Or "An Indirect Tribute to Trevor Linden"
I am a sports fanatic. There I said it. I admit it. Often, when you are a sports fanatic and this fact is revealed to people you feel like a bit childish especially at my age. I have now accepted who I am and that I like following many different types of sports. I think I have a better perspective now and I recognize that in the sports really doesn't matter when you weigh all the wonderful things in life.
Or does it?
That is essentially the crux of my discussion. With the Trevor Linden jersey retirement ceremony quickly approaching on Wednesday, I took full stock of how much of a sports fanatic I am. I casually stated that "sports don't matter", because I would feel hard-pressed trying to say that they do matter when you stack up sports against love, family, work, friends, and the other finer points of life. But I think that would be hypocritical of me to callously to blow off sports considering I read about sports everyday, listen to sports everyday, and think about sports at many points during my day. What does it say when the two more enjoyable times of the week is playing ice hockey with my group of friends? Or reading about every Vancouver Canuck article at night? Or pouring through my fantasy basketball team to carefully consider whether or not to drop Chris Duhon in favour of TJ Ford (I am real close to doing so, but I just don't trust TJ Ford's recent streak of injury free games.)
So maybe I have to say that I know for plenty of people that sports don't matter. And that is fine by me. I just don't think it is fair for others to give me grief about being a die-hard fan or to scoff and wonder why I care so much about the Vancouver Canucks (I just about wrote "my Vancouver Canucks" as somehow I had more than an emotional investment in the team). If people say that in the big scheme of things (what a cliche) that sports truly don't matter, then what does that say about me? That I don't matter? That my life doesn't matter since so much of it has been linked to sports?
And when I started to write all of this out I recognized that even my explanations feel flimsy with little substance. And that almost makes me feel a bit depressed that this is who I am at this time. My life is littered with a litany of sporting events. Some of my most vivid memories from my youth are tied to sports.
I was a late bloomer for a sports fanatic. I don't think I became a true blue Vancouver Canucks fan until grade four. My dad wasn't the biggest hockey fan, but he was always a fan of the best athlete in any sport. He could appreciate brilliance. So he was always a Jack Nicklaus fan. And for hockey in the 80s that meant he was a Wayne Gretzky fan. I being a logical kid gravitated towards the Vancouver Canucks at the time, which was a painful way to grow up. Kids these days (I sound so old) don't realize how much better they have it as a Canuck fan. We forget how much of a punching bag our teams were. How terrible we were. How the Edmonton Oilers and the Calgary Flames toyed with us. We were stuck in the Smythe Division with two of the best teams from the 80s. You know things are bad as a hockey fan when the best you could say about some of your favourite players were, "He works hard." or "Wow, he got a point tonight." or "He was amazing making 38 saves in a 6-2 loss." The fact that Frank Caprice was one of my favourite goaltenders for the Canucks speaks volumes about the dearth of quality players in comparison to the Gretzkys, Kurris, Loobs, Ottos, and MacDonalds of the world. But, commencing a tirade about the depressing times as a Canuck fan is not my goal (ie Neely trade). Let's get back on track.
My dad would take me to one game or so every year to the Pacific Coliseum. Of course, we would always see the Edmonton Oilers play against my beloved Canucks. And at times I hated it, because I knew the outcome before I even took my seat. But it was a yearly ritual that I enjoyed with my dad. I only wish I could have appreciated the sheer brilliance of seeing someone of Gretzky's stature live. Many fond memories between my dad and I were because of sports. I remember my dad taking me to an exhibition baseball game against the Montreal Expos. I can't remember the team they played against but I clearly remember the Expos hat my dad bought me. I remember staring at that weird symbol everyday wondering what the heck the red, white, and blue meant. I had no clue as a kid that the logo was an "M".
I remember in grade 6 or 7 attending my first real baseball game. It was during a family vacation driving down the West Coast from Vancouver to San Francisco. To save money, we stayed in a hotel in Oakland, which felt a little dangerous at the time. Our hotel was very close to where the Oakland Athletics played. My dad suggested that since we were there to go see a game. We walked a few blocks and got tickets to see the Athletics play the New York Yankees. I did not follow baseball that much at the time and I happened to see the Yankees when they were a brutal team. Three clear things stood out for me on that evening. One, standing up and being super confused when the singing of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" occurred in the seventh inning stretch. I thought I had walked into a cult witnessing everybody around me standing up and signing the song with much fervor and zeal. Second, my mom and my sister stayed at the hotel, so going to the game was a true father bonding experience. It was a shared experience and it felt so special. Third, I remember my mom telling us the next day that our father was so tired, because he was so worried about our vehicle that he stayed up all night watching it through the window of our hotel. My parents were so good to us.
These small moments in time with my dad and sports makes me recognize how important these events were to me growing up. I still own five pennants that are currently hanging up in my classroom at school which are mementos from the live events that I attended with my dad. One Oilers, one Penguins, one Canucks, one Flames, and one BC Lions pennant are hanging side by side. My dad took me to see some of the greats. We saw my favourite player, Mario Lemieux, together. My father and I went to game three of the 1994 Stanley Cup Finals together. We bought them at the spur of the moment, two expensive tickets (about $100 each at the time) that were the last row of the Pacific Coliseum. And even though they were the last row, to me, in grade 12, they were simply perfect. My dad knew how much I wanted to go. And I remember with clarity so many details of that game. I can't even remember what I ate yesterday, yet I remember the spine-chilling anthem and how loud that Coliseum was. When Pavel Bure scored on a breakaway in minute into the game I literally thought I was going to pass out in excitement. The roof of that old Coliseum threatened to blow off. The sound was deafening. The euphoria of the crowd was intoxicating. I thought I was in for the best night of my life. Of course, that was the game where Bure was thrown out for elbowing Beukeboom in the face and then the Alex Kovalev show started and then Brian Leetch exerted his will. I hate that guy.
Looking back, those shared moments with my dad are invaluable. They are moments that are firmly impressed in my mind. I wouldn't trade those shared moments for anything. And writing all this I realize that it is about time I took my dad to a hockey game. We haven't been to one together in a long, long time.
Do sports matter? They do for me.
They matter enough to me that I slept outside Shoppers Drug Mart with my UBC friends overnight to purchase tickets to see the Vancouver Grizzlies play the Chicago Bulls. I simply had to see Michael Jordan in person.
They matter enough for me to drive down to Seattle to see Steve Nash and Lebron James.
They matter enough to me that I can vividly remember gathering with the entire neighbourhood to see Ben Johnson's record breaking 100 m run.
They matter enough to me that our entire family woke up to see Korea play in the World Cup at 4 am in the morning.
They matter enough to me that I can think of so many different sporting events that brought friends and I together.
I can remember hugging my friend Kavie (grown adults!) in sheer jubiliation when Trent Klatt scored the winning OT goal against the Minnesota Wild.
I remember the shocking silence in GM Place when the Ducks scored the overtime winner in the playoffs. Sudden death indeed. It was the weirdest feeling and to hear only the whooping delight of the Anaheim Ducks on the ice only made it that much more painful.
I can remember jumping and hugging my friends in Marc Gauthier's den when the Blue Jays won the World Series on Joe Carter's blast. Sports has always provided me with entertainment. Just when you think the improbably can't happen it does. I remember during that run the Jays were down in the ninth inning to Dennis Eckersley (The Oakland Athletics) the greatest closer of all time, yet somehow Roberto Alomar took him deep (he was not a home run hitter) to win the game.
I remember being in Mike Chipman's house watching Kirk McLean's amazing save and then after Bure scored the OT winner, phoning my friend, Greg Bruce, a true Calgary Flames fan and yelling at him and then simply hanging up.
The fact that I don't even have to truly explain the above sentence and what year that was shows how sports can connect us and bring us together. Sports can bring a sense of community. Sports for me is the greatest stage and is a open display to all the wonderful and ugly aspects of human nature. That 1994 run was one of the best times to live in Vancouver. You could talk to anyone on the streets. Everyone had a smile. But then to see the 1994 riots reminded us how stupid we could be as well. That 1994 run showcased the entire spectrum of human behaviour.
I could go on and on about all the examples of how much sports has been intertwined in my life over the years. Sports has mattered to me in my life. From the mundane trivia to the trash talking hockey pools that keep me connected with my friends, the fact that I had no problem writing the last couple of paragraphs and that all of these memories are streaming out of my head in a jumbled mess reminds me that sports do matter. I apologize if the last four paragraphs got sloppy. My fingers couldn't keep up with the flood of memories.
Come back tomjavascript:void(0)orrow to read another lengthy diatribe:
Part II: Since sports matters, why does Trevor Linden matter so much to me and other fans of this city?
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