Dear Coach's Corner

Dear Ron MacLean,

Dear Coach's Corner,

I'm writing in order...

For someone to explain

To my niece the distinction

Between these mandatory pre-game group rites of submission...

And the rallies at Nuremberg,

Specifically the function

The ritual serves in conjunction...

With what everybody knows

Is in the end a kid's game.

I'm just appealing to your sense of fair play...

When I say she's puzzled by

This incessant pressure for her to not defy

Collective will and yellow-ribboned lapels,

As the soldiers inexplicably repel...

Down from the arena rafters.

If it not so insane,

They'll be grounds for screaming laughter.

Dear Ron MacLean,

I wouldn't bother with these questions

If I didn't sense some spiritual connection.

We may not be the same,

But it's not like we're from different planets.

We both love this game so much we can hardly fucking stand it.

Alberta-born and Prairie-raised,

Ain't a sheet of ice north of Fargo I ain't played.

Penhold to the Gatineau,

Every fond memory of childhood that I know...

Is somehow connected

To the culture of

This game; I just can't let it go.

I guess it comes down to

What kind of world you want to live in.

If diversity is disagreement,

Disagreement is treason.

Well, you'll be surprised if we find ourselves reaping...

A strange and bitter fruit

That sad old man beside you

Keeps feeding to young minds as virtue.

It takes a village to raise a child,

A flag to raze the children,

Till they're nothing more than ballasts for fulfilling...

A madman's dream

Of a paradise.

Complexity,

Reduced to black and white.

How do I

Protect her from

This cult of death?