A Faceoff Over Allegiance

“So, who are you rooting for tomorrow?” Michael needled me, hoping to get a rise out of the only American sitting at the dining table. It was the night before the Olympic Gold Medal hockey game between the U.S. and Canada. I had been in Canada for over two years now and my immediate response even surprised me a bit.
“Well, Canada of course.” I shot back. “It’s my country now.”
Interesting how I came to adopt this land as my own. On the surface, it doesn’t appear all that different from the states, what with Costcos, karaoke and internet dating. Once you get used to the colored money and all the references to royalty, it’s easy to forget the differences. That is, except when it comes to hockey.
I grew up in Nebraska where the winters froze all the ponds over, but the only people venturing out on them had six packs and fishing poles in their hands. Winter meant the tail end of football season and heading inside to play basketball where it was warm. I knew of hockey and I remember the names of Gordie Howe, Bobby Orr and later on Wayne Gretzky, but I was never much more interested than just knowing that they existed.
Sports stayed a passion with me, but when I moved to Mississauga to pastor a church, the local sports talk shows seemed far more interested in goaltending and body checking than quarterbacking or RBIs. So I let myself go with the flow and gradually noticed that I was starting to follow the puck. I was actually beginning to get and enjoy the game. Maybe I really was a Canadian at heart.
Of course, living near Toronto was a perfect classroom for studying the game, what with the Leafs bearing the national prestige of the nation, similar to how the Yankees sit atop the U.S. sports world. However, playing like the Chicago Cubs, those loveable losers, who, though stigmatized by futility, never lose their sex appeal.
But when the puck dropped in Vancouver I began to feel my American roots showing. Sitting in the bar at East Side Marios, surrounded by a sea of red maple leaf fans, I could feel some of my lost allegiance resurfacing as I watched for the first time in action, the young US team that had beaten everyone, including Canada once, in order to be in this game. When Team Canada went up 2-0, I jokingly turned to my friend, a very rabid, hockey mom and said, “I’d love to see them tie it and make it a close game.” Debbie looked at me as if I had just broken her grandmother’s cloisonné teapot, “Don’t even go there, she warned!”
I laughed. She didn’t. I shut up. Watching would be safer.
I don’t think I’ve enjoyed any sports event more than I did that game. It was thrilling. My Canadians, moving on goal in wave after wave of artful symmetry, like the fingers of one hand reaching for the prize, while my birth brothers attacked the net like an angry nest of hornets, almost independent of each other. Suddenly I was able to discern style, discipline, recklessness and harmony in the sport.
And when Team USA pulled their goaltender, launching their furious last minute barrage, I smiled knowingly inside, sensing that all of us in the room were about to experience something more than just a hockey game. And so it began, for with twenty-four seconds remaining, the Americans pushed one in, tying the game and prying the medal free from a Nation’s victory embrace.
The whole bar sat in stunned silence, men, women and near kids alike, with me, the only soul smiling just in the wonder of it all. In shock, Debbie turned to me, trying her best to feign comedic anger amidst genuine heartbreak. “This is your fault!” she jabbed at me with pointed finger.
I was absolutely speechless, in awe of the sheer magnitude of the emotional shift that had just taken place.
Debbie needed to be somewhere else and wanting to get there before the overtime period started, she heartfully both chastised and hugged me, racing out the door to leave me as sole witness to what happened next—an observation and understanding as to why I love this new country of mine and its people so dearly.
At this point, I didn’t care who won. In fact, I was using my sentiments to buy more time without there being a loser. I knew that eventually it would end and that I would end up grieving more for who didn’t win than cheering for who did … but I never got the chance to check that expectation out.
Sid the Kid put in the shot heard ‘round Canadian Nation and just like that, it was over.
The room erupted in euphoria, everyone shouting, laughing, smiling and hugging each other. As I looked around at the faces though, expecting to see the usual victory parade, I was forcibly struck by something quite different. People weren’t just happy in their own circle of celebration, the whole room was contained by, and overflowing with, a tangible spirit of camaraderie. The team hadn’t just won … a whole nation had come together.
As I reveled in the glow of this mass love affair, I noticed, too, what was missing from this scene.
There was no sense or celebration of a vanquished foe. There was no pent-up force, no testosterone shrieking out, “We’re number one!”, “In your face!”, or “Not in our house!” More like small children, they were turning to each other with wide, genuine smiles, as if crying out together, “We did it! We did it! Look at what we just did!”
Yes, I am an American and I love my country, but I think I am a Canadian too, and I need to be one right now, because I am looking for the Spirit of my Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave and I feel a deep sadness. We Americans got lost somewhere, sometime ago, even before those airplanes crashed into our towers. We forgot what made our country great, what made it once a nation that the whole world looked up to in hope, aspiration and gratitude. We forgot that we are all in this together.
I saw that spirit once again in a small bar, on a Sunday afternoon in Oakville, Ontario and I refuse to lose sight of it again. Thank you Canada, for not just reminding me, but for showing the whole world just how it’s done.