I grew up in a hockey town where there was no escaping Canada's beloved sport. Our suburban streets doubled as rinks; the choppy slap of tennis balls reverberating against hockey sticks a constant sound. As pre-teens, my friends and I would put on lip gloss and tight jeans to hang out at the Friday night junior hockey games. I still find comfort in the sound of skate blades slicing across ice and that sweaty, chemical odour of public arenas.
The War of 1812 remains one of the most obscure major conflicts in US history, often overshadowed by the monumentous events that came before and after. Indeed, when it is remembered at all, it is often as a minor spat between the United States and the United Kingdom that ended with the burning of the White House and the victory of Andrew Jackson at New Orleans.
Gord Downie was sweating under the weight of a thick khaki shirt, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing heavily into his microphone. Thousands of people had turned up to a field next to the Molson Brewery in Barrie, about an hour north of Toronto, for the first of two shows the Tragically Hip would headline in one day on opposite sides of the country. The young crowd was half-drunk and baking in the midsummer sun, and Maple Leaf Flags billowed lazily in Downie's eyeline.