Good Night Ivor Wynne Stadium

Saturday was the last time I ever walked through Ivor Wynne Stadium.

I haven't been contributing to the Red Devil Blog for quite some time. That's mostly to do with the fact I have had the most engaging six months in my adult life, both personally and professionally, and with all of that living, there's been precious little time for reflecting. Its reflection after all, what spawns our uniquely human desire for expression. I've managed to keep the Red Devil meme alive through the world of Twitter, which has been a surprisingly valuable tool in keeping a pulse, but this project has always been about long-winded exploration of passions, and getting back to that remains on the horizon. On the horizon because this is not a Red Devil piece. Its a quivering mound of sentimental pudding that I posted on facebook for the benefit of some loved ones. It was only due to the persistant response of those who read it, and the way they shared it to others, that I decided it was only fair to have a proper publication, however innappropriate to the only forum I have to do so. You've been warned.

 Here we are. The end of an era for a community, a club, a family and for myself. Its difficult to overstate the importance this building has had in my life.

Dad and I have been season ticket holders for 3 decades. When I moved to Guelph...then Toronto...no matter how far apart our lives became, 9 weeks a year I can count on sharing time with my old man. That's pretty sacred shit. He is equal parts my hero, my best friend, my teacher and my inspiration. A younger me used to resent his CONSTANT positivity. His unending belief in the fact that things would be better than alright, but exactly as they should be, used to drive me insane. That is before I somehow fell ass backwards into seeing this in its infinite wisdom. And now here I am, annoying the shit out of those I love with the KNOWLEDGE that everything will be alright. I believe in my friends because he believed in me. If I ever con some poor woman into bearing my children this silly process will continue. Onward and upward.

First and foremost this building is about family.

Family and this club are inseperable. My uncle Dennis worked as a vendor at Ivor Wynne when I was a pup. Probably the coolest thing I ever recieved at Christmas, was a signed ball from the 86 Championship team. Every player signed that ball, and that happened because of family. My dad had been going to games since he was a pup. He saw the Golden Era years of the Mosca generation live and in person...hopping over fences and drunk as fuck. Relating to my dad as a young adult, seeing him as he might have been when he was my age...for the first time I began to see that the stupid shit of youth wasn't a sign of incompetance....but of success to come. If my dad was who he was today coming from places I knew so well...Jesus H Christmas I might just be alright after all.

When I played as a kid, where other kids imagined they were Joe Montana in the Super Bowl, I was Mike Kerrigan. I was Pete Giftopolous. I never hoisted the Lombardi on those grasslots, it was always The Grey Cup, won at home at Ivor Wynne.

My 19th birthday was there. It was the home opener. We DESTROYED our opponents. I remember (through the fog of 19 year old birthday haze) running down to the bench to high five Joe Montford and thank him for making my birthday. Later my boys shared a cigar with my dad in a peeler bar, laughing at me while my ass was whipped 19 times on stage.

In 1996 I saw my first Grey Cup there. It was amongst the greatest football games I have ever seen. A snow bowl. With 90 some total points scored. We sat beside the entire Argos office staff...That got heated. Some Simcoe boys were in front of us...hoodies stocked with mickeys of whiskey that were shared in short order.

Two years later Ozzy kicked the greatest game winning kick I have ever seen in the Eastern Final. Over 50 into the blow. It was impossible. I couldnt watch. My head was buried into Dad's chest and in the last second I looked up, saw the ball sail through and ensued a moment so charged with life, with happiness...I don't know that I've ever been quite so excited in my entire life.

A decade of futility has followed. But that just further evokes the passion. Here we remain. Day in day out, the most committed of believers. Here is my religion. My faith. My hope. That in spite of all the setbacks, the weakness, the insecurities...that our day will come. It will be glorious.
I am who I am because of this park. My unflinching loyalty. My passion. My persistance. Its all rooted here.

Now days I see the park from an entirely different view. I spend time with the team President. I meet the coaching staff. Drink in the alumni lounge. I see the place through the eye of a grown man. Its been a strange evolution. But so has my life. It seems even in my recent growth, so grown has my rellationship with my club. Today still a reflection of my very existance.

I love everything about this place. I love its rusty core. I love we make noise ratthling the tin press box. I love that the visitors dressing room has no hot water. Welcome to the jungle. It is so fucking Hamilton it borders on surreal.

Gameday decended upon the city as the rains decended upon the grounds. What a perfect manifestation of the collective sadness in our hearts. I'd think it self-indulgent and absurd if not for the fact that the past months of my life have seen a bizzare set of physical manifestations, both in the positive and the negative. Skeptic I may be I cannot discount the idea our hearts do not manifest in the physical world. I might have to go back to Leonard & Murphy's "Future Of The Body" if this keeps up.

Before kickoff we honoured the Alltime Tigercat Team. The best in their position over the clubs history. Sharing this day with Danny Mac, Troy Davis, Earl Winfield, Rocky DiPietro, Garney Henley, Grover Convington, Paul Osbaldiston and company was the whiskey. That magical poncho of warmth that rendered the rains into irrelevance.

And what a dance our boys gave the old lady. We knocked 2 quarterbacks out of the game. A defence that single handedly cost us a playoff birth, for one afternoon, channelled the ghosts of Mosca, Barrow, Montford, Hitchcock, Schelling, O'Shea, Tiggle, Browne & Zambiasi. And while the rain unleashed its discomfort, the crowd rose above. The 13th man was every bit a force, with noise disrupting no less than half a dozen Bomber snaps. It was loud, hard nosed Hamilton football. Everything this theatre had spent 80 years delivering to the hungry blue collar generations that poured through the turnstyles.

The final whisatle gave way to a thunderous ovation, and as if on cue, the clouds parted, the rains ceased and for the next hour, the sun snuck out for a gander. Again. Perfect.

I had never felt such a somber exit from such a fantastic win.

We shared our goodbyes to our season seat neighbors. Four families that have shared a patch for 2 decades. While the rest of the clan made their way to the car, Dad and I walked the grounds one final time in complete silence. We left alot of shit behind here. Alot. More than a silly essay could convey. More than we could verbalize to each other.

Its just a building right? There'll be a next one.

Tell that to anyone whose ever lost themselves in this place. Something very unique is being lost. We grow, we progress, we build families, but we never, ever replace our first true love. Some things are only done once.

Saturday everything changed. And that's life...so great, Ivor Wynne has one last lesson for me. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

Good night rust bucket. You've been a thing.