Dear Coach's Corner

Dear Ron McLane. 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.

Which, if it not so insane,

they'll be grounds for screaming laughter.

Dear Ron McLane, 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.

It seems like there ain't a sheet of ice north of Fargo I ain't played.

From Penhold to the Gatinaeu, 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.

And if diversity is disagreement, disagreement is treason.

Well, you'll be surprised if we find ourselves

reaping a strange and bitter fruit that that sad old man beside you

keeps feeding to young minds as virtue.

It takes a village to raise a child, but just 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?