Dear Ron MacLean,
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.
If it not so insane,
They'll be grounds for screaming laughter.

Dear Ron MacLean,
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,
Ain't a sheet of ice north of Fargo I ain't played.
Penhold to the Gatineau,
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.
If diversity is disagreement,
Disagreement is treason.

Well, you'll be surprised if we find ourselves reaping...

A strange and bitter fruit
That sad old man beside you
Keeps feeding to young minds as virtue.

It takes a village to raise a child,
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?