“USA! … USA! … USA!” … That chant, rooted in patriotism as it may be, has always had an aura of arrogance about it.
Now, emboldened by that buffoon in the White House, it’s burgeoning, and blatantly belligerent. To this notion, these chants boomed thunderously with any American player’s collision. The smaller the opposing player, the louder the roar.
Conversely, the Quebecois-Canadiens’ “OLE! OLE! OLE!” parlayed freely now to all Canadians per provincial-trade pardons, has always had a happy, festive element to it; its infectiousness on occasion even inspiring an opponent’s tight grin.
I was fortunate to have been blessed with a ticket for hockey’s 4 Nations championship game – Team Canada versus Team U.S.A., playing primarily for percentage-points per JD Prance’s “new-sheriff-in-town’s” tariffs. As an aside, there, too, was some shinny of significance.
Nexus swift-zipped me in to Boston early on that Thursday, then, out again in a whirlwind before Friday had elapsed.
On the eve of that one-game final, there was an ominous vibe where Causeway meets Canal – the streets around TD Boston Garden – brimming with America’s new, strut-and-stride disorder. The overwhelmingly outnumbered Team Canada jerseys were jeered energetically with an aggressive in-your-face-ness per President Delirium Tremens’ 51st state.
Sure enough, the hearsay in the streets hummed with speculation that DT was to attend, suggesting further that he’d preside over the ceremonial face-off.
Alas, he was a no-show, apprehensive perhaps to some pervading anxiety per Bible-gate (allegedly held upside down). To be fair, consider for a minute how perplexing the right-side-up-ness of a plain, black puck could so clearly confound.
Prior to the start of the game, I winced thinking back to how the Canadians got pounded by the Americans on that first Saturday of the tourney. That 3-1 score so flattered Team Canada, battered soundly, physically and statistically by Team USA.
While it’s silly to suggest that Canada’s coaching crew took its tourney-task lightly – it was a reprieve from their day job, after all – I’ve no doubt that collectively they were the second guy to realize that they were in a fight.
Particularly discomforting had been the confidence of Connor McDavid, Nathan MacKinnon, and, God forbid, even Sir Sid, seeming so significantly sagged. I couldn’t shake an image I’d seen a few weeks back of American Jacob Trouba, then with the New York Rangers, dropping MacKinnon with a monstrous, open-ice hit.
In the seconds prior to the puck-drop, it suddenly seemed so symbolic, but more so, a bitter truth-telling.
McDavid had seemed lost without his Edmonton linemate, Leon Draisaitl; appearing at first, frustrated, then aggravated, and finally, exasperated. All of his solo rushes, electric through centre, were readily rebuffed at the blueline by the American’s impenetrable, five-man defence.
During that stressful first game I caught myself continuously searching the ice for stalwarts – Martin Brodeur, backing-up Carey Price. Where were Weber and Pronger, and how ‘bout Ray Bourque and Rob Blake? At times, the vacant expressions on the Canadian players’ faces had me wondering if they were seeking the same?
Perplexing as well was Team Canada’s decision to enter the tourney with a trio of back-ups in net.
Brady-T bruises another, raising more rousing “U.S.A.!” roars from Donald’s Trumpets to and through the rafters. This, conjured images of the 1936 Berlin Olympics – an earlier era’s roiling patriotism – with its exuberant Deutschland Uber Alles no-doubt inspiring Jesse Owens on to his four gold medals, to the furor of that day’s Fuhrer.
Then, at the 10-minute mark of the third, kudos to Coach Cooper for returning to his prescient premonition — reuniting Marner and McDavid. This, done on the fly with so much on the line, without the luxury of an off-day to plan counters to an opponent’s re-adjustments, that a best-of-seven series would have provided, was impressive.
Then, as per ‘Eureka!’ Canada shouted as one – “Oh, … so that’s Cale Makar!” – there was Marner, in the midst of his patented, all-seeing glide, passing, as he does like no other, deftly setting-up the tying goal, then, brilliantly, McDavid’s overtime winner.
That said, it was way too lazy/easy to award McDavid the game’s MVP. Beyond a doubt, it was Binnington’s goaltending that saved the Canadian bacon, which flavoured nicely my mistaken words per his netminding.
Post-game, the vacuity of the streets was Grand Canyon-esque, and totally quiet given Team U.S.A.’s loss. This, fortunately so for obvious reason, but not so for allowing some uncomfortable reflection, then, the reality that set in.
In spite of the hint of Hollywood in Canada’s win, undeniably, the prevailing sentiment was only relief.
Hockey has grown in the U.S., a sound echo of 1980’s Miracle on Ice. Enrolments are up, enhanced by multiple Stanley Cup triumphs in all areas of the country, save for the Pacific northwest.
This pace, those successes, taken with that population mass of 340 million to draw upon, suggests that hockey’s balance of power may have shifted.
Foreboding, too, is American gold in three of the past five World Junior Tournaments, especially in conjunction with a decline in Canadian enrolments.
When’s the last time you saw a Saturday afternoon road-hockey game?
Given the spectacular electricity of Game 1, and the overbearing political aura underlying it, the game’s growth in the U.S. is likely to accelerate.
Such wringing of hands, and gnashing of teeth; please, is there any saving grace?
Mais oui, … you see, post their terrific opening-night tilt, we have Brandon Hagel (half the size listed in the roster) now averaging 20 minutes ice time per night in Tampa, while Matthew Tkachuk coalesces for 20 moons in Miami.
Ah, yes, … that size-of-the-fight in the dog, thing, why of course.
* * *
The next morning, I rented a bike and rode over to Fenway, waving wildly through the wind-chill at grim-faced commuters from within the cozy confines of my key, Quebecois cap, that had so flambeed the Bostonians ire.
I thought of Coach Cooper savouring his post-game Molson Canadian, providing some pause for one to re-position one’s brand preferences.
Further to re-positionings, how wonderful that Team Canada win for the cross-country and fervent flag-waving that it inspired. How timely a reminder that from far and wide the maple leaf encompasses all – those broadcasts of Hockey Night in Canada, in Punjabi; the sons of Sasakamoose here; and Willie O’Ree’s brothers there; and, the rest of us everywhere.
As per that matter of the 51st state, beware, there’s been sightings of beaucoup de coureurs des bois pres Trois Rivières ... You see, Capture the Flag’s a contact-sport up here.
OLE! OLE!
John Epstein is a former, 25-year Orillia business owner who left southern Ontario for the north years ago, and has never been back. He is now a freelance writer, whose column appear regularly in OrilliaMatters. He can be reached at [email protected]