The Fan Abides On the subject of sports hypochondria in Toronto

There are many great things about living in Toronto. Being a fan of our sports teams doesn't happen to be one of them. Our all-weather, abiding fan digs into depths of self-loathing that come with cheering for the home team. 

We in Toronto are of a certain affliction when it comes to our sports teams. We are not alone in our suffering. There are plenty of cities that deserve to be just as miserable, if not more miserable, than our dreary, codependant selves: Baltimore, Maryland, for example, or Cleveland. But those cities have lots of other things that they can hang their hats on, like their lively urban unrest or their Rock And Roll Halls Of Fame. What do we have to stake our claim to? We have a big tower that ... doesn’t really do anything, but it’s really tall. We can buy liquor until 10 p.m. ... sometimes. You can’t turn right on a red li—no wait, that’s Montreal.

What we lack in sporting success we have made up for in building a city full of stuff and cultivating an inferiority complex that makes us feel downright ashamed whenever we hear the words “New York City.” We also have the Leafs, Raptors, and Jays, all perennial losers. The Leafs are locked in a well-publicized streak of mediocrity; the Jays haven’t been to the playoffs since 1993; and the less said about The Raptors, the better. This is not to say that a city’s identity has to be tied up in its sports teams, but there’s something to be said for a city that is banded together with its hopes for excitement and civic vindication resting on the shoulders of large, overpaid men.

I happened to be living in Montreal during the Canadiens’ somewhat unbelievable playoff runs in the last few years and, despite my utter resentment at seeing the Habs achieve anything resembling success, if nothing else, it was exciting. The city seemed different in those weeks. Everyone seemed to be out on the streets all night—casual fans, the die-hards ... riot police. It was a cool time to be in a city that cared so goddamn much about something so utterly meaningless. But was it really meaningless?

Some people like to say sports don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. And to a certain extent, those people are right. Sports don’t have the power to bomb Belgium or negotiate trade tariffs (I would love to see Bob Costas cover that) but, like it or not, there are moments when sports matter. Like the New Orleans Saints’ first home game after Katrina or Sidney Crosby’s Golden Goal. Those two moments give me more chills than Gene Hackman’s Hoosiers speech and Al Pacino yelling about inches in Any Given Sunday combined—in HD. Those are moments that actually have a cultural impact, which is the kind of thing that can’t really be measured. And that’s what we are robbed of by being Toronto sports fans: those moments where sports transcend being a game and become something more. For Torontonians, that idea has been limited to words on a page for nearly two decades.

As I write this, the Leafs are currently in the midst of their best season in years. I should be excited; I should see this as hope for the future. But the only thing I can think of is “How long will it take for Nikolai Kulemin going to score again?” or “We’re really not that far away from being out of the playoffs; it’s only a matter of time,” or, “Why is Brian Burke’s face always so red? Is this something I should be worried about?” I am damaged; I am psychologically impaired; I’m a sports hypochondriac. I know something is wrong; it’s just a matter of time until I figure out what it is. Welcome to the life of a Toronto sports fan.