Heartbreak in their love affair with hockey

From Vancouver, Canada — 

Ever see an entire nation with the hiccups? That was Canada on Sunday afternoon, almost sick with anticipation. What a bunch of hockey pucks.

See, the good old U.S. of A was in town, those football-digging varmints to the south. It was almost a national holiday, only bigger. Up here, hockey ain’t a sport, it’s a sex act. As such, it tends to hold the locals’ interest very well.

“We’re born with hockey skates on our feet,” explains Justin Kremyr at Molson Canadian Hockey House.

That certainly must make for some difficult deliveries, but these Canadians are nothing if not resilient. Yet nothing could hurt like what happened Sunday night, a 5-3 American upset.

Wish you could’ve seen Molson’s on Sunday evening, first a wedding party, then a funeral. The big tent the beer company is sponsoring here has become a hugely popular gathering place for hockey fans at these Olympics, only a berry burp from where the games themselves are being played.

Imagine a big, quivery tent revival that serves alcohol. Beer is the national nectar here in Canada, and they were serving it in buckets on Sunday.

“It’s our life,” explains Leo Peloquin about hockey.

“Because they don’t have anything else to do,” jokes Jen Campbell, visiting from Australia.

That’s not quite true. There is also curling.

It’s difficult to overemphasize how much they bleed these games. They play hockey as kids, as fathers, as moms. Hockey is the way they light up their six-month winters.

In fact, the saddest day in Canada is -- usually sometime in late July -- when the pond starts to melt and little Mikey falls through the ice while attempting a slap shot, marking the end of hockey season and the beginning of that awful three-week summer just ahead.

But they’re not thinking about that on this cool, sensational Sunday afternoon. What they’re thinking about is beating the USA. The United States of Aggravation.

“Go, Canada, go!” they chant even as the Americans saturate the Canadian net with hockey pucks.

There is a mosh pit here, I kid you not. Right in front of the stage, where the big screen hangs and bands perform between games, fans crush together, raising their arms, raising their beer cups.

They are a tall nation, one of the tallest I have visited, and the fans crowd together like trees: Canadians in flag capes. Canadians in face paint and fright wigs.

How big is hockey in Canada? A dozen film crews are here just to film the fans’ reactions to this big game. “Go, Canada, go!”

“It’s our game,” explains Katie Forss, watching in a fright wig and face paint. “It’s like Americans with baseball.”

Presumably, young Katie will wash up a little before work tomorrow, but no one knows for sure. For it’s becoming a debilitating day for the poor Canadians. Feckless. Frustrating.

As day turns to night, they drown their beers in sorrow.

There’s not an American in sight, except for me, and the normally affable Canadians don’t know whether to hang me or roast me on a spit. The U.S. team is performing better than expected against the highly skilled Canadians. The younger Americans seem to be a step quicker to everything, not to mention surer in the net.

For all their stars, when was the last time Canada had a well-rounded national hockey team? Upsets like this are becoming a national habit.

To Canadians, hockey is the whole reason for hosting an Olympics to begin with. Compared to hockey, these other events may as well be intramural activities, silly little ways to kill an afternoon.

But also, how many times have we seen “can’t-miss” teams like this stumble? There are no sure bets in sports except that ticket prices will be higher every season and surprises like this will flourish. Indeed, it might be sports’ greatest gift to us, the unexpected.

“Go, Canada, go!”

In the last period, time running out, the Canadians take so many shots they look as if they are beating rugs. The Americans can’t even manage to clear the puck, then wind up scoring in the open net to seal the victory.

It is sad faces all around at Molson’s. The streets aren’t any better -- quiet, as if their pockets had been picked.

When this little hockey tournament began here, the Canadians were the prohibitive favorites. If they don’t play better than they did Sunday, they may not even finish in the money.

O, Canada. What will happen then? Your pretty little pond has already begun to melt.

chris.erskine@latimes.com