photo credit: stevendepolo
Confession time: I can’t skate.
Bombshell, eh? It’s not that I’ve never strapped skates on, it’s just the last time I did so, I was in Grade 8. By my calculations, that was nineteen years ago. We had a neighbourhood skating rink when I was growing up in Guelph, and I would go to skate when I was a kid. But I distinctly remember stopping by plowing full-bore into the snowbanks that surrounded the rink. Saying I could skate would be like saying PopoZão is a subtle pop masterpiece.
Given the Canadian cultural identity surrounding ice skating (in full view this fall with the CBC mash-up hit Ice Capades Battle of the Blades), its something that I don’t really advertise. I feel like any white Canadian boy who was born in the late 20th century has the common experience of playing hockey. Me? Not so much. I don’t think I’ve ever played a proper road or ice hockey game. I can count on one hand how many NHL games I’ve seen from start to finish. Wayne Gretzky means more to me as being born in the same city than as The Great One. Icing is something on a cake, not a rule of the game. I don’t know what the lines on a hockey rink mean. I don’t care if a loonie was melted into centre ice at the Salt Lake City Olympics. You’re getting my point.
