They Storm the Crease Like Bumble Bees

I was at the Leafs game at the Shark Tank last Tuesday night when, seconds after the first Sharks goal, I felt my pocket vibrate. It was a text message from Rochester. He'd gotten the tickets for me, really good ones, at the end where the Leafs would be shooting two of the three periods.

"So how's that working out for you?" it read.

I texted back: "Fuck off :)"

"Hey, I took time out of my class to inquire...some people got no gratitude!" he texted back right away. I love how he capitalized and punctuated his text messages. I mean the fact that he did, not the manner in which he did.

I texted back: "Fuck off :)"

I thought that would be all I'd hear from him until later that night, when I'd get back to our Facebook Scrabble game. I mean, he was in a class, an evening class, and they usually run from 6:00 until 9:00. It was the reason he wasn't at the game himself. But the text messages kept coming.

After the third goal: "Ouch, eh?"

And after the shorthanded goal: "Ooh, a shorty! (That's what she said...)"

There's a rule in comedy that it is the persistence of the inappropriate behaviour that makes it funny. It's why we laugh at Wile E. Coyote. Kevin Smith, being interviewed about the success of his movie, Clerks, said, "Three times is funny." In the middle of the movie an old man who comes into the convenience store and asks to use the bathroom. Then goes away, comes back and asks for toilet paper, the soft kind. Then goes away, comes back a third time and asks for a magazine. A porno mag, that is.

So I texted Rochester for the third time: "Fuck off. :-)"

Oh, and yes, that's Molson Canadian on tap. They brought it in special, and it was only available in a couple of places in the stadium. The funniest thing about it, though, was that they called it a "premium beer" and charged a premium for it.

I went back three times.

I Don't Care Anymore

I'm going to the Leafs game tonight. It's their last home game of the season, against Pittsburgh, and it doesn't matter to anyone whether they win or lose. Last Saturday the Leafs' last hope of making it into the playoffs was stomped out. There'll be no Stanley Cup playoffs in Toronto this year. There is no joy in Mudville.

You have to wonder why they bother to hold the game at all. In baseball, if the winning team is last at-bat, they don't bother to play. It seems cruel, somehow.

Wearing my Ed Belfour jersey also seems unneccessarily cruel, but it's the only Leafs jersey I own.

The thing is, I understand how the Leafs feel about this game; how they'll feel playing it. It's how I feel right now, proctoring my second year marketing class's final exam.

The last time I saw their 42 faces, two weeks ago at our last class of the regular season, I cared about them. I went through a review for the final, and gave them my "Ten Tips for Doing Well on Exams." I wanted them to do well. I wanted to encourage them. I wanted to give them all As, so they'd like me. (Not that I would, mind you, I'm just saying I wanted to, then.)

But that was two weeks ago, when the post season hadn't yet been decided. When there was still hope. Now, I don't care anymore.

They do not know this, and please, Gentle Reader, don't tell them. I don't want to hurt their feelings, if they care whether I care; if they thought I cared; If they knew that I did. Let them think I still do.

I don't care anymore, because I won't be here in September.

Oh, sure, I'll finish off the season. Play that last game. Mark their exams, and submit their final grades. They bought their tickets; they'll have a game. But it won't matter to anyone.

Maybe I'll stay at this university for another year, maybe not. It turns out there's hope after all. (That always seems to happen right after I give up on something completely.) Maybe I'll move to California instead.

Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye

But what a way to go, eh?



I'm still going to the game on Tuesday, even though it doesn't matter to the Leafs. What matters is that I'm taking my friend Gary, who I haven't seen for a year, and who used to be Jack's boss back in the old Internet days, because he's about to get divorced for the second time and so we're gonna get drunk.

Besides, in two days I won't care anymore.

Don't Give Up On Us, Baby

You already know this about me, Gentle Reader, but I'm a sucker for lost causes. Well; more accurately, not-quite-hopelessly-lost causes. If there's any shred of hope remaining, I will cling to it.

I've never forgotten the last words of the Stephen King story, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption (which are also the last words of the movie, The Shawshank Redemption): I hope.

I also remember when the movie Titanic first came out, and the critics said, what's the point, we all know how it ends? The point of the story, the wise critics said, is to illustrate the different ways people react in a crisis. There are those who lay down and die quietly, and those who claw desperately at the uprighted sides of the ship to survive, against all hope. And sometimes they do.

Your humble narrator is one of the latter.

The Toronto Maple Leafs have 84 points, with four games left to play. Tampa Bay, those bastards from Florida, where they call it ice hockey for fuck's sake, are in 8th place in the division, the last playoff spot, with 89 points. Which means if the Leafs win just three of their next four games, and Tampa loses all of their last three games, and Atlanta, which is currently in 9th place with 85 points, loses all of their last three games...

Hey, it could happen.

So I'm going to the last home game next Tuesday, against the Pittsburgh Penguins. Because it'll either be the most exciting and important game of the entire hockey season, or it'll be lamer than a cheesy pop song recorded by the star of a 1970s TV series.

That's what I call extreme sports.

And now, back to my thesis...

The funny thing about hope is that, sometimes, just when you give it up is exactly when it comes back to you. Or maybe I'm confusing Hope with Jack. It doesn't always work, though: the Leafs lost.