I intended to write about my hockey memories in this little seires, but I’m afraid Vancouver’s current first round battle is consuming all my attention.
At the moment, I feel tense and frustrated. The Canucks lead the best-of-seven series 3-2, but they’re playing tonight in Nashville and have yet to play their best hockey. In particular, Elias Pettersson—hands down my favorite player on the team—is garnering all sorts of criticism. That’s hard to see because I think he’s awesome and want nothing but awesomeness for him.
However, if I take a moment to breathe and consider the bigger picture, I remember that I’m just happy the Canucks are in this position. It’s been a long while since I’ve had a team to cheer for in the playoffs.
Earlier this week, it struck me that the last time I saw Vancouver win a real series—discounting the 2020 playoff bubble for all its weirdness—was in 2011. My friend Fraser and I were watching them in the Fort Pub, which was a raucous and wonderful place to watch Kevin Bieksa’s overtime-winning “stanchion goal.”
Since I moved away from Vancouver in 2021, I’ve discovered the joys and trepidation of being a fan for the visiting team. In 2022, I took my son Peter to his first NHL game, where we saw the Canucks defeat the Predators in the midst of a hapless season. I felt a little guilty every time I jumped up to a celebrate a goal. (But not guilty enough to stop.)
We made this same trek in December, this time bringing little brother Charlie along with us. Once again, the Canucks were victorious, handily winning the game 5-3. I didn’t feel any guilt this time around. This was partly because I’d discovered that Predators fans are actually quite nice in the wake of defeat. They’ll slap you on the shoulder and shake your hand as you exit the arena. “That was a good game,” they say, and they mean it. I doubt they’d get that kind of treatment in Vancouver.
That said, the thing that really took my guilt away was experiencing the home crowd’s liturgy.
It starts when the announcer reads off the opposing team’s starting line-up. “On defense, number 53 Tyler Myers,” he declares. Instantly, the crowd screams, “SUCKS!” This call-and-response continues through all 6 skaters, reaching fulfillment when the announcer names the head coach: “HE SUCKS, TOO!”
As far as chants go, this one is pretty innocuous. Where it really takes off is when the Predators score a goal.
First, they blare the chorus of Tim McGraw’s “I Like It, I Love It.” That’s on-brand for Nashville, so I can’t really complain about that. (But can you tell that I want to? It’s hard to believe I settled in the home of country music given how much I dislike it.)
The crowd settles a little as play continues, but they’re not done. Not by a long shot.
The announcer’s voice excitedly pierces the air. “Predator’s goal scored by number [blah blah blah, you get the picture].” The crowd cheers, politely waiting for him to complete his announcement so they can launch into a full-on verbal assault:
Thank you, [name of goalie], may we have another? He shoots. He scores! You suck, [name of goalie], and it’s all your fault! You suck, and it’s all your fault!
Now, just put yourself in the skates of that visiting goaltender. Can you imagine 17,000 people screaming that at you? The mere thought makes me wonder how long it’ll be until my next therapy appointment.
This past Sunday, my son Peter got to experience this liturgy at a whole new level. Since Vancouver is playing Nashville, I figured it was my solemn duty to support them in this series. So, I splurged and took Peter to Game 4.
The lead-up to the game felt like a comedy of errors. On the way there, I discovered that the Canucks would be playing their third-string goalie in the game—both their starting and back-up goalies had been sidelined by injuries. The goalie now thrust into the spotlight is a potential future star—especially after being named the World Championship MVP last year—but I couldn’t help but be nervous. What were we in for?
I settled down shortly into the game, after the Canucks buried a goal to take a 1-0 lead. But from there, the Predators took over. We ended up hearing the post-goal liturgical response three times that game, with the final one occurring at the start of the third period.
At least we’re already ahead in the series, I consoled myself as the clock ticked down.
And then a miracle happened.
With mere minutes left to play, the Canucks pulled their goalie, giving them an extra player on the ice. That offensive boost resulted in a goal to pull them within one. Meanwhile, I remained cautious. That’s encouraging. Maybe this energy can translate into the next game.
In the last minute of play, they pulled their goalie again and hemmed the Predators in the opposing zone. Standing on my feet, I frantically watched as the puck circled the zone, making its way to the blue line and nearly out before it was returned to the net—and, with 6.2 seconds left, put into the net.
I jumped. I screamed. I thrust both fists in the air and looked around for someone to high-five. Surrounded by a sea of yellow jerseys, I quickly abandoned that quest. But WOW. To come back and tie a game with mere seconds left? It was unbelievable.
This meant sudden death overtime, and in the NHL, playoff over time is THE BEST. It’s wholly unlike the regular season, which offers a meager 5-minute overtime, followed by a shootout if neither team scores in the additional time. In the playoffs, however, overtime has only one end: when one of the two teams scores. Can you imagine watching multiple 20-minute periods of scoreless hockey under the intense pressure of “next goal wins”? There’s nothing like it, especially when you win. (We shall not speak of the losses.)
On Sunday, Peter and I didn’t experience a marathon. It was over in 62 seconds.
Was that a good thing? Well, the Canucks won, so yeah, I’ll take it—especially after the come-from-behind theatrics of the third period.
As Predators fans filed out of the stadium, Peter and I stood and stared at the ice. We’d just witnessed the epitome of eucatastrophe, whether Tolkien would have enjoyed it or not. It was one of those moments where you realize that “too good to be true” is a lie. The truth was too crazy to be a lie.
In a happy daze, I walked Peter back to the parking garage. We’d waited long enough for most of the crowd to disperse, likely to console themselves in Broadway honky tonks. Those that walked with us were, as usual, kind. “We didn’t deserve to win that game,” I croaked to one group of fans that half-heartedly told me it was a good game. Which was true, and yet didn’t really matter. Because we’d won.
Perhaps the best moment, though, came as Peter and I were buckling our seatbelts and preparing to drive home. My quiet son turned to me with his piercing eyes and caught my attention as I started the car.
“Doesn’t that make you want to say, ‘Who sucks now’?” he asked.
I don’t know what a good father is supposed to say in a moment like that. I just smiled. “Yeah, it does.”
Go Canucks Go.
Awesome.
As a fellow transplant, I fully appreciate the joy of rooting for a team no one in town knows or likes. I didn’t see a single Detroit Lions game this year, but you better believe I was all for them!
I love your son’s reaction!