Hockey

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It is always there, a story to be endlessly repeated, now so deeply rooted in the ancestral memory of this country that it matters precious little if you were actually around in the flesh to bear witness.

Long past is 1972. Kids then are middle-aged now, and so many were born after Paul Henderson's goal. Canada has changed in myriad ways in the interim, more populous, more diverse, its citizens less likely to participate in the old Saturday-night ritual. No, not everyone here has played the game, and in some quarters it's just as easy to stir up a conversation about Manchester United as it is to talk about the travails of the Habs or the Maple Leafs, the Canucks, Flames, Oilers or Sens.

But Canada in international hockey is something else again, invariably creating those singular moments when it all comes down to us versus them, the identity of "them" shifting over the years, Russians and Swedes and Americans and Czechs, just as the forum has changed from Summit Series to Canada Cup, from World Cup and world juniors to the Winter Olympic Games.

As the latest Team Canada comes together in Calgary for the first time next week, that age-old tale is going to be pushed to a new level of intensity. The Vancouver-Whistler Games will be different because, for the first time, Canada goes into an Olympics expecting to do what it has never done before on home soil: win gold medals, in quantity. The traditional spirit of humility and high hopes has been replaced with an unfamiliar swagger.

Still, there is hockey and there is everything else, and while the women's battle with their arch-rivals from the United States will draw plenty of attention, it's the men, coming off the humiliation of Turin, competing in a tournament that will feature a host of next-generation stars, who will be at the heart of the drama.

For all of the Own The Podium-inspired confidence in other events, there remains plenty of doubt in hockey, and there can be no asterisks, no qualifiers, no claims that the deck was stacked or the circumstance unfair. It's in our country, in our winter, right in the middle of the NHL season. Personal bests, podium finishes, anything less than total victory is unacceptable. Every player who dons that controversial new jersey (a controversial jersey? Doesn't that say it all) is going to feel the full weight of the nation's expectations.

Truth is, before the grand theatre of Espo and Henderson and the Big Red Machine, Canadians didn't care all that much about the rest of the shinny world. We were shut out of the Olympic tournament because of the phony cult of amateurism, and beyond that, our chauvinism was still strong enough that it seemed inconceivable there could be a true challenger who could play as well, or could care even half as much.

There were plenty of Olympic gold medals in ancient times, but those were won by scrappy bands of local heroes who were still plenty good enough to beat anyone else. Our best players stayed home, weren't needed, and then when they were, when the Soviet Union began to dominate, weren't invited, creating what turned out to be an illusory comfort zone.

It wasn't until that memorable night at the Montreal Forum when the Russians seemed to reimagine how the game could be played and toyed with our very best that it dawned on Canadians they were not in fact alone on Planet Hockey. Ever since, games played on the world stage have been fraught with anxiety and have served as forums for self-criticism: Are we doing enough to develop skilled players? Are the Americans taking over? (It felt that way, at least briefly, in 1996.) Is there something wrong with the way we assemble and coach our teams?

There have been many moments of joy, when our boys came through, and there was that magical time in Salt Lake City when it seemed that the combined powers of talent, pluck, a coin buried in the ice and Wayne Gretzky's infallibility made everything right with the world. Four years later, though, under the shadow of Todd Bertuzzi and a gambling scandal, it all turned sour, bringing us back to more familiar, uncertain ground.

During the immediate post-Soviet years, the Russians couldn't get their act together, couldn't get along with each other, but that doesn't seem to be a problem any longer. They are cohesive now, and two of the best three players alive will be wearing their uniform. Challenges may well emerge from elsewhere, but six months out, it feels as though the clock has been turned back to that time when it was a two-team battle for global supremacy, in the same city where Esposito made his famous speech.

It won't be a grizzled veteran called on to lead this time, but a kid who can barely grow a playoff beard, though he has already carried the Stanley Cup back to Cole Harbour. The build-up will be months in the making, with every roster move analyzed and reanalyzed, the tension and excitement building until that glorious moment when the puck drops, and the great nation-defining drama begins again.

There are only two possible endings: exultation and heartbreak. The getting there, though, we know by heart. It's imprinted in our genes.