The irony hangs thick at a game of lacrosse

Page 5

Some weeks ago, I had the culturally unique experience of attending my first professional lacrosse game at the Air Canada Center, where the Toronto Rock severely trounced the Vancouver Ravens. Of the 13,000 in attendance that afternoon, I wondered how many knew lacrosse has been acknowledged, culturally and historically, as Canada's national sport (but don't tell Don Cherry).

Originally created by the Iroquois of the Great Lakes region, the game has metamorphosized into what is now called the National Lacrosse League (NLL), which includes 10 professional teams from as far away as Washington and Vancouver. It's a fast and often brutal game, like hockey, but with a hard ball instead of a puck.

Hundreds of years ago, a traditional lacrosse game could last for three days, with hundreds of players on a field a mile wide. Players became so involved in the game that it wasn't uncommon for them to die of exhaustion.

It was named lacrosse after French settlers watched the game and noticed that the sticks the Iroquois used were loosely shaped like crosses. And much like kayaking, canoeing and archery, this Native pastime was soon appropriated and monopolized by Canadians at large and made into entire recreational industries, even Olympic events, while we First Nations people now play Nintendo games and black jack. A fair trade? . . . I wonder.

But as this humble Native individual watched this now hi-tech game, I couldn't help but notice how the game has changed. Our Elders would no longer recognize it in its newly recontextualized and reconstituted form.

New rock music entertains the audience along with such traditional Aboriginal food as pizza, hot dogs and beer. Titanium sticks are the weapon of choice instead of the solid wood I remembered.

I found myself wondering if they used some new high-density polysynthetic material for the ball instead of Indian rubber (or as we called it - Native prophylactics).

Still, somewhere in my Indigenous soul, I was amused to notice how laced with irony the whole National Lacrosse League match appeared. It started as my friend Ian and I approached the ACC, where several aggressive people harassed the multitudes of others in the crowd in an attempt to sell them tickets to the game. I believe they were referred to as scalpers. Call it the influence of political correctness in today's society, but all the scalpers seemed to be Caucasian.

Once inside and safely ensconced in our seats, we stood for the playing of the national anthem. There we noticed a spiritual and ironic twinge ripple across the time/space continuum when the words "our home and Native land" flashed across the giant view screen, above two dozen people playing an Iroquoian game, in a city bearing the Iroquoian name-Toronto-in a building with another Indian name in it- Canada. The two Iroquois players on the Toronto Rock team, the Squire brothers, must wince every time that happens, especially since the players and the dance team must cheer at the national anthem. One particular dancer, a young Mohawk lady named Dawn who also happens to be my girlfriend, has confessed conflicted feelings during that particular cheer.

Then, for the pre-show, the house band came out to entertain the audience-a talented and mobile two-man troupe with guitar and bass called "Two For The Show." They performed a passable, energetic medley of Kiss favorites, making me think "how logical, a clone band for a cloned sport." The audience loved them.

Perhaps the most unnerving moment came when the guy who operates the organ or the tape machine played that annoying musical riff . . . the same riff I've heard at football and baseball games everywhere. It's hard to describe the musical notes but it ends when the whole audience yells "CHARGE!" because the melody is derived from the sounds of a cavalry bugle just before attacking. Attacking Indians, usually. Get the point? It's hard to enjoy a game when racial memory keeps you ducking behind the sats every time it's played.

When all is said and done, I quite enjoyed the game. It's fast, skillful, and takes great training and stamina to play well. I'm proud to say I will be back again in December for the next home game. Getting season tickets is one of the fringe benefits of having a girlfriend on the dance team, known as the "Rockettes."

Because of my relationship with Dawn, I had expected to end up sitting with the player's wives, sharing lacrosse-relationship stories in some cosy rink-side seat. Instead, I found myself way up in the third level dodging low-flying planes and fighting altitude sickness. Evidently cheerleader boyfriends don't rate much in the elitism of "comp" seating. So to pass the time, my friend Ian and I spent most of the game explaining the rules to a couple of Sherpas seated behind us.

They may start a franchise team in Katmandu.