I wrote this poem the other night (but edited it tonight) while watching the World Junior Championship of hockey final. It was the only game I caught in the entire tournament. I really loved the play of one player in particular.
Raptors lose again.
To Milwaukee.
A city forced to love its losers.
Yet a country loves champions.
I can only admit to be fixated on Team Canada’s best defenceman,
a big tough black dude
not willing to be stupid.
He knows officials are calling a game against him,
his team,
against 18,000 fans in Scotiabank Place,
though the way it’s been refereed,
it might as well be in the MGM Grand,
with Don King in the front row.
The defenceman angrily slams the net at what’s allowed to pass.
But the big man won’t fight back. He knows what’s at stake.
Canada wins. Five golds in a row.
I focus on the kid and his giant head’s giant grin,
his cap worn crooked, pranking his teammates.
How rare is it for someone to go by the name PK?
How rare is it a leaf fan is excited
About a future defenceman for the Canadiens?
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