My New Hockey Sweater

The Canucks recent run has brought a new fashion crime to the Gore-tex and Teva clad streets of Vancouver, the ubiquitous hockey sweater has reared it’s head in unexpected places, on your bank teller, bus drivers and the guy making your coffee. I’ve never been a jersey kind of man. I’d like to think I could be, I’d like to think I could be a team kind of guy, but I’m just not. I was treated to seeing the World Junior Hockey finals a few years ago as a client of a free spending supplier, (those days are over spending like drunken sailors has been replaced by saving like squirrels hoarding nuts getting ready for winter. Business lunches are now conducted standing in the one dollar hot dog cafe at Ikea.)

One of the gentleman I was with (and after a particularly wine soaked lunch between the consolation game and the gold medal final) insisted he buy us all Team Canada sweaters to wear. I cringed. Like a dutiful sheepole I donned the jersey just like the other 18,000 plus at GM Place. (And I still wonder what the conversation with accounting was like when he submitted a receipt for a half dozen hundred and fifty dollar replica jerseys, sober on a Monday morning in the controllers office, it probably didn’t seem quite as good a use for the client promotion budget then.)

So regardless of how thrilled I am about The Steelers winning their sixth Superbowl last season, I won’t be rolling in a Heinz Ward jersey anytime soon. A friend recently traveled to England and brought me back my jersey. Not Man U or Chelsea, something way better, a uniform I’m proud to sport and treat with the same reverence as a signed game worn Sundin sweater for the Canucks faithful. That’s right, I am now the proud owner of a real authentic English cooks apron. It’s funny, I feel the same affinity with Marco Pierre White in the kitchen as I assume the crowd in GM Place feels for their heroes on the ice while wearing it. And I’m taking care of this garment, I’m not wearing at the grill splattering it with steak juices and smoke while barbecuing, rather it only comes out to create the finest most delicate dishes. The next time a white truffle lands in my kitchen, my apron will be donned. If I’m asked to step onto the line at West next time I’m walking on Granville, at least I’ll look the part. And I thank the fashion gods that my fetish didn’t manifest itself through oranges Crocs.

~KT