moar internetz

First, let’s be clear here, that the Canucks losing tonight wouldn’t be the worst moment of my life—far from it. Despite all the histrionics, this isn’t mom telling me she had cancer, or someone telling you they don’t love “like that” anymore, or any number of a handful of personal, professional, or academic failings. A hockey game, as the term would suggest, is still, at the end of the day, just a game. Tomorrow, the sun will still rise (and it’s Vancouver, so the clouds will form, obscuring the sun immediately) and life will go on.

With that out of the way, I will say this though, while not in terms of severity, since the day I told my father that I decided that I didn’t want to be Wayne Gretzky anymore, because I wanted to be Trevor Linden instead (“because, Dad, I don’t think Wayne Gretzky has to try to be good. I bet Trevor Linden has to shoot 50 pucks everyday like me to be good”), nothing has broken my heart more often than the Vancouver Canucks.

It’s not even that they’re constantly and abjectly terrible; one could get used to that kind of failure. The problem is that they’re so good at inching towards greatness before hurtling, usually in spectacularly disappointing fashion, back to earth.

There was dominating Calgary as the 8th seed in game 7 in 1989 before Joel Otto did his best David Beckham, literally booting us out of the playoffs before the Flames went on to steamroll every other opponent en route to the Stanley Cup.

There were the Flames again in 2003. When Cooke scored with 2-seconds left to tie it. When I ended a relationship rather than miss overtime to “talk about us right NOW.” When Martin Gelinas (of course it was an ex-Canuck) ended the playoffs a minute-and-a-half later.

There was going up two to nil on Detroit the year before and coming home on a high… to the one-two punch of Lidstrom’s long bomb from centre ice (that pretty much killed Cloutier’s career along with the season) and Bertuzzi missing on a penalty shot (to this day, I’ve never been in an atmosphere that went from elated to deflated as fast as when Bert put it wide).

There was, of course, 1994. The reason I can remember career journeyman Nathan Lafayette. The reason I cringe when rubber hits iron on the wrong side of the rink. The real reason I hate Mark Messier (1997-2000 didn’t help, but the seed was planted when he bulldozed Linden from behind). The first and only time that I’ve teared up over a sporting event I, for all real intents and purposes, had no hand in.

And there are the constant reminders when you walk into your home arena and look up at the rafters—Smythe division banners, Northwest division banners, a Campbell conference banner, and soon a President’s trophy banner—a bridesmaid’s photo album hanging along side memorials of the careers of three guys who will never make the Hall of Fame and whose numbers have only ever graced the backs of those unfortunate kids who grew up with or were born into this club of mediocrity.

But tonight. Tonight would be the worst of all.

This was supposed to be our year. But forget all of that. That doesn’t matter. Get bounced by the lowly Predators in 4-straight next round. Sure, whatever. Just don’t be the best team during the regular season, the team that went up 3-0 against their arch rivals, only to be the team to let it all unravel in the most overly dramatic fashion.

Just win one more game and it’ll all be forgotten. Just another disappointing season to file away with the rest. Just win one more game and I’ll dutifully take the “LB” pin off of my jersey, give it the washing it’s overdue for, clip the pin back on, and hang it up for the off-season while I nap on the beach in the Summer and dream of October.

Just give me this one and you can break my heart for another two decades.

Go, Canucks, go.