Sidney Crosby, Head Shots, and HBO

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Crosby’s announcement today that he will not start the 2012 season is seriously worrying for hockey fans all over.  Nobody’s sure exactly what to do about these injuries, but there’s never been so much pressure to address violence in the sport.  Fans, NHL execs/players/managers, nor media know where to draw the line between abhorrent and traditional violence in hockey.  How much savagery is too much?  Years ago, a young female fan was struck by a puck and killed before mesh was implemented above the glass behind the nets.  Last year, head hits were all the rage, dispensing and condemning them, even before Crosby was struck down.  But it was especially ominous that the NHL’s marquee player was victimized during the climax of HBO’s all access documentary of the “Winter Classic,” the outdoor game.  To be sure, he played again but was reinjured four days later and hasn’t played since.  Allowing HBO this kind of access to two of the most exciting teams was terrific entertainment value, and more importantly it recorded for posterity an unfettered slice of life in the NHL, on and off the ice.  Fans would kill to get this kind of footage of the immortals like Wayne, Orr, Lemieux, or Sundin.  The irony is the NHL’s wise decision to document their two star players in their prime actually preserved and highlighted the league’s embarrassing inability to protect their players.

It would have been hard for the NHL to live it down if Crosby’s career was never the same after this point, but that the tragedy was filmed in an attempt to showcase, with unprecedented access and budget, the humanity behind the league’s best players is a cruel irony.  Crosby’s success before the injury was hard to describe.  Gretzky, Lemiuex, Bossy, Orr, Crosby.  That may seem like high company, but that is the current order of all-time points per game, only Crosby was twenty three and seemed to be just finding his stride. After winning absolutely everything, he was on pace for his best season.  To put the gap between he and Ovechkin in perspective, Crosby missed half the season and Ovie missed only three yet they tied for goals.  If this unabashed goonery continues and it turns out Crosby’s career was ruined during the filming of the NHL’s most industrious marketing effort, Bettman and Co. might as well declare their tolerance for barbarity from a loudspeaker to the American market he’s so eager to woo.  At that point, it’ll be apparent that a little girl needs to die before this league is sufficiently shamed into doing something.

At least Crosby is no longer getting hell for whining to the refs.

Post Script: I wrote this a while ago but published today because of Crosby’s announcement.  I certainly did not mean to give disproportionate attention to a concussed player, however good at hockey, the day a plane crashed killed 43 KHL players and coaches.  The shocking tragedy is unfolding yet and there’ll be commentary to come. In the meantime, RIP.

Boycotting TIFF Parties

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We are approaching the swankiest time of year in Toronto, where internationally famous actors and actresses, talented and untalented alike, descend on Yorkville in droves, bringing with them the hysterical frenzy of paparazzi and citizens who get more than a little too excited.  Ordinary people (actors, however famous, are ordinary people too, but this denotes those whose fame extends merely to friends and family) will pretend to just-happen-to-be frequenting this or that restaurant, but secretly hope to catch a glimpse of a person who will inevitably,  PR aside, feel overwhelmingly indifferent.  People will no doubt rush to tweet about their ticket, or an actual invitation, to some exclusive party.  Cue the name dropping.  Do you know who was there last night?  What a grotesque pile of horse shit.

Feeling good about attending a party with cool people is a practice suitable for insecure teenagers.  Now, it’s true that if you remove the celebs from these parties they’re probably a reasonably good time, loaded with good appetizers and booze, but I’ll wager that without the celebs, most anonymous citizens and striving socialites would stay at home too.  The rush to get into one of these parties is about status, not cocktail weenies.  Frankly, I’d rather have those little franks.

A healthier way to free yourself of insecurity would be, you know, to do something with your life, not stalk famous people or use their presence to feel self-important.  Now, if you get into a party, meet an actor, and actually convince him to open up and share candid stories, that’s the stuff of human interaction. Nothing wrong with that.  They probably have better stories than most drunks at the local watering hole, even if they’re narcissistic scientologists.  But the odds are way higher you’ll pay astronomical rates for an unsubstantiated reason to feel like a big deal. You can do better than that, and so can I.

And anyway, it’s not like I’m boycotting something where my presence is remotely expected or desired.  Just the opposite: my presence at one of these parties would be the definitive assurance of inclusivity.

“Did you see Brangelina? Natalie Portman? Mila Kunis?”

“Nope…just Jeff. Very disappointing.”

I’ll stay at home and maybe watch one of those people on screen, where I, and they, belong.

Belak and the Role of Fighting in the NHL

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There has been a horrible series of deaths involving NHL enforcers, those “hockey players” who fight for a living.  It’s an unusual role. In most sports, athletes are too preoccupied playing the sport to punch each other in the face. Fights only happen in other sports when fury is aroused, it’s not a normative part of the game.  There’s pressure to change the tone ever since, surprise surprise, new studies show colossal men speeding across the ice to smash people in the head cause lasting brain damage.  The NHL can no longer put off dealing with head shots now that Crosby is out, but this brutal string of enforcer deaths forces the NHL to decide what role fighting will play in years to come.

My love and understanding of the game conflicts with any rational observation: it seems crazy that reffs idly watch grown men punch each other in the face, yet whenever Alfredson (that gutless puke) commits any of his cheap, cowardly acts of petty violence, a two minute penalty doesn’t seem punishment enough (if the reffs even call it). I want Alfredson’s face smashed in.  I’m not alone in this.  Far from it, tons of otherwise humane people love the barbarous aspects of hockey, and can’t imagine hockey otherwise.  And while fans love it, teams need it. It’s like nuclear disarmament: all coaches agree the world would be better off without enforcers, but nobody’s about to voluntarily give up their own first. In politics, military power works better than UN sanctions: policing hockey can be done by players only, not the police.

But three deaths are hard to ignore, even for the NHL.  Exactly what to do is anyone’s guess.  Everyone agrees that it’s a tragedy and we’ll have to assess the game.  Hard to disagree with that.  But how are these deaths related? If there’s a connection, what is it?  In the meantime, all we know is enforcers enter the league aware of their role, and however tough it is, nobody forces them to do it.  There are lots of tough, stressful, even depressing jobs, but must don’t pay millions.

The grief and the tragedy belong to everybody, but let’s not forget that Belak took his own life.  We should lose no time improving our game and making it safer, but people are responsible for their own spiritual well-being, not the NHL.  Thankfully, the NHL will be under even more pressure to find the middle ground between excessive and appropriate violence.

I can’t write about Belak without saying he was one of a few NHL players I actually met. Through a connection, he was playing in a small, informal street hockey game between me and my buddies. He wore plaid pyjamas and a Kewl hockey shirt. Even for me, his lack of concern for his appearance was immense.  More than casual, he looked goofy.  I remember thinking his hands were so big he could black and blue my entire face with one punch.  True to his reputation, he joked/chirped me for having a hairy chest (I was on the skins team). I was shocked! Soon he lived up to his other reputation as I danced around him and scored. But make no mistake about it, he was in the NHL; I noticed the net jumped back at least five feet whenever he took a casual snap shot with a tennis ball.  Like a lot of people, I cheered for him more after meeting him.

R.I.P.

The Layton Letter…not really a huge deal

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Given the public outpouring, it’s obvious great sadness accompanied Jack Layton’s death.  It really sounds like we lost a person who, despite being a politician, was a human being. No small accomplishment.  Most were surprised at the scale of public grieving, and the responses to his letter to the country in print have ranged from callous scepticism (Blatchford, National Post) to raving sentimental nonsense (Klein, Now).  So what to make of this letter?

The left never tire of the mantra, “everything is political,” yet Layton boosters took umbrage with any notion that the death scored political points (read Blatchford’s 2355 comments, linked above).  But why should it be surprising, or insulting, that Layton would use such a poignant moment to further the cause to which he devoted his entire life?  Having the composure and stoicism to produce such a letter (even if, according to Blatchford, it was “crafted” with party president Brian Topp, chief of staff Anne McGrath, and Olivia Chow, who presumably weren’t just there for grammar) was the sensible thing for an astute politician like Layton, and just because it helped his party doesn’t mean he was insincere. Nobody denies the letter obviously benefited the party, so why waste the opportunity?  It’s a commendable political and personal move. To assume this letter was written without consideration of its effect on the country is hopelessly naive.  Does anyone really doubt Layton could imagine the effect it would (rightly) have on the country? That opinion seems to doubt Layton’s intelligence and political acumen, and fails to recognize the admirable truth that the man was devoted enough to give his final moment to the party.

Let’s look at what Now called one of “the most remarkable political speech ever” (Pericles’ Funeral Oration being a close second).  Sandwiched between an inspiring, hopeful message for Canadians, and those suffering cancer, are directions for the party and pragmatic messages for caucus members, Quebecers, and the youth.  It’s touching, as he knew it would be, but when a politician talks about politics it can’t be taken as only personal. Layton obviously wanted to inspire Canadians while helping his party.  Success.

And is the letter’s content even remotely surprising?  It would be shocking if he suddenly made a candid statement diverging from his lifelong  positions. That would be historic, but the letter echoed the platitudes and sentiments he spoke in life.  No surprises here.  The letter didn’t add anything to his story, it was just a ghost authored overview.

Layton’s death is tragic, and it’s easy to see people loved him.  Even those who detest his policies frequently have affinity for the man himself.  Stories published in the Grid, CBC, and others from Now (there were 7 features on Layton last issue) describe an artistic, convivial man most at home in community meetings and drinking while talking politics in pubs. These stories paint a full picture of a fun, engaging person with character devoted to his cause he believed in (for better or worse).  He showed tremendous courage facing a horrible disease.  This letter should have little bearing on his legacy. He did enough in life.  Let his enthusiasm and his spirit in the flesh be remembered, not his talking points.

Heaven Help Me, I’m blogging…

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It used to be writers queried the best papers, magazines, or even went so far as writing a novel to show off their literary chops for popular and critical acclaim, not to mention money.   Now, any hack can write what they want without suffering editors or standards, and we’re free of requiring a basic understanding of how a sentence functions.  Today, I join this wonderful fraternity of bloggers.

I can only describe my writing as Halperinesque.  Look for high and low culture, stern writing and comedy, skewers and celebrations. Oh, and satire, because I love tearing things apart. Only if it’s deserved.

I can’t promise you’ll like it, but I can assure you I’ll abuse language and ideas as infrequently as possible to the best of my abilities.

Word.

P.S. At the top of my blog is the hallway to my apartment. Nice eh?