The worst possible day in the life of every young Canadian male is the day he realizes that he might as well be European for all he knows about New York hardcore. Walking past a mirror wall next to the escalators at the shopping center, he catches a candid glimpse of himself in his Down But Not Out ’89 tour shirt, and it hits him: “Wait a second—I don’t live in a country of endemic violence where the government might conceivably leave me or someone I love to die. I’ve been co-opting all along. As if I were a common Belgian.” (I’m speaking from experience here.)
The worst possible day in the life of every American sports fan is the day he realizes that, because he lives in proximity to a kind of urban squalor that almost literally infects the air he breathes, he might as well be Honduran for he all knows about hockey.