Loving the Zamboni By Jennifer Harrinton

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Winter in Toronto was harsh this year. Foot upon foot of snow and very cold temperatures left the streets and sidewalks woefully empty. Window shoppers: a remarkably hearty bunch, often seen strolling down Queen Street in any weather, resorted to browsing on-line for flannel pajamas and slippers as the winter wind roared outside. Restaurants and nightclubs were left empty, with pizza delivery boys being the only people brave enough to attempt navigating the frozen and treacherous highways.

By March, the buzz on television and radio was focused on the weather. Were we heading into another ice age? Would spring ever arrive? The students in my grade five class were becoming tired of spending 20 minutes to get dressed for recess. We wanted warm winds, sunshine, bird song!

April brought more seasonal temperatures, but also the hockey playoffs. It is amazing how quickly we as Canadians can turn from looking wistfully out our windows at the retreating snow, to packing ourselves into chilly arenas, and spending our first few spring weekends locked inside our houses, glued to our televisions.

Many Easter dinners were spent with families, sitting around the dinner table, eating ham and scalloped potatoes, watching the Leafs and the Senators battle it out. This drowned out any hope of conversation.

Despite the explosion of green around us, television commercials are also demonstrating the current fascination with hockey. Beer ads that star Curtis Joseph, goalie for the Toronto Maple Leafs, shout out "I am Canadian" and joyfully encourage us to equate our nationality with everything cliche ever said about Canada: we love hockey, we love beer, and we love . . . we love . . . well, we love hockey. But we especially love the guy who drives the Zamboni, the enormous ice-making machine that cleans up the ice between periods.

6My student's artwork and stories are full of imagery from the great frozen game. Forget pictures of flowers in bloom and tales of bunnies hopping through fields of grass. In gym class, students argue with me over calls I make, evidently emulating the attitudes they see their favorite players demonstrating toward referees.

As the birds begin to make their nests and the first few crocus appear from beneath suffocated lawns, people drive like crazy to make it home in time to watch the game. Boys and girls that usually linger on in the schoolyard in warmer weather, or ride their bikes and scooters until dinner, are anxious to get out of school at the end of the day to play road hockey with friends.

Math activities are concentrated around hockey in order to keep students focused: If the Leafs won five games and the Senators lost five, which team is most likely to advance in the playoffs? This starts a near riot in the classroom as 26 11-year-olds challenge each other's knowledge about team and player statistics.

I never used to participate in all this "hockey fever." In high school I was an artist, staying up until daybreak working on enormous paintings. I was a vegetarian, I did yoga and I wrote poetry. My best friend from Japan and I would shake our heads in despair over the drunken crowds who would spill out of sports bars during the hockey season, cheering "Go Leafs! Go!" and waving tiny Canadian flags.

After high school my friend moved back to Japan and I went to university here in Ontario. I tried to remain true to myself, to continue painting and writing. This proved next to impossible.

The lounges in residence had television sets. Most of the guys at school were into hockey. Forget trying to study while a Leaf game was on. People would crowd around the television, spilling beer on the furniture and swearing at the opposing team's players. Despite my earplugs and my poetry, I too, slowly but surely, became hooked on hockey.

I just spent a beautiful, misty late May evening glued to the TV, stuffing myself with peanut butter cookies. My friend in Tokyo phones me, but I let the answering machine pick up — the Dallas Stars and Edmonton Oilers are pounding each other into the boards and I simply cannot tear myself away.

Another beer commercial comes on as an injured player is carried off the ice. I laugh at this comedic interlude and spill cookie crumbs all over myself. I feel cozy here on the couch, proud to be Canadian . . . If only this spring rain would let up.

Shukan ST: June 1, 2001

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