Pull Yourself Together

As someone who writes about soccer, known for its hooliganism, I can’t help but weigh in on the Stanley Cup riots of this week. But what’s left to say? Like you, I’m embarrassed and angry. I love sport- but this week, some of the good things that go along with sports—endorphins, excitement, and national pride—all turned ugly. Why?

In his excellent book “How Soccer Explains the World”, Franklin Foer writes about how some feminists like Susan Faludi have tried to explain away soccer hooliganism as being a product of “downsized men....deprived of traditional work and knocked off patriarchal pedestals”, who “wanted to reassert their masculinity.” But Foer disagrees and says that the most notorious English hooligan soccer gang’s members include “middle-class thrill seekers.” That’s what we saw on Wednesday. Well dressed, middle class young men (and some women) who can not only afford hundred dollar hockey jerseys, but can afford to toss them onto burning cop cars as they photograph themselves doing so with expensive camera phones. UBC sociologist Rima Wilkes, looking at Wednesdays rioters in Vancouver, says “they weren’t even angry. They were having fun.”

To me, more than anything else, it speaks of boredom. And the thing is I remember some of those feelings of boredom from when I was young. Even though it was 25 years ago, I remember being a frustrated teenager and wanting to get drunk and do stupid, stupid things—just so I could feel something. But like you, I just don’t understand how that feeling translates into flipping cars and smashing things.

Sophie, my 8 year old, was so depressed watching the game after the Canucks went down 2-0 that she said “I’m going to get a piece of paper and draw a picture about my feelings,” and Steve and I struggled to keep straight faces. Of course, I don’t expect that drawing pictures of your feelings is the answer for every drunk and frustrated young man, but come on. Want to feel something? Why not shave your playoff beard, if you had enough cajones to grow one (although many I see in the riot photos don’t appear to be old enough), and splash some acidic aftershave on? I bet that would hurt like a bugger. Or get a hockey stick and ball and head over to the tennis court and whack the ball against the wall for half an hour-- that feels damn satisfying. Or why not stand up to some of those crowds of bastards who are smashing things? I’ve seen great videos of a few brave souls doing just that, and boy, I bet the tension in that moment would sure make you feel alive.

As I headed downtown to work Thursday morning, I saw some red faced young guys in Canucks shirts at Bridgeport Station – heading onto buses leading out of the city, as I was heading into it. Released from their night in the drunk tank? The red in their faces was the ruddy kind you see in those that are hungover, although I’d like to think some of the red was from embarrassment too.

I work at Granville and Georgia across from the Bay, in “Ground Zero” as I heard someone call it, and I was curious as to what I’d see as I headed up from the skytrain station. Plywood where the Bay and Sears once had windows. Spraypainting on the public art that was put up during the Olympics. Charred chunks of sidewalk. Blackened garbage cans. But I also saw tons and tons of people in Canucks jerseys cleaning. For every burned garbage bin, there were four people scrubbing at it, trying to get the black stains off. And tons of positive (and only positive) graffiti on the boarded-up stores, apologizing for our fellow citizens drunken rampage. There were crowds of people around, still writing messages. Whenever people even slightly brushed against each other in the crowd, they apologized. As schmaltzy as this sounds, all of this totally choked me up. I got tears in my eyes the way I do whenever I stand with my kids and sing O Canada before a sporting event, especially when we get to the part about the truth north, strong and free.

Finally I walked by the Canucks team store at Robson and Granville. It was closed, but everything about it was untouched—no glass smashed, no spray painted graffiti—it was as though the Canucks had nothing whatsoever to do with the rioting. Accustomed to reading messages on every surface in sight, I glanced around and noticed the only word was near the handle on the door-- a sign that said Pull. I found myself thinking I was glad it did not say push—we’ve definitely seen enough pushing for now. Come on, Vancouver. I’m pulling for you.

No Cutesy

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Canucks have not been taking a lot of shots in their series of Stanley Cup playoff games. This bothers Steve no end. As the sport-playing one in our family, I’ve endeavoured to explain to him that sometimes it is about quality of shots, not quantity, and the Sedins are just taking their time setting things up to be perfect. He ignores me, of course, and yells a lot at the TV. “Stop passing so much! Don’t be so cutesy! Just shoot already!”

The kids have picked up on all of this. We’re eating dinner in front of the TV a lot these days, watching games, and they are trying their best to cheer on our team. They just don’t know exactly how to cheer. Sometimes they say “Go Canucks Go!”, which is perfect. But the other night, deep into double overtime in game five, Hannah obsessively chanted “No cutesy, no cutesy, no cutesy, no cutesy,” for the better part of five full minutes. Since the Canucks success depends largely on my ability to concentrate on the TV screen (well, in addition to the players efforts, I suppose), I finally couldn’t take it anymore and I snapped. “Hannah! Enough! Please be quiet!” After the game, when I could exhale again, I remembered some of their other attempts at sports cheering, and I felt terrible for barking at her.

Let me explain: even though I play a lot of team sports, my family is not one of those sporty families. My kids don’t come to my games very often, and when they do, they never want to run or throw the ball around on the sidelines at my slo-pitch games-- instead, when they were younger, Steve would set up their folding chairs behind the backstop and read aloud to them. (All the catchers thought it was adorable, and when we were reading Harry Potter, I think some of them even listened in.) Once, when they were probably 4 and 6, we must have forgotten our novel, because instead, they sat there in their chairs and cheered me on. Instead of “Go Mom Go!”, or something of that ilk, the kids tried to think of something nice to say about me and ended up chanting “Skin Like Silk! Skin Like Silk!” I was giggling so much I could barely hold the bat. (Either that or my silky skin made it too slippery to hang on to the damn thing.)

So to make amends after the Canucks game chastising, I asked the girls a question. “How would you cheer me on, if you were watching me play soccer?”

“Uh, I guess ‘Go Mom Go’?”

Sigh. “That’s it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to yell too much Mom, since I wouldn’t want you to push yourself too hard. You’ve got to be careful with those knees.”

Oh dear. When did they get so responsible and mature? I need them to be more cutesy. What am I doing wrong?

My List: A Cure for Idle Doctor Chatter

There was a front page article in the Vancouver Sun last Friday about how surgeons have been told not to chatter during surgery. A complaint was launched by a patient who felt that when his surgeon talked with the scrub nurses about hockey during his operation, there was a chance that the doctor could have become distracted, lost focus, and made a mistake. Now all BC Surgeons have been warned to cut it out. (Pun intended). In what was dubbed a “useful, important reminder with a proactive message”, they have been warned by the College of Physicians and Surgeons to stay away not only from the topic of hockey, but also to avoid other subjects that could potentially upset patients.

I don’t get it. Let it go, dude. Surgery in a hospital is one of the few times in our lives where we truly must relinquish control and trust our surgeon. When the operation day comes, we are stripped down to nothing but a thin, backless gown and groovy hairnet, anaesthetized, and put in a room full of relative strangers who can do with us as they please. Why do we do this? Because these surgeon people are quite smart and skilled. They have a lot of schooling and have been carefully vetted by their peers before they start slicing and dicing. And there’s a ton of people in the operating room, so aren’t they going to keep each other on track? In my experience surgeons generally have a good sense of responsibility anyway, and probably won’t engage in a quick iphone game of angry birds, mid-operation, just for kicks.

That said, you never know, so I’ve decided on a list of conversational demands should I ever be in the position to have surgery again. (Cross your fingers for me that that will NEVER have to happen.) Of course it’s highly unlikely that I would even be aware of what was being discussed during surgery, but just in case, I’ve got my list made as a “useful important reminder” for my surgeon. Here it is:

Things That Can Be Discussed:

- the symmetricalness of the earring holes in my earlobes (or any other positive physical traits they may discern)
- Soccer (I like soccer. Had you noticed?)
- How cute/smart/polite my kids are
- how tragic it is that someone with as bright and sweet a disposition as mine has to be cut into this way. Sympathy tears by the surgeon are also permitted, providing that they don’t seep into the incision area and cause infection.
- How smooth my legs are
- The TV Show Modern Family. That thing is hilarious!
- The operation, I guess

Things That Cannot Be Discussed:

- Jokes about throwing in some much-needed liposuction during the surgery as some kind of 2-in-1 combo deal.
- Charlie Sheen. (He is really just so over.)
- Anything about golf (yawn.)
- Clowns (self explanatory.)
- Whether or not my boobs are real or fake. (Hold on--wait--forget it. I’m moving this to the “Can Be Discussed” category instead, since if people are questioning it, it usually means your boobs are too good to be true, right?)
- Hockey (kidding. But can I stipulate that it be playoff hockey? So much more exciting. Go Canucks!)
- How stubbly my legs are (it all depends on what time I woke up that morning, you see.)

Also, my sister once told me that chewing gum during tests helps you to concentrate better, so I would also like to stipulate that my surgeon chew gum, just to make sure I’m getting him or her in top form. (But not that crappy cinnamon flavoured gum. That stuff is just gross. Peppermint only.)

See? Useful. Proactive. You should make a list too. (And, you can use it for the plumber as well, when they come over to fix the pipes under your kitchen sink- just to make sure they don’t get distracted.)

Oh, and I forgot one thing. I want my surgery for free. Oh I get that already? Right. Sweet.