Oh. Canada?

I'm not a sportswriter.  I'm not even a sports fan.  At best, I'm passable at conducting a two-way sports-centric conversation where my responses are expected to be more erudite than "really?" and "wow."  But every two years I take time off from the other great competition, American Idol, to watch the Olympics.  And like a great Adam Lambert performance, last night's hockey throwdown between USA and Canada didn't disappoint.  The poor Canucks, inventors and curators of the rink, conquered on their home ice by their imperialistic pigdog neighbors to the south.  How many Molsons were spoiled last night with the bitter tears of their shame?

Fast forward twelve hours.  I'm dropping off Audrey at school this morning, and in my haste to get her backback and coat hung up, I nearly smack my face into the chest of a behemoth of a man.  As I slowly backed away, I realize the gargantu-dad is wearing an unzipped CANADA jacket over a shirt embroidered with what had to be the world's largest wearable maple leaf.  I couldn't believe it.  A real live Canadian and with what had to be a hangover from his previous national we-sucked-at-hockey night.  At this point, I made a quick calculation.  We're in Phoenix, so when I am going to have another chance to give the business to a subject of Her Majesty?  We are also standing in the safety of a  preschool classroom.  Chances are if he was going to kick my ass (and then possibly eat me), he would not attempt it in front of children.  In fact, I was counting on this.  I smiled and snorted, "Sorry about that game last night."  As he stared down at me in what appeared to be disbelief, I told my daughter I loved her, then he replied, as only a Canadian can, "Yah."  Immediately I knew that this could not end well.  In an attempt to befriend the executioner, I asked, as if it were even necessary, "Are you from Canada?"  Again, and even longer and more Canadian-esque, "Yaaaaah."  Possibly sensing that I was about to become a snack for sasquatch-dad, the teacher grabbed me and explained that my Girl Scout cookies were here and I needed to pay for them.  Thank God for thin mints.  And when I turned around, the giant elusive creature of the northern woods was gone.  Nary a footprint or photograph do I have for proof.