“A time capsule buried at Maple Leaf Gardens in 1931 and revealed on Thursday (January 26, 2012) contains an NHL rule book, a municipal code, financial information on the team and a tiny carved ivory elephant of mysterious origin.”(1)

Hockey in all its forms, in all its lore, never fails to captivate many Canadians. But do we listen carefully to those voices from the distant (1931 NHL rule book …) and more recent past?

The Game by Ken Dryden, first published in 1983, offers enduring contributions to sport literature, non-fiction and Canadian literature. Considering it comes straight from one of the most accomplished players of the sport (written by him, not mediated through an interviewer or ghost writer), the book intrigues and challenges because it’s not entirely a celebration of the sport of hockey, but a reverential and at times very troubled examination of it. The Game is neither a light nor quick read, but it’s an absorbing and thoughtful reflection on the game of hockey and the experience of being part of a team. The book will fascinate fans and students of the sport as well as those interested in the history, psychology and national resonances and significance of this particular sport.

This reader’s patently unscientific observation is that some of the best sports commentators that played sports themselves are those that have a full, clear and at times undisturbed view of the expanse of the playing field for most of the game – players such as catchers in baseball and goalies in hockey. That premise is perhaps debatable, because hockey lore and culture will also attest to goalies often being singular, separate by choice from the rest of their teams and even eccentric. At any rate, I’ll use the positive aspects of that premise to suggest that makes Ken Dryden an especially thoughtful and clear-eyed analyst – as close as you can get to objective – of Canada’s national sport.

Dryden approaches the game from many different angles, from the professional and technical, to the cultural, the personal and the philosophical. Some of the most engaging sequences in The Game capture the experience of working as part of a team, from the often rollicking accounts of travel and locker room camaraderie, to the continuum from grueling physical commitment to the collective euphoria when teammates come together as one and strive for victory. Most intriguing are Dryden’s incisive reflections on the individual experience of and effects of being part of a team:

The great satisfaction of playing goal comes form the challenge it presents. Simply stated, it is to give the team what it needs, when it needs it, not when I feel well-rested, injury-free, warmed-up, psyched-up, healthy, happy, and able to give it, but when the team needs it.

The Game is one of five contenders for the 2012 rendition of Canada Reads, which seeks – through longlist and shortlist popular votes followed by a final round of debates with celebrity book advocates – to find the memoir, biography or work of literary non-fiction that would be meaningful for the entire country to read. Part of the lead-up to the debates in early February has included online chats on the CBC web site with the authors of the contending books. Dryden eloquently stick handled reader questions during his turn(2), and I was pleased to be able to pose this to him:

Q. Throughout The Game but especially towards the end of the book, I found your reflections on being an individual, being part of a team, and finding one’s individuality by being part of a team to be really resonant. Do you think that being part of a team in some form or another (sports, but also other activities, like music, etc.) should be a formative part of everyone’s upbringing?

A. It is always hard to find the mix that feels right about being an individual and being part of a group. Sometimes a group forces the best out in you; sometimes a group takes away what you most fundamentally and forces you into a role that isn’t you. But we will all live our lives in both circumstances, and we’d better find a way of learning how to be good at both. So, yes, I think it’s crucial to have those group and solitary experiences. And almost nothing now that is truly important gets achieved now by just an individual.

As I was rereading The Game in advance of the Canada Reads debates, it just so happens I was also rereading The Antagonist by Lynn Coady (yes, it’s that good – a discussion for a future review, I hope). The story of a troubled former hockey enforcer, Coady’s protagonist actually finds solace in the purity of the physical pleasure of the game and being part of a team. This line from The Antagonist certainly echoed what I was reading at the same time in The Game:

“team in the purest sense – when you’re as individual as you’ve ever been knowing you’re completely unalone. Completely with.”(3)

While its reflections on the essence of team and teamwork were most appealing to this reader, there are many other interesting layers and threads to The Game. Dryden’s childhood reminiscences are lively and charming, particularly of the uniquely configured backyard that made his home the destination for all the sports-loving neighbourhood children. The Game also purveys a hefty slice of sports history: a fabled sports franchise at a storied pinnacle, featuring and going behind the scenes with some of the sport’s greatest players and coaches. If you’re a fan and familiar with that era, the names and talents and signature moves will leap from the page. Even if you’re not familiar with them, Dryden creates a balance of veneration and down-to-earth insights around those superstars that will draw you in. As well, Dryden gives equal and respectful consideration to the sports journeymen and to others supporting the game behind the scenes that gives a well-rounded picture of how the sport is served up to its avid spectators.

Dryden’s pointed observations about the NHL’s rationale for tolerating violence (remember, this was first published in1983) are, sadly, still relevant today. In that regard, The Game is most assuredly not a sealed time capsule, but still part of the ongoing debate. As he summed it up:

The NHL theory of violence goes something like this: Hockey is by its nature a violent game. Played in an area confined by boards and unbreakable glass, by players carrying sticks travelling at speeds approaching 30 miles per hour, collisions occur, and because they occur, the rules specifically permit them, with only some exceptions. But whether legal or illegal, accidental or not, such collisions can cause violent feelings, and violent feelings with a stick in your hands are dangerous, potentially lethal feelings. It is crucial, therefore, that these feelings be vented quickly before anger and frustration explode into savage overreaction, channelled towards, if not desirable, at least more tolerable, directions. In essence, this is Freud’s “drive-discharge” theory of human aggression.(4)

… and as he responds:

The NHL is wrong … if Freud was right, anthropologist Desmond Morris is also right. As Morris believes, anger released, though sometimes therapeutic, is sometimes inflammatory; that is, by fighting, two players may get violent feelings out of their systems, or, by fighting they may create new violent feelings to make further release (more fighting) necessary. If Freud was right, the NHL is also wrong believing as it does that fighting and stick-swinging represent the only channels by which violent feelings can be released. Anger and frustration can be released within the rules, by skating faster, by shooting harder, by doing relentless, dogged violence on an opponent’s mind, as Bjorn Borg, Pete Rose and Bob Gainey do. If Freud was right and anger released is anger spent, then a right hook given is a body-check missed, and by permitting fighting, the NHL discourages determined, inspired play as retaliation.(5)

Dryden’s observations again are balanced. He posits with the passion of someone who has been literally in the midst of the collisions and skirmishes and their aftermath, and with the level-headed analysis and supporting arguments of the lawyer and politician he became after he left the sport.

Again, I was pleased to follow up with him on these contentious aspects of the sport during the Canada Reads online chat:

Q. I learned a lot about the evolution of how the game of hockey is played – the strategic, tactical and physical changes – from The Game. I think that should be a primer for anyone aspiring to play, to manage, to own a team, to make policy associated with hockey at any level. Do you feel anyone in the hockey world – amateur or professional – has a sense of that evolution and heeds today what you highlighted back in the 1980s?

A. I think all of us tend to forget our own histories. And history is particularly important now when we see all the head injuries and yet any suggestions as to changes is met with the answer – you can’t do that. That would be changing the nature of the game. If we knew that history, we would know that this game is always changing – once hockey was played 7-against-7 with no substitutions and until the 1920s without the forward pass. These things transformed how hockey is played and it is a much better game because of it. We are at a moment where we need to know we can change again, and again make hockey a better game.

By turns thoughtfully, almost coolly erudite (although maybe Don Cherry has also spoken about Freud’s “drive-discharge” theory of human aggression, and I just missed it because I mute Coach’s Corner) … and warmly heartfelt, The Game is a cornerstone Canadian work. It’s not a hermetically sealed and concealed time capsule, intriguing but frozen in time. It’s still current and relevant today.

Notes:

1. Maple Leaf Gardens time capsule offers peek at 1931
Conn Smythe’s son has theory of mysterious ivory elephant’s origin
CBC News (January 26, 2012)

2. Transcript of CBC Books live chat with Ken Dryden (January 5, 2012)

3. The Antagonist, by Lynn Coady (2011, House of Anansi Press), p. 118

4. The Game, by Ken Dryden (1984 edition, Totem Books) p. 189

5. The Game, by Ken Dryden (1984 edition, Totem Books) p. 190

See also:

Ken Dryden on how he writes

My reviews of other Canada Reads 2012 finalists:

• Prisoner of Tehran, by Marina Nemat
• The Tiger, by John Vaillant
• Something Fierce, by Carmen Aguirre

Man disdains nature at his ultimate peril, individually and collectively. John Vaillant drives this home with elegant and unforgettable ferocity in The Tiger, his enthralling account of the hunt for a man-eating tiger in in a harsh, remote area of Russia’s Far East in the late 1990s.

The Tiger is a potent amalgam of different genres and subject matter, each one of which could stand on its own as an engrossing read. Vaillant has forged an unusual, suspenseful action thriller/murder mystery, pitting the intimidating but not unsympathetic presence of a powerful predator against first one man with whom he has specific grievances, and then against a growing team of trackers and investigators looking to halt the predator’s deadly rampage. Subtitling The Tiger “a true story of vengeance and survival”, Vaillant has commented in interviews that the uncanny ability of the tiger to single out specific people for its revenge – chiefly an unemployed logger turned poacher who has inadvertently stolen food from and injured the tiger – adds a “Stephen King” aspect to the story that makes it even more menacing. Coupled with detailed crime scene analysis and forensic procedural elements as the investigation and hunt commences, led by game warden and expert tracker Yuri Trush, The Tiger is a breathtaking true crime read unto itself.

The tale is immensely deepened, however, because Vaillant thoughtfully incorporates into it other investigations that transform the central tragedy into a touchstone for much more, symbolic of problems, challenges, but also hopeful opportunities on numerous levels. The Tiger is filled with vibrant character sketches of individuals striving to survive physically, emotionally and as a community and culture in an isolated area of the world alternately exploited and ignored by Russia, China and other international forces and influences. Vaillant also offers up a reverential National Geographic-calibre examination of a stunningly unique world ecosystem. That examination is stimulating and educational without being monotonously encyclopedic or pedantic. Finally, Vaillant melds it all into a environmental paean that is pointedly cautionary and can be applied universally, all without sanctimony.

The Tiger achieves many fine balances in its interplay of different types of storytelling. The reader will grieve for individuals, a community and a way of life that, while demanding and unforgiving, is still beautiful and stoically pastoral. At the same time, the reader will also cheer for the awesome (in the truest, purest sense of awe), magnificent tiger, who is also fiercely adapting and trying to make a life for itself in an exotic land encroached upon by waves of change triggered by political conflicts, technological pressures, economic demands, societal upheaval and more.

Having managed to grasp and skilfully weave so many thematic threads, Vaillant reminds us that the strength of memorable storytelling is fundamental to our human fabric:

For most of our history, we have been occupied with the cracking of codes – from deciphering patterns in the weather, the water, the land, and the stars, to parsing the nuanced behaviours of friend and foe, predator and prey. Furthermore, we are compelled to share our discoveries in the form of stories. Much is made of the fact that ours is the only species that does this, that the essence of who and what we understand ourselves to be was first borne orally and aurally: from mouth to ear to memory. This is so, but before we learned to tell stories, we learned to read them. In other words, we learned to track. The first letter of the first word of the first recorded story was written – “printed” – not by us, but by an animal. These signs and symbols left in mud, sand, leaves and snow represent proto-alphabets. Often smeared, fragmented, and confused by weather, time, and other animals, these cryptograms were life-and-death exercises in abstract thinking. This skill, the reading of tracks in order to procure food, or identify the presence of a dangerous animal, may in fact be “the oldest profession.”

This rousing tale affects us so profoundly both because it is so richly layered, but also because it is so elemental.

See/hear also:

John Vaillant reads from The Tiger

The Tiger, by John Vaillant (author video)

My reviews of other Canada Reads 2012 finalists:

• Prisoner of Tehran, by Marina Nemat
• The Game, by Ken Dryden
• Something Fierce, by Carmen Aguirre

The Penguin paperback edition of Prisoner of Tehran offers a subtle but arresting feature that I hope is part of the original and any other editions of this fine book. You can see Persian emblems or motifs in spot varnish when you tip the book cover in the light. Curving over the book spine and extending to the back cover, you can feel their faint imprint as you’re holding the book – which you likely won’t do for long, because the book is a compellingly swift read. It’s a lovely, pervasive reminder of the book’s cultural underpinnings. The emblems also hauntingly resemble snowflakes – imagery that recurs to surprisingly powerful effect throughout this unforgettable story.

Author and protagonist Marina Nemat quickly ushers you into a riveting account of her terrifying experiences during the Iranian revolution of the early 1980s. Her voice has the flat affect of someone battered and shell shocked, but strikingly determined to survive. While that voice is at times so strangely modest and understated as to be almost unnerving, you are irresistibly drawn into her harrowing tale of being arrested at the age of sixteen for acts so tenuously seditious to the regime of Ayatollah Khomeini as to be ridiculous. It is that ridiculousness that makes the physical and mental tortures she endures that much more nightmarish and incomprehensible. The terms by which she negotiates – if it could be dignified to call it such – and the circumstances by which she navigates her eventual freedom, after over two years of prison life, are almost inconceivable and border on the surreal. Nemat’s prenaturally calm voice throughout it all helps you to stay with the twists and turns – sometimes heart pounding, sometimes heart wrenching, sometimes grindingly banal – that she and the other young women with which she is imprisoned face almost daily.

Raised as a practicing Christian in a middle class, fairly secular and unashamedly Westernized family, Nemat and her family and friends, and by extension many fellow citizens are exposed to repression and extremism that will be starkly eye-opening to many Canadian readers. After all that happens to her, including the familial alienation she confronts when she returns from her ordeal, Nemat somehow musters the astonishing and instructive grace to offer a bittersweet meditation on what hatred and outrageously wielded power can do to human decency.

A surprisingly redemptive theme and sequence of imagery recurring through the book binds Nemat’s story together, figuratively and literally. It starts in the early pages:

It took me five minutes to get to the church. When I put my hand on the heavy wooden main door, a snowflake landed on my nose. Tehran always looked innocently beautiful under the deceiving curves of snow, and although the Islamic regime had banned most beautiful things, it couldn’t stop the snow from falling.

Somehow, the snow is both beautiful, but also unstoppable – delicate, enduring, but sometimes heartbreakingly ephemeral:

One morning in August 1972 when I was seven, I picked up [my mother’s] favourite crystal ashtray. It was almost the size of a dinner plate. She had told me a million times not to touch it, but it was beautiful, and I wanted to run my fingers over its delicate patterns. I could see why she liked it so much. In a way, it looked like a giant snowflake that never melted.

That beautiful object is all too soon shattered, presaging other things that will shatter with the same vulnerability:

His eyes were blank, as he, like me, tried to understand the devastating, lonely gap that death had left behind, the terrible falling from the known into the unknown and the terrifying wait to hit the solid ground and shatter into small, insignificant pieces.

Cumulatively, though, those fragile snowflakes can collect to cool, cleanse, comfort and ultimately offer regeneration, which Nemat clearly and deservedly yearns for after all she has suffered:

It was a perfect summer day, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but I wished for snow to cover the earth; I wished for its cold and honest touch to embrace my warm skin. I wanted my fingers to lose their sense of touch in deep frost and ache. I wanted all the shades of green and red to disappear under the weight of winter and its shades of white so I could dream and tell myself that when spring came, things would be different.

As Nemat simply observes about the place in the world that would finally provide her and her new family with haven and solace: “I liked the name ‘Canada’ – it sounded far away and very cold but peaceful.”

Throughout Prisoner of Tehran, Nemat deals in grief and loss of myriad kinds, in which the destruction of books and writings marches in sorrowful lock step with the death of loved ones. She takes on courageously how one faces different kinds of oblivion, including the shame, silence and denial of friends and family when she re-emerges from imprisonment. That her inspiring tale of singular resilience culminates in her seeking a new life in Canada, where she eventually gets the support she needs to tell this story, is both stirring and gratifying.

I love my country already, but Marina Nemat has given me yet another way to articulate what is wonderful about it. Prisoner of Tehran is a strong and deserving choice for all Canadians to read, to appreciate from a startling new perspective just how sweet this country is.

My reviews of other Canada Reads 2012 finalists:

• The Tiger, by John Vaillant
• The Game, by Ken Dryden
• Something Fierce, by Carmen Aguirre