Disclaimer : Hetalia ain't mine. So is the song Je suis Malade and the two article mentioned
Canada and Hockey
Greatly inspired by the Article Why Hockey Matters written by Roy MacGregor in the Reader's Digest Canada January 2010 and At these Olympics, Canada wants to win, not just host by Erik Brady in USA TODAY
Quote are in Italics
**********
Matthew was standing in the middle of the ice rink, hockey stick in hand, a dozen pucks sprawled in front of him while half a dozen others were scattered around the net a few feet away. The stadium was empty, every move, every noise echoing throughout the entire building, where the Canadian was practicing shoot out. It was « le calme avant la tempête » Soon the Olympics would take place right here. And Matthew was determined, this time he'd win medals. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Own the Podium, they said. He just lost the Junior Championship to the USA, he'd get revenge with the O.G. But even though he lost, Matthew didn't complain. He was Canadian. Inferior, low profile, polite and quiet. But they didn't know how wrong they were.
He'd show them all. Hockey was HIS sport. Not only because they were good at it – Matthew can't count the number of trophies and medals his country owned – but because it was in his people's passion. In what other country would the news of the world be put on hold each spring until the scores are in? Where else in the world could an ENTIRE nation stand up and fight, and argue and do a general angst over such a trivial matter as the Hockey Night in Canada theme song? (It still makes Matthew mad. Damn it, it was his second National Anthem!) It's Canada's sport, not only for those who play it, but for those who watch it, and even to those who cannot bear it but cannot escape it. It was his sport because his people play it all year around. In summer, streets are filled with goals and kids running around with orange plastic balls, girls playing ringette (female hockey, they call it as a joke), and adults playing in arenas. In winter, many outdoor ice rinks have goals installed. Young and old would play together, no matter the weather, from early morning until they're almost thrown out of the rink at night. It was HIS game because anyone could play it. Rich or poor (some of the greatest players started poor), young or old, male or female, even those with one leg. Matthew looked up to the V.I.P. section where Alfred sat. The Canadian couldn't erase the smug on his face. While his brother was high above the ice with some important random dude, he was with his people, in the tier, his face painted in red. He was just behind the Canadian bench. His voice was coarse, and almost indistinct, but he would cheer and scream with all his might. Because today was THE day. Everything was set. Through the 17 days, every athlete did their best. He had won 13 gold medals. Own the podium, they had said. He did. Maybe Canada hadn't the most medals, but he had more gold. His Women's Hockey Team had won; they were the best (Canada WAS the leader in female hockey). But there was one match left – the most important one. For two reasons: if he could reach gold, Canada would break the record for most gold medals in the Winter Olympics. The other reason was to beat America. Against his brother, he didn't want to lose. Height years. During height years, both countries worked toward the same goal – win Gold. The excitement flowed through him. All of his people were excited. He could feel them – their hope, their dreams, their cheers. He even heard his Prime Minister say that they had superior athletes. His blood was boiling. Game on.
**********
2008: CBC loses rights to The Hockey Theme
In a pool : "Can Canada go on as we know it without the Hockey Night in Canada theme?", 84% respond no. (Wikipedia)
Russia and his champion
The ice was a strange purplish color. The Russian thought bitterly that ice wasn't supposed to be this color. Many colors were wrong these days – especially, a certain medal. It should have been gold, was the only thing going on in the Russian's head. The Exhibition Gala was hard on Ivan, as he sat still in the special sections arranged for the nations. The usual heavy coat and scarf had been traded for a black smoking jacket with a blue, red and white tie, representing the Russian flag. The first couple from his country doing their show on ice performed something spectacular, but the Russian had not expected less from them. What the taller man was waiting for, however, was a certain boy. Someone that, deep down, Russia knew, deserved better; another reason to hate that bastard American who was sitting a few chairs down from him. He could easily get up; pass Eduard, the uptight Briton, to finally be face-to-face with the huesos. Smashing his fist into that smug face would be so satisfying. Ivan pushed these dark thoughts aside as Evgeni stood on the ice. He was graceful, as usual, the spotlight making his hair shine, his eyes sparkle, and revealed every curve of his slender but strong body. The music started, soft, mesmerizing.
I don't dream anymore
I don't smoke anymore
I don't even have a story
I'm alone without you
I'm ugly without you
I'm an orphan in a dormitory
The song might have been in French, but the nation knew the lyrics; the young skater had told him what song he'd chosen, so Ivan had looked it up. Done purposefully or not, the song was meaningful. The Russian carefully watched every jump, every movement, trying to stay focused. But all he could think was how the boy was robbed from his gold medal. He thought back when they had the score – the look on his face. It had ripped the Russian's heart. What disappointed him even more, was when the nation went to try to comfort the skater, he stumbled upon a deceiving scene. He was there, pinning Evgeni on the floor, both tangled in their costumes half ripped, pulling hair, biting, groaning on the floor of the private dressing room. Ivan had turned around and walked away, the image burned in his mind forever.
I don't feel
Like living anymore
My life ends when you leave
I lost my life
And my bed
Becomes a station platform
When you're gone
I'm sick
Completely sick
Plushenko was amazing on ice. Such grace, such power, such control; Russia was amazed. Jealousy said the attitude of his champion wasn't sportsmanship, but he didn't care. In his eyes, the silver of his boy was Platinum.
I'm sick
I'm so sick
You robbed me of my songs
You robbed me of my words
My heart is so sick
Surrounded by fences
Can you hear
I'm sick