So, the Toronto Raptors have won the NBA championship. Good for them. But, here’s the thing, I am tired to the point of screaming of being told the Raptors are “Canada’s Team” because, truth be told, they’re not. They’re Toronto’s team. Or maybe even Ontario’s team if they must reach beyond the GTA. But they’re certainly not Canada’s team.
Yes, I do understand the Raptors, after the departure of the ill fated Vancouver Grizzlies to Memphis, are the only NBA franchise in Canada. But how does that make them “Canada’s team”? In fact, what we have in the Raptors is a bunch of very highly paid young black Americans playing for a team situated in Toronto, Canada. And they played against a bunch of very highly paid young black Americans playing for a team situated in Oakland. That’s all. It’s not the second coming. It’s not the discovery of some hither- to-fore missing Canadian national spirit. And it most certainly doesn’t tell Canadians who we are.
I was not only born and raised in western Canada, I have spent almost all of my adult life in Canada’s last big city before the great Pacific Ocean. I’m as far away from Toronto as you can be and still live in a large city in Canada. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a loyal Canadian and frequently rage against some of our provincial (in more ways than one) politicians here acting in ways that hurt national unity. But, being a loyal Canadian has nothing to do with being a Raptors fan.
And, please, don’t dismiss this as just another Canadian from other than Toronto who secretly envies Toronto all that it has (hate to break it to you Toronto, but we don’t envy you at all and we certainly don’t dislike you, although your constant “look at me” refrain does get a bit tiring).
Actually, I quite like Toronto. I mean there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s big. It’s clean by the standards of a big city. It has a wide array of ethnicities in its population. And….well, sorry about this…it’s also kind of bland. But, wait, there’s nothing wrong with bland. Just ask the Swiss.
Toronto is the only city in the world I have travelled to (there have been a few) where a cab driver is likely to seek my approval of his city. Once, a few years ago, I actually had a cabbie taking me in from the airport in Toronto announce that “Toronto was just like New York”. What? What on earth could I say in reply? Being tongue tied isn’t my natural state (quiet out there!) but really, Toronto isn’t at all like New York. Not even a little. In fact, I’d be tempted to say Toronto is the least like New York of any other big western city in the world. Toronto is like, well….Toronto. And what’s wrong with that?
So, to watch a city turn itself inside out with extravagant glee at the simple fact their team of young Americans had just won a title/cup in an American league is a bit odd but, what the hell, at least they weren’t behaving like the yahoos do in my city when we get even close to winning a championship. You remember, don’t you? Looting, rioting, assaulting, burning police cars etc. That’s certainly not bland. So be proud of your bland Toronto.
But I can’t finish this without a word about our national broadcaster, the CBC or, in the parlance of insiders, the “mothership”. I grew up with the CBC; that great unifier of our country; the place we went to in times of travail or worry; the place that kept us soothingly abreast of the news no matter how terrible, how threatening. Long ago, in the real Jurassic era, I, along with my other Canadians, would gather in front of our newly acquired black and white TV’s to watch the CBC National News at 10 o’clock. Earl Cameron (remember him?) would be sitting at a desk and actually reading from a script in front of him…ON PAPER! The ceremony would take fifteen minutes, twenty at the most (unless we were on the verge of war or famine or pestilence or whatever) and then we would blissfully retire to our beds knowing all was well in the peaceful kingdom. We’ve come a long way since then. And not in a good way. The CBC National News can now be watched from BC at eight o’clock, nine o’clock and ten o’clock (I don’t know if there are later broadcasts, that would be way past my bedtime these days). It has been stretched to an hour for reasons that aren’t clear to me, but usually I can rely on it to get the major news of the day out of the way in the first fifteen minutes or so. (there are exceptions of course; when some anonymous producer seems to feel it is imperative I learn of the disappearance of lichen on some tiny island off the northern coast of Baffin Isand; a need that apparently supersedes the usual wars; murders; kidnappings of the day but, mercifully these are few and far between).
Now that I’m officially old I tend to turn on the CBC at nine o’clock to get my fifteen minute soporific, so imagine my surprise when I turned on the TV on Thursday night only to be confronted with wall to wall coverage that the Raptors had won. A banner across the bottom of my screen gave me that basic information because the various reporters were too busy following the antics of the cheering crowds to bother with any detail. Now, while it wasn’t what I expected, I thought well, they’ll give it three, maybe even five, minutes and then we’ll get to hear about the attacks on the oil tankers in the Gulf, or the day’s mass shooting in the States; or, oh I don’t know, the millions of protestors in the streets of Hong Kong. So I waited patiently. Well, not so patiently, because by 9:20 it was clear the CBC had no intention of breaking away from shots of young men mugging for the cameras or interviews with earnest recent immigrants as they described the victory as the most important experience of their lives. Really! I’m not making this up. Even old (well, older) people who one might expect have had one or two experiences that might, just might, rival or perhaps even eclipse seeing a team of wealthy young Americans beat another team of wealthy young Americans, were intoning this message.
And then, of course, the “reporters”, many of whom I recognized from their other roles as, well, reporters, kept telling me this was Canada’s victory. That somehow, magically, the north had risen. I wasn’t aware it had fallen. (“We are the North!”…Really? Tell that to the inhabitants of Iqaluit.). And, just in case anyone away from Toronto might have the temerity to challenge that assertion, they broke to special coverage from…wait for it…a Toronto bedroom community. Sigh.
So, Toronto, enjoy your euphoria. But you just might want to look in the mirror and ask why is it so important to you, and why do you so desperately need to have the rest of us agree?
Oh, and I think it’s time to take a careful look at the tax dollars going to the public broadcaster.
just sayin
G
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