Roger Pires Feb 25, 2010
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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Our games
Normally, I wouldn’t know a triple axel from a triple bypass. But something happens every four winters that makes me – and I’m guessing most of you - tune in to all things sporting, no matter how obscure. The Olympics are here again. For a span of two frantic weeks, skeletons aren’t just things found hanging in one’s closet. My wife and I watch very little television. For the last week-and-a-half however, we’ve been stapled to the chesterfield taking in everything from luge, to snowboard half-pipe, to ice dancing. If nothing else, watching half-mad daredevils dressed in bubble wrap hurtle down a sheet of ice that drops fifty stories in a minute-and-a-half beats doing laundry.
The Olympics are a waltz of human drama, athletic achievement, and controversy.
And this year, another element has been added to the dance. Something special, something familiar. The games are in our own backyard, or at least that part of the yard that’s three time zones away. It’s the sound of thousands of Canadian voices echoing off the peaks of the coastal mountains. I don’t just hear the voices, I feel them. I feel their joy; I feel their pride. At no other time and for no other reason would I stay up until midnight to watch the biathlon: guys in body suits cross-country skiing and squeezing off a few rounds into a spruce tree. The world has come to Canada and, as the commercial says, we have the best backyard in the world. I’ve made a mental note to book a ski vacation in Whistler – if and when I win the lottery.
There’s something else going on. There’s been a change of attitude in us. We are no longer content with personal bests. We want to win it all. We want to Own the Podium. Not everyone shares our enthusiasm for national betterment, however. Our older brother to the south, no stranger to lofty proclamations, has been quick to mock our esteemed goal. Our American neighbours point out that their alpine ski team has as many medals as our country combined. Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, especially when you have to import truckloads of snow to do it. I don’t know who’s dumping more rain on our Olympic parade: Mother Nature or Uncle Sam?
There are plenty of sourpusses to go around. The British press failed to pack their sense of humour in their carry-ons. The country that gave us Monty Python and Mr. Bean has been critical of, well, everything. The Mr. Blackwells of the beer tent are not amused by some of the fashions on display. They’ve even cobbled together a gallery of the worst offenders. Canadian skeleton racer Jeff Pain and his helmet with a raging beaver on it is near the top of the list. So are Australian speed skaters and their cyber-age body suits. And of course, topping the list are the Norwegian curlers and their clown pants. These checkered trousers may be a hit with the King of Norway but they are turning stomachs at the Daily Telegraph. I wonder what they would say if Elton John and Boy George sang a duet at the opening ceremonies at London 2012? As Steve Tilley of the Toronto Sun put it, “There’s a gold medal for irony”.
These are just sidebars to what has been a magnificent event. Americans, Germans, and Norwegians may be stomping on our podium but Canada has had a lot to celebrate. The majesty of Whistler on a sunny afternoon, for one. Our first gold medal on home soil, for another. The country lost its mind when a young Quebecer, Alex Bilodeau, charged down the slopes of Cypress faster than any other competitor. We’ll remember other names for awhile: Christina Groves, Jenn Heil, Maelle Ricker. We’ll even carp about the failures and the expectations not met. But there’s one gold medal which, rightly or wrongly, will determine whether these games are a success or a failure. For two weeks, our national pastime becomes our national anxiety. Eight years ago, Walter Gretzky, the First Father of Canadian hockey, smiled into the camera, pointed at the snow-covered crags around Salt Lake City and made a proclamation: “There’s gold in those hills. And it’s Canadian gold!” His words were prophetic. In a few hours, Team Canada had gold medals around their necks and a euphoric nation had a 50-year-old albatross cut from around its own. The prediction from the patriarch of Canada’s royal family was brash, bold, confident. But hey, this was hockey. And hockey matters here. A lot.
The memories of gold in skeleton and moguls will fade. But being on top of hockey’s Mount Olympus will sustain us like a long, cold sip from an alpine stream.
