In our national imagination, hockey is a ham-fisted metaphor for patriotic unity: on the campaign trail, Mark Carney pitched himself for prime minister as he likened the country to a team between the second and third periods of a losing hockey game: “We’re getting warmed up, and we’re going to head out in that third period, and we’re going to win.” When Donald Trump installed tariffs: “Canadians are always ready when someone else drops the gloves,” and Canadians should keep our “elbows up.” As prime minister, Carney donned an Edmonton Oilers jersey and skated with the team as the country rooted for a Canadian Stanley Cup victory.
And yet, it’s tempting to call them boys. (I, too, find myself repeatedly referring to them as boys.) They say celebrities are frozen at the ages they become famous, and for the players, this means the sweaty pubescent years when they achieved minor league stardom. To be the lead scorer of your local AAA team is to be the Justin Bieber of your hometown, complete with total insulation from rules or consequences outside of the penalty box. If you’re an Ontario Hockey League player, fans can buy jerseys with your name on them. There’s a never-ending stream of “puck bunnies” (groupies for hockey players).
The five men accused of sexual assault were meant to be living the Canadian dream. Now they find themselves in a courtroom where the system that raised them and the culture that exalted them are also on trial. And what will be revealed is that hockey also functions as a narrative device for gang rape: no player is left behind, everyone touches the puck—score, score, score. After an ugly goal: “They don’t ask how, they ask how many.”
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