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Feb 24 - March 3, 2002 |
Culture Vulture
Dropping the hockey gloves
By Marco Beghetto
Originally Published: 2002-02-03
Only in the Great White North could a whole nation become obsessed with a debate over the legality of road hockey.
As you may remember a few weeks back, a Hamilton woman, tired of having a few flowers stepped on by neighbours playing hockey, crusaded for grumps everywhere when she took the neighbours to court and demanded municipal bylaws banning street hockey be enforced.
The free world is under attack, our economy is in trouble. 'Ce la vie,' we say. But wait a minute! Road hockey is coming under attack? 'We will fight to the death!' we all proclaimed.
Although I am always attentive of world events, I must confess that I too was engaged by this issue. The Great Canadian Debate sparked memories of youth when we would all run home, grab our sticks, and meet on someone's street for the after-school ball hockey game. We usually divided the teams by geographical location: Everyone who lived north of Calvington Ave. versus everyone south. There we would play from 4:00 until 10:00 p.m. Some kids would leave to go home and eat, but they almost always returned. And even if they didn't, there would always be others waiting with stick-in-hand.
I was still feeling nostalgic when my fiancée and I were watching the results of the case on the news. With the look of defeat, out came the plaintiff, arms flailing, covering her face from the cameras. "Crazy old bat," I said out loud.
"I kind of feel sorry for her," my fiancée said. "They hit the ball in her tulips. That is, after all, her property."
I looked over at my beautiful wife-to-be and kindly said, "What the hell is wrong with you? Look at her, she's a nut! Let the kids play. Better that, than causing trouble or sitting in front of a computer screen."
"Well, what if that was you?" she asked.
"What would I care? So they step on my property once and a while. Big deal," I said. She's not winning this one. This is a battle for the preservation of sport, damn it!
"Let's just say it was you, and instead of tulips, the ball kept hitting your brand new BMW," my dear princess cleverly retorted.
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