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Pique n' your interest

Playoff spring fever

I’m one of those people that get really cerebral about movies.

It’s rooted in the film theory courses I exposed myself to back in university.

Arnold Schwarzenegger films of the early ’80s, aside from being heady violence, are a statement on the American cold-war psyche under Reagan. Molly Ringwald’s oevre with John Hughes is frothy fun, admittedly, but also a reflection on the female gaze. The Commitments is an allegory for Ireland’s historical struggle for independence. I’m sure the Big Lebowski somehow represents the story of Christ. Give me a couple beers and I’ll figure it out. I revel in this stuff.

So I was kind of taken aback by this publication’s Notes From the Back Row movie column last week, wherein Feet Banks related Wolfgang Peterson’s current film Troy to American military imperialism.

It wasn’t because the concept isn’t valid. Au contraire. Banks makes some legitimate points. No, it’s because I had seen Troy myself the weekend prior and not once had I even considered the subject.

After seeing Troy there was only one thing on my mind and that was Brad Pitt’s gorgeous bronzed body straining to flex itself free from the shackles of thigh grazing leather armour, touseled blond locks sweaty from battling equally buff warrior extras hand to hand. Good god. I’m reliving it now. Somebody get me a cigarette.

If this were any other time of year I’d be worried about the disappearance of my film geek mindset and transformation into some kind of oversexed Jackie Collins protagonist. But I’ve chalked this incident and my general state of mind over the past weeks up to a powerful springtime phenomenon.

Call it spring fever with a red-blooded Canadian girl twist – Stanley Cup playoff fever. Hot damn.

I’ve got it particularly bad this year because of the continued success of the Calgary Flames. They’ve become Canada’s team and I am Canadian. But their victories have also tapped into a reserve of Alberta pride I didn’t even realize I had in me. Did you know I grew up in the same Edmonton suburb as Jarome? I didn’t care a month ago. Now everyone that’s ever said hi to me knows it. I think I even told the cashier at the grocery store the other day.

With the regular season elimination of the Edmonton Oilers I began cultivating my enthusiasm for Calgary in an appropriately reserved way during the round one Vancouver series. That night at the GLC following the Snowboard Big Air at the World Ski & Snowboard Festival everyone, even the Supersuckers, stopped what they were doing to cheer Vancouver’s time-buying overtime goal in game six, but I secretly cursed under my breath. It had just postponed what I was starting to believe was the inevitable.

Once the round two series against Detroit got underway the playoffs really took hold of me.

I turned very passionate. The things that came out of my mouth whenever Red Wings’ defenceman Derian Hatcher stepped on the ice would have shocked a Teamster. After Iginla fought him, I did jumping jacks for an hour. When they won game seven I couldn’t sleep.

The round three series against San Jose proceeded to turn my already boiling hot blood to firecrackers. More jumping jacks when they took the conference final on home ice.

It’s almost too much now that they’re playing for the grand prize. But strangely, it’s become almost irrelevant whether or not they hoist Lord Stanley’s silver grail.

Of course it would be sublime for my team to win; the cherry on top of the sundae.

But the sundae’s been damn good so far. So good I don’t want it to end. Once either team claims the Cup it means the end of the playoffs. The end of firecracker blood and jumping jacks. And saddest of all, the shaving of the playoff beards.

I’m not exactly sure when I became infatuated with playoff beards. Growing up in Edmonton during the dynasty years I watched a lot of playoffs and there must have been a seed planted in my little girl brain that hatched later on. In any case, there’s no denying my obsession with them now. I wholeheartedly blame the current abundance of playoff beards for the Troy incident.

There is not much in this world that’s sexier than a playoff beard.

Admittedly I’m somewhat predisposed. I do like my guys scruffy-cute, but I definitely don’t have an all-encompassing appreciation for beards.

A playoff beard, however, is not a normal beard. In fact if you’re holding them to strict beard standards a lot of them are pretty bad, falling prey to patchiness mostly.

But it doesn’t matter because a playoff beard is less a beard than a badge of honour, and that’s what makes it so sexy. A playoff beard is as much a player’s heart on his sleeve as it is hair on his face. The fuller it gets marks the longer they’ve lasted. The more hits they’ve taken from 6’4" gap-toothed monsters in shoulder pads. The more times they’ve been the last man standing. The more shots they’ve blocked. The more goals they’ve scored. The more they’ve celebrated. The more their eyes have glowed with the heady glory of a win.

A playoff beard marks the toughest of the tough – inner and outer strength.

It’s a symbol of passion. True hardcore passion. And damned if a red-blooded hockey-loving Canadian girl like me will ever get over that. Resistance is futile.

There are undoubtedly women reading this that think I’m certifiably insane right now. And to them I say, fair enough. You can have your manpurse slinging metrosexuals and your waxed-chest Chippendale squads thrusting their banana hammocks to N-Sync remixes.

As for me, I’ll be glued to the screen until someone ends the final series for both teams, after which I’ll do some jumping jacks and then cocoon that part of my brain with film analysis until next year’s playoff reawakening.