The Diachronic Barber Pole Observations of a Recovering Hockey Exile


June 15, 2010, by Homme De Sept-Iles

Was looking for a Halak jersey for my two-year old nephew.  Store owner said, “Believe it or not, nobody is asking for hockey stuff.”

“I believe it,” says I.

“It’s all soccer right now.”  He mumbles something about a world cup.

I get the feeling he’s protecting me from myself. He’s known me for years. Pseudo-customer.

I’m always in this store and I never buy anything.  It’s down near Yonge and Dundas.  Downtown Toe-rawn-toe. “I never buy anything,” I say aloud.  They never have what I want.  Like this time.  I joke about it with him.

He says, “I know.  You never buy anything.”

He senses my distress and adds, “We never have what you’re looking for.”

Like this time.

A Canadiens jersey.  Halak.  For a two-year old.

“We’re all out.”  I look.

They’re all out.

But lots of Flames and Senators jerseys for two-year olds.

I like this place, though.  I’ll be back again.

And my nephew?  With my recent western road-trip tutoring engagement, he can now say “Halak, attaquant, defenseur, masque, bloquer, Canadiens de Montreal, baton de hockey and gardien de but.”  But his favourite is Halak.  He can distinguish him from the other goalies in Goalies World magazine.

He pronounces it Alak. And French is his strongest language.

Et bien.

I’d use the apostrophe but WordPress is tupid and inserts the wrong form.

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