frown line, doing life in lime-green polyester. Alice sewn into heart.
“Sorry sweetie,” says she in husky smoker voice, “no smoking.”
“Am I smoking? Is this cigarette lit? Listen, sugar, blowin smoke outta my ass here, as usual, with no plan or destination, knitting my scale model of the universe without regard for logistics or realism or for that matter my dwindling yarn supply. As though my tepid, unfocused approach to success were a front, a show, a charade, concealing something deeper, something greater, more important, less fatuous. Much less fatuous. Listen, sugar, I want you to bring me food. I am living a charade, yes, but what if I were also living more than that? Unbeknownst to myself? This is the secret fantasy of just about everyone. Myths abound in every culture, told in oral, literary, movie form . . . Listen, sugar, I want you to bring me food. Not a menu, not some stupid municipal bylaw, food. A cheeseburger with bacon, tomatoes, relish, mustard, earwax, toe jam, brain tissue, and mayonnaise on a kaiser bun. French fries with gravy on the side, a glass of radioactive water now and an orange Windex with my food.”
“Comin right up.”
“Because by god I will produce something. Even a deadbeat like me can aspire to greater things. Glory is not impossible. Not when you have an imagination like a horsehoof in the face.”
Some time after she has left, Mel asks, “Did my food come?”
But no one’s sitting with him to answer.
Live your dreams, folks.
“I gotta goda sleep, but I gotta do somethin first.”
Middle-aged waitress with thick amphibious features and natural frown line, doing life in lime-green polyester. Alice sewn into heart.
“Sorry sweetie,” says she in husky smoker voice, “no smoking.”
“Am I smoking? Is this cigarette lit? Listen, sugar, blowin smoke outta my ass here, as usual, with no plan or destination, knitting my scale model of the universe without regard for logistics or realism or for that matter my dwindling yarn supply. As though my tepid, unfocused approach to success were a front, a show, a charade, concealing something deeper, something greater, more important, less fatuous. Much less fatuous. Listen, sugar, I want you to bring me food. I am living a charade, yes, but what if I were also living more than that? Unbeknownst to myself? This is the secret fantasy of just about everyone. Myths abound in every culture, told in oral, literary, movie form . . . Listen, sugar, I want you to bring me food. Not a menu, not some stupid municipal bylaw, food. A cheeseburger with bacon, tomatoes, relish, mustard, earwax, toe jam, brain tissue, and mayonnaise on a kaiser bun. French fries with gravy on the side, a glass of radioactive water now and an orange Windex with my food.”
“Comin right up.”
“Because by god I will produce something. Even a deadbeat like me can aspire to greater things. Glory is not impossible. Not when you have an imagination like a horsehoof in the face.”
Some time after she has left, Mel asks, “Did my food come?”
But no one’s sitting with him to answer.
Live your dreams, folks.
12.11.08
The "Whiching" Hour
Which tastes better: dinner before sex or dinner after sex? Which jokes will I tell? Which parent will die first? Which crap foods won’t give me colon cancer? Which newspaper prints the most truth? Which lung will I lose? Which roast beef sandwich has listeria? Which side will I nod along with, pretending to understand? Which recreational drug costs the least and lasts the longest? Which detail do I expediently omit? Which chick will slap me inna face? Which church finally tells the truth? Which wall will I punch? Which bone will I break? Which of my eyes will I blacken? Which job will I get canned from because of some stupid Peruvian bimbo who only wanted a fuck? Which planet might my abductors be from? Which booze will make me cool and confident and better-looking? Which voice will I use? Which vice will land me inna least trouble? Which repressed fart will finally split me apart? Which crucial Friday p.m. appointment will I miss because of a dwarf carpenter who boarded up my bedroom door and went home early for the weekend? Which woman will stab me inna heart with an escargot fork? Which hockey team won’t win the Stanley Cup this year, just like the last forty-one? Which questions are most important? Which bridges are burned? Which questions are answered? Which whistles are blown? Which answers are questioned? Which atrocities am I responsible for, even inna tiniest? Which way will I die? Which day will I die? Which —
I was gonna — seven more pages of ‘which’ questions — but I can’t. Even I admit, the thing got tedious fast. Sorry, courageous reader. I’ve learned my lesson. Lists can be fun. But the important thing to realize is that lists aren’t real. They’re idealized non-binding itineraries set to theme park music. That means you can stop following them, reading them, writing them any time you want. You mustn’t let them dictate your life. Just remember: The list can be your friend, but it can also be a fascist addictive agent. Play safe, kids.
I was gonna — seven more pages of ‘which’ questions — but I can’t. Even I admit, the thing got tedious fast. Sorry, courageous reader. I’ve learned my lesson. Lists can be fun. But the important thing to realize is that lists aren’t real. They’re idealized non-binding itineraries set to theme park music. That means you can stop following them, reading them, writing them any time you want. You mustn’t let them dictate your life. Just remember: The list can be your friend, but it can also be a fascist addictive agent. Play safe, kids.
11.10.08
We Don't Need No Stinking Hope, Not This Year
Let me make one thing clear: The last thing Maple Leaf Nation needs is raised expectations. Having said that, I now submit that Toronto’s season opener victory Thursday evening was an unequivocal tragedy. Not only did the Leafs shock the champion Red Wings in Detroit on the night the Wings raised their Stanley Cup banner, but they did so with an effort and enthusiasm that may have shocked some fans to death. At least two men were rushed to one Toronto hospital (not so far from Woodbridge) with vital signs absent and similar stories: each had keeled over in his chair while watching the Leafs game. Their wives had called ambulances. Both men died. So. A moment of loud noise, please . . .
Thank you. Now I will rip into the Leafs for raising a certain cultural entity’s expectations with Thursday evening’s victory. Those stupid selfish inconsiderate boneheaded sons of bitches. What were they thinking? Oh, they’ve gone and done it, all right. I see the hope in people’s eyes and sprightly step, I hear it in their voices and laughter, I feel it in their handshakes, the sad cruel hope that maybe this year won’t be so bad after all. Now, hope is never in short supply in Leaf Nation. And hope is certainly not a bad thing. But hope raises expectations. Especially in Leaf Nation. And this year more than most, well, expectations nurtured in Leaf Nation will more than likely be shit on, gang-raped, bayonetted, and fed to the crocodiles. I’m not an alarmist, I’m a realist. Maybe a bit of a sensationalist. Anyway Ron Wilson publicly lowered the bar for a reason. To put it kindly, the 2008-09 Toronto Maple Leafs consist of many unproven parts. How can you expect anything from a club that replaces its core players — core players on a mediocre club, remember — with a bunch of guys no one’s ever heard of? But then they go out and beat the Wings at Joe Louis Arena, thus stirring their masochistic bipolar fans into a flash frenzy of hope and raised expectations. And of course the higher they rise, the farther they fall. Right now, Leaf Nation has been falling for about forty-two years.
Though you know what I can’t get out of my head? The Leafs won by doing something Pat Quinn and Paul Maurice couldn’t or wouldn’t make them do, something I haven’t seen the club do in ten years: base their game around defensive conscientiousness. They worked hard, they checked, they showed speed, tenacity, determination, discipline, youthful hunger, and they protected a lead. They basically erased any memory of the Leafs of the last decade. For one night, anyway. I can’t remember the last game I saw where the Leafs weren’t once hemmed in their own zone for minutes on end. They played enthusiastic, energetic hockey. Trap hockey, but inspired. With the solid if not spectacular goaltending they’ve generally received all decade. At times their forecheck made the Detroit D look bad, for godsake. When did the Leafs last manage that against any team, much less Detroit? Though I wouldn’t start saying “Mats who?” just yet. One huge question needs answering: who’s going to score goals?
You aren’t supposed to be good, Leafs. You’re a flowerbed with all the weeds cleared. New seeds planted, with intentions of acquiring more new seeds. We’ll see what grows. If you guys play inspired like you did Thursday, I’ll actually look forward to watching. The last couple years, I sooner would’ve watched ice melt. And you guys must also do one other thing, in two parts. Make amends by losing your own home opener tonight against Montreal. And please guys, for the sake of Leaf Nation’s fragile psyche, by all means play your games hard and tough and disciplined, make them if not entertaining then at least exciting for Leafs fans to watch. Just don’t win. We need those high draft picks. And besides, you don’t want to kill any more fans.
Thank you. Now I will rip into the Leafs for raising a certain cultural entity’s expectations with Thursday evening’s victory. Those stupid selfish inconsiderate boneheaded sons of bitches. What were they thinking? Oh, they’ve gone and done it, all right. I see the hope in people’s eyes and sprightly step, I hear it in their voices and laughter, I feel it in their handshakes, the sad cruel hope that maybe this year won’t be so bad after all. Now, hope is never in short supply in Leaf Nation. And hope is certainly not a bad thing. But hope raises expectations. Especially in Leaf Nation. And this year more than most, well, expectations nurtured in Leaf Nation will more than likely be shit on, gang-raped, bayonetted, and fed to the crocodiles. I’m not an alarmist, I’m a realist. Maybe a bit of a sensationalist. Anyway Ron Wilson publicly lowered the bar for a reason. To put it kindly, the 2008-09 Toronto Maple Leafs consist of many unproven parts. How can you expect anything from a club that replaces its core players — core players on a mediocre club, remember — with a bunch of guys no one’s ever heard of? But then they go out and beat the Wings at Joe Louis Arena, thus stirring their masochistic bipolar fans into a flash frenzy of hope and raised expectations. And of course the higher they rise, the farther they fall. Right now, Leaf Nation has been falling for about forty-two years.
Though you know what I can’t get out of my head? The Leafs won by doing something Pat Quinn and Paul Maurice couldn’t or wouldn’t make them do, something I haven’t seen the club do in ten years: base their game around defensive conscientiousness. They worked hard, they checked, they showed speed, tenacity, determination, discipline, youthful hunger, and they protected a lead. They basically erased any memory of the Leafs of the last decade. For one night, anyway. I can’t remember the last game I saw where the Leafs weren’t once hemmed in their own zone for minutes on end. They played enthusiastic, energetic hockey. Trap hockey, but inspired. With the solid if not spectacular goaltending they’ve generally received all decade. At times their forecheck made the Detroit D look bad, for godsake. When did the Leafs last manage that against any team, much less Detroit? Though I wouldn’t start saying “Mats who?” just yet. One huge question needs answering: who’s going to score goals?
You aren’t supposed to be good, Leafs. You’re a flowerbed with all the weeds cleared. New seeds planted, with intentions of acquiring more new seeds. We’ll see what grows. If you guys play inspired like you did Thursday, I’ll actually look forward to watching. The last couple years, I sooner would’ve watched ice melt. And you guys must also do one other thing, in two parts. Make amends by losing your own home opener tonight against Montreal. And please guys, for the sake of Leaf Nation’s fragile psyche, by all means play your games hard and tough and disciplined, make them if not entertaining then at least exciting for Leafs fans to watch. Just don’t win. We need those high draft picks. And besides, you don’t want to kill any more fans.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)