The following can be found in its entirety on The Barnstormer. Link below.
Let me clear up something before we get started, so that I don’t get called a commie, or a pansy, or a Mary, or a Leafs fan. I like a good hockey fight. I have stood on my chair in the middle of a crowded bar, frothing with bloodlust, and cheered for the savage beating a man, a father, a husband, a son, a boy, a child of the tainted culture that is the NHL. I have done this willingly, with neither fear nor regret. But I also like drinking too much whiskey, telling ecru lies, minor thieving, watching Mark Ruffalo romcoms, and on occasion putting on a dainty skirt and being called Jolene. Not all at once, but on occasion. Christmas. Arbour Day. Wednesday. These things are not good for me in mass quantity, but in controlled moderation, as a superfluous and benign addition to my days they are not the self-destructive vices they appear, but rather the willing flaws of the complexity that is life. And they’re not important to me (well, except whiskey), they don’t define me, and should tomorrow come, and my therapists were to tell me that my life would be infinitely better should I, could I, give up Jack Daniels afternoons skipping work watching Just Like Heaven in an ex-girlfriend’s pilfered bubble dress, then I would. In an instant. And this is how I feel about fighting in hockey. The sport would be infinitely better in its absence. Fighting is hockey’s unnecessary vice, its frilly skirt, preventing it from fulfilling its promise.