Mainlining Maple Leafs

It took three newspapers and two live news reports to satisfy me that no, WWIII had not been declared last week, there had been no D-Day-like invasion of Normandy, and no, the war had not subsequently ended as quickly as it hadn't started. However, all this up-to-date non-news was seriously in question around 9:30 last Tuesday night, given the victory parade running the length of Toronto's longest street, a procession of horn-honking, flag-waving hysteria right out of a 1940s' newsreel.

Of course, if I'd just stuck my head out the window and taken a closer look at all of the blue and white flags, I would have known right away: The Toronto Maple Leafs had just won.

Now, for everyone out there wondering why this fool is talking about the Stanley Cup final when we're still in the middle of spring and not the sweltering, dog days of summer (what, you think hockey is actually played in winter?), let me make it clear that Toronto's beloved team had not won the final...no, just the first round of the playoffs, which in most locales other than Buffalo is about as worthy to cheer about as another Wal-Mart flyer arriving in the mail.

But here in Toronto, every win, every goal, every team bus that arrives on time is worthy of at least one parade, two days of steady partying, and more than a few indecent proposals. The local evening news is perpetually in danger of being pre-empted with fast-breaking reports of player injuries, trade rumours, current ice conditions at the Air Canada Centre, or the latest betting line on when Leafs' Coach Pat Quinn is likely to be fired. And while wearing anything but a hometown jersey might get you a few boos and heckles in places like Philly or Detroit, wear anything but the Leafs' blue and white on game night and you'll be found hog-tied and stripped to your skivvies by sunrise (and Lord help you if those skivvies aren't official Maple Leaf skivvies!).

Many will point to the fact that Toronto has not won the cup in thirty-seven years, a period of sensory deprivation for a town of rabid hockey fans that makes Chinese water torture seem exciting. Hockey is not just a game, they will say, but a way of life, the meaning of life, the source of life! Get these people talking about hockey for more than five minutes and you'll soon see them frothing at the mouth and speaking in tongues, eyes rolled back and flopping around the floor like freshly caught mackerel. No junkie can match the spectacle of a Torontonian trying to buy playoff tickets, where it is not uncommon for ticket sales staff and scalpers alike to carry mace and a fully charged Taser. Leafs' fans must have those tickets.

Because, you see, this might be the year they win it all!

Like all junkies, they're quite simply nuts. Aside from turning an exciting game into something akin to a Rev. Jim Jones rally for 19,000 (just don't drink the Kool-Aid), they also don't have a hope in hell of ever seeing the Stanley Cup anywhere but at the Hall of Fame Museum (conveniently located just down the road from the rink...oh, so tempting). Each year, the team affectionately known elsewhere as the Maple Laughs grinds, hits and punches its way through enough playoff rounds to keep the faithful coming and the tickets selling, only to fall flat on its face with a collective thud just when it counts. And with the Flyers already up two-zip, you'll be seeing George Bush streaking down the streets of Fallujah before a Stanley Cup victory parade along Yonge Street.

But, God forbid, what if it does happen? (The Leafs, I mean.)

This is a seriously scary prospect, particularly for me, given that I live within shouting, honking, and assault distance from Toronto's main street. It is safe to say that Toronto would simply reach critical mass and vaporize itself before the winning goal had finished rolling around the back of the net.

However, if it might mean I get to see George in his birthday suit, well...Go Leafs Go!