A Modest Proposal to Solve Canada’s Hockey Crisis

Don’t get me wrong: I like Canada. I have misty water-colored memories of growing up to “Delgrassi Junior High” and “You Can’t Do That On Television.” I think “Moving Pictures” is one of the best albums ever, and Triumph was the most underrated band of the 80s era. Labatt Blue, processed cheese, and that strange piece of meat that comes with Egg McMuffins are all regular staples in my diet. “Strange Brew” is a cinematic masterpiece and easily the greatest Shakespearian parody ever made. Jason Priestly, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Paul Shaffer, Alan Thicke, Bill Shatner—geniuses all around. I like Canada. I really do.

But I’m also a proud American and, more to the point, a New York Rangers fan. I’ve endured close to a decade of hockey hell, and after five straight years spent in playoff-less agony, I’m absolutely thrilled that our management has again opened the Cablevision vault to overpay for role players and second liners, even if it does spell the end for several small-market, back bacon, Molson swilling franchises. My loyalty has and will always be to Broadway’s Red, White, and Blue. Sure, I’ve heard the arguments and the criticisms; I know all about what these inflated deals are doing to the Canadian market and the NHL. But to quote Tommy Lee Jones in “The Fugitive”—I don’t care. I just want to see playoff hockey in The Garden, and I’ll support anything that helps to make it happen. You have my condolences, Canada, and nothing more. I refuse to feel guilty about wanting to win.

And let’s face it, my curling-loving friends, asinine contracts aside, even in the large markets you’re still never going to be able to go loony for dollar with any of the big boys from the US of A, especially when we have brainless rich guys like Mike Ilitch, Tom Hicks, and Ed Snider stacking the deck. And to suggest that these multiconglomerate mega-tycoons should show any kind of personal responsibility, respect for the game, or concern over something other than their own profit margins? Puh-leese. Apparently you haven’t been reading our papers lately.

It’s only going to get worse too. Thanks to a glitch in capitalism, America spits out billionaire bozos like Mark Cuban, Ted Leonsis, and Dan Synder every day: regular dumb guys with nothing but money to spend and a pressing need to live out all the sports fantasies that were denied to them through the miracle of Social Darwinism. It’s only a matter of time before someone takes one of the Maloof boys out to a Sharks game and suddenly the NHL is welcoming the Sacramento Oilers into the league faster than you can groan “Take off, eh.”

No one wants to see hockey become completely Americanized. So we here at Between Periods have decided to offer our help. We’ve graciously volunteered our time to come up with a reasonable and proactive solution to how your fine cold country can work towards keeping its stars and its teams healthy, active and competitive throughout the coming NHL seasons, or at least until the league collapses in 2004.

Since you obviously can’t compete financially, the focus shifts towards what other benefits you have that will prevent your hockey players from running south to greener pastures and less restrictive tax laws. What are you good at, Canada? What are your assets, what are your angles? My (ahem) intensive and scrupulous research found that your #1 export, aside from hockey players themselves, is Celine Dion albums—no wonder why your economy is struggling. Minor markets include David Cronenberg films, X-Files memorabilia, Tom Green, and the Barenaked Ladies—none of which are going to help you in the long run. Think bigger, Canada. For a population of—I don’t know, a couple million I guess—you have to have some sort of desirable product that you can use to stop your elite athletes from bolting under the border. There has to be something to keep your star skaters away from climates where a flannel shirt isn’t considered summer-wear.

I racked my brain for almost three full minutes trying to solve this problem. I tore through Alanis Morissette lyrics and Margaret Atwood novels. I spun my Tragically Hip albums backwards, pawed through old issues of Spawn. I watched hour after hour of Kids in the Hall reruns. I ran the gamut of Canadian culture—from Bret Hart to Corey Hart, from Glass Tiger to The Guess Who. Finally, with Alex Trebek and the Final Jeopardy theme ringing through my head, the answer hit me like a low-blow Darcy Tucker hip check to the knee.

Pamela Anderson.

Pamela Anderson, former Baywatch floatation device, star of the greatest hardcore bootleg porn video ever, and undisputed lust goddess champion of the world—born and raised in Vancouver, British Columbia. Pam Anderson is Canadian. Canada is directly responsible for producing one of the hottest females of all time. National assets indeed! Talk about your Canadians Mounties!

And yet this fine example of Canuckian womanhood is playing musical sex-chairs with every sleazy American pseudo-celeb that buys her a drink and swears the video camera is off. This prime piece of Canadian bacon is hiding the Yankee-franks with crappy rock stars, surfers, D-level actors, and Scott Baio. For shame, Canada. Where is your pride? Where is your sense of national duty? Why are you not encouraging your hot native daughter’s to perform their civic duties upon and atop of your own fine native sons? For shame.

Now before you start calling me a jingoistic chauvinistic American pig—oink oink, guilty as charged—cycle through the list of Grade-A babes that your country has exported south of the border. Shania Twain, Linda Evangelista, Carrie-Anne Moss, that chick on the “Crossing Jordan” show—all exceptionally talented women in their own special way. And yet these fine ladies disappear from the Canadian landscape faster than Nickelback’s 15 minutes of fame. What gives, eh?

You have some downright hot women, Canada. Use them to your advantage. Instead of bellyaching about how you can’t compete with the Dolan’s and the Hick’s in the NHL, why not find a more suitable “currency” to attract and maintain your players? Why not enlist your top-shelf women to exclusively date your Canadian hockey stars?

(I’d even make the case that if one of your A-list babes had stepped up in ‘88, you guys never would have lost Gretzky. But I digress…)

If I were your prime minister or whatever you call the guy that makes up your crazy policies, I’d make service to a native hockey club the patriotic duty of all beautiful Canadian women. Draft it into a law, like socialized medicine or that rule keeps you people at least ten years behind the fashion trends.

And imagine all the potential this holds! Instead of taxing out a budget on some lofty zillion-dollar contract, you counter with a modest salary and Natasha Henstridge. Instead of lockout protection and a no-trade clause, you offer two weeks in Banff with Neve Campbell and a litre of moose-scented body oil. Playoff incentives can include phrases like “crotchless”, “tub full of jello” and “Miss Petite Ontario”. Even your GMs can get into the act. Brian Burke can walk the streets of Vancouver dressed in a flowing velvet robe with a matching fedora. Pat Quinn can start every press conference by saying, “Bitch better get my money.” Craig Button can roll up to the Saddledome in a lime green Caddy with Curtis Mayfield blaring from his windows. These things need to happen!!!

I’m not suggesting that small-market northern cities use sexual favors as a means to entice big-name free-agents, I’m merely saying that all Canadians have an obligation to whore out their women in order to protect their national honor.

This could work, Canada. This could save the sport you so dearly cherish. The fate of the Great White NHL rests upon it. Make up posters of Don Cherry under the slogan: “I Want You, Women of Canada. Seriously. What’s Your Number?” Don’t be a bunch of hose-heads. Even as we speak, offer sheets are being put together for Jarome Iginla. Give Nelly Furtado a call, and keep your fingers crossed that Anaheim doesn’t forward an offer sheet centered around Britney Spears.

It’s time to put those legendary Canadian beavers to work.

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