[fanfiction] Hockey Culture
Title: Hockey Culture
Author/Artist: twilightrose2
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada, America and Russia
Rating: T
Genre: Humour
Warnings: unmoe!Canada kicking ass.
Summary: This would be, perhaps, one of the less friendly outings Alfred F. Jones had attended. Not that he had an exceptional track record in the first place or anything.
Author’s Notes: Another one from fanfiction.net. PREPARE FOR MASSIVE FIC UPLOAD.
Hockey Culture
-
How would you like a job where, every time you make a mistake, a big red light goes on and 18,000 people boo? ~Jacques Plante
-
This would be, perhaps, one of the less friendly outings Alfred F. Jones had attended. Not that he had an exceptional track record in the first place or anything.
It had started out as innocent enough idea. Winter had settled in the northern nations and America, being the genius he is, had agreed go watch one of the hockey games that Matthew and Ivan had been rambling on about for ages.
Being the height of the Cold War, Alfred was hesitant at first to visit the Red country but his brother had insisted so he caved. He was also very interested to see how his brother would act at the game. Rumours had it that hockey was one of the few things Canada would get violent about. America took these warnings without a single grain of salt. He knew his brother; Matthew wouldn’t ever hurt a fly.
So there they were, Alfred, Matthew and Arthur - What was he doing there? - in one row of seats, Ivan sitting below them, chatting amiable to Matthew.
America looked around the rink. It was a huge stadium, the bright red seats all sloping down towards the rink where a Zamboni was sliding around the ice, leaving a smooth, shiny trail behind it. Bleachers were filling in will all sorts of people; Canadians wearing their national colours while the Russians were in theirs, not nearly as animated as the Canuks were in the pre-game build-up.
Beside him, Arthur gave another grunt of displeasure. He was dressed in a puffy jacket, making him look like a giant green marshmallow, his cheeks and tips of ear tinged with a brilliant pink while is nose was steadily running. In all, he looked completely miserable.
“Why did you even come?” Alfred asked, playfully poking his brother’s shining nose, “You’re not going to get any warmer sitting in this giant freezer.”
“I’ve been following this for the past three weeks and a cold’s not going to stop me from seeing it play out,” he swatted Alfred’s hand away.
“You’ve been paying attention to little Matthew’s hobbies? How cute,” Alfred simpered, “You’re such a nice older brother.” He paused, brows furrowing. “Why don’t you ever come to any of my games?”
“Because in your country, football is men running around in tight pants and slapping each other’s asses. Not exactly something I would watch regularly, if at all. Now, hockey on the other hand…” he paused, his face cringing up, and sneezed violently. “Now there’s a sport someone can watch.”
“Still, I can’t believe you’ve paid so much attention to Matthew. It’s not like hockey’s big or anything…”
The United Kingdom glared at him. “Have you even been paying attention to your brother? He hasn’t talked about anything else, I didn’t follow these games just because Matthew asked me to.”
“But it isn’t a big deal is it? I mean, it’s just one game.”
“No, it’s a big deal.” Arthur hid behind his handkerchief one against, blowing his nose forcefully, “This is the final game. The one that decides it all.”
“So what? They played, like, two other games and now they’re going to play a last one. Big, fat, hairy deal.”
“I can’t believe I have to tell you all of this.” He took a deep breath and started, “Russia won the first game 7-3, despite Canada’s goal within the first thirty seconds of the game. The next round Canada won 4 to1 and the first fistfight was had on the ice. A Canadian started it. Yes, one of your brother’s people had started it,” He said when Alfred raised his eyebrows.
“A tie came next followed by one of the worst games in Canada’s hockey history and by the end of the game, they were booed off the rink by their own fans. The games moved to Russia. Canada lost, yet again, going from a strong lead of 4-1 to a loss of 5-4.”
Alfred looked as though he wanted to say something but Arthur talked over him, “Which leads us to the sixth and the most controversial of the games. The Canadian Team accused the German referee,” Alfred coughed, “of being biased but still managed to pull off a 3-2 win.”
America stared wide-eyed at his brother. “All this has been happening? Why wasn’t I told!?”
“Canada told you loads of times.” The United Kingdom sunk lower into his coat, sniffing loudly, “Now shut up and watch the game. Just because you’re here I’m not going to have three weeks of my life be ruined by you.”
So Alfred F. Jones followed Arthur's advice - for once - and watched. And, though he would’ve rather eaten his own hand than admit it, he found that the game was mildly exciting. You know, as exciting as a game on ice could get.
The Canadian almost punching the referee was okay. And the police that came in around the second period to subdue the goalie because his goal light hadn’t gone on was pretty cool. So, maybe it wasn’t that boring. Only maybe.
It was halfway through the third period when he noticed that Canada was flustered, even more than usual. He leaned over and asked, “Matthew, you’re trembling. It’s not that cold.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. It’s the score.” His blue eyes didn’t look at his brother, but remained trained on the ice.
“You’re tied with the Red. Shouldn’t you be… happy? Or is this some kind of crazy backwards game where having more points is bad?” Alfred said, lips stuck out and eyes narrowed in puzzlement.
Canada gave his brother a disparaging look while on the other side, Arthur was shaking his head. “No. I’m worried because if this tie keeps up till the end, Ivan wins by default.”
Alfred’s eyes were no more than tiny slits now. “Isn’t that the opposite of what a tie usually is? Because in my country when there’s tie, it means that neither side will win or lose. We call it a draw.”
Matthew’s jaw dropped a little before he shook his head and turned his attention back to the game. Alfred looked to Arthur for help, but his brother was on the edge of his seat, watching the ice.
“I have won more points, so I win automatically.” Ivan had a triumphant smile on his face, as he looked at Alfred. “It makes sense, no? Those with a more skilled team obviously win more.” He laughed and turned away from America. Canada was trembling, fists clenched on his legs, his blue eyes glued to the ice as his players sailed onto the rink.
The stadium was bursting with energy as the clocked ticked on. Forty seconds left, America watched as the Canadian players lined up with the Soviets, chests heaving, hair dripping with sweat.
The referee drops the puck and the players surge forward.
Canada steals it right away, sliding easily along the ice, staying on the player’s stick for only a moment before careening towards the Soviet side. One of the Canadians skated forward, making a violent swing for the net.
“Here’s a shot. Henderson makes a wild stab for it and falls.”
The announcer’s voice echoes across the stadium, barely audible over the chaos the crowd is descending into. He strains his ears while keeping his eyes fixed on the ice.
He can’t see the puck, his eyes following Henderson as he slides past the goal smashing into the sideboards. Then the puck appears from the tangle of legs, a Canadian rockets forward, passing it back towards the net, three Soviets closing in on him.
The puck finds its mark. Henderson has risen to his feet and snatched the puck, making another slash for the Soviet goal.
“Here’s another shot. Right in front.”
The goalie turns just in time to see the puck sail into his goal.
“They score!”
The siren screeches but America can’t hear it over the screams of the crowd. He scarcely hears the announcer whose voice is breathless with excitement.
“Henderson has scored for Canada!”
The crowd is on its feet, yelling, booing, shouting and bawling their eyes out. The remaining players on the Canadian team stream out onto the ice, forming one giant group hug around Henderson. The coaches remain on the sides, jumping up and down, congratulating each other.
Matthew had catapulted to his feet, cheering loudly. Arthur is also standing, clapping enthusiastically between sneezes. “F-ING EH! YEAH! WE WON! WE F-ING WON!” Matthew whipped around, ready to see the smirk fall off Ivan’s face, “Take that!”
But Ivan’s seat was empty.
He had slipped away in the madness that had followed the winning goal. It was a humiliating defeat, even for something as small as hockey game. His country needed this and yet he was beaten by that stupid American’s little brother. Moving through the crowd quickly, he had hoped to escape through the locker rooms. That was, until a voice called him back.
“Good game!”
Ivan turned around; Matthew was standing with his hand extended, smiling warmly. He looked to the locker room door; he could still make a run for it. But there was something in that smile that made him walk towards the Canadian.
“Next year I will not let my country be defeated again.” The Russian took the offered hand, shaking it.
“I look forward to it.” Matthew said.
Ivan smiled pleasantly before flooring Canada with a vicious right hook.
Matthew hit the ground, blood streaming from his nose, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he lost conscience.
The crowd was in an uproar, some cheering on Ivan, others fighting against the line of the police that were holding them back, keen on showing just how “peaceful” Canadians could be.
Alfred rushed forward, Arthur right behind him, and knelt beside his brother. “Matt! Are you alright?” He shook his brother’s limp body. “You’ve killed him!” America clutches Canada’s body close to his, “You’re a murderer!” He shouts, voice hoarse with silent sobs.
“Alfred?” Matthew coughed, bleary eyes focusing on his brother.
Alfred had tears in his eyes as he hugged his brother. “I thought you were dead!” He stood up and shoved Matthew into Arthur’s arms. “Prepare to meet your maker!” He proclaimed dramatically, rolling up his sleeves and bearing his fists.
Arthur facepalmed while Ivan laughed coldly. He reached into his coat and pulled out his pipe. Alfred let out a small peep; their last encounter was clearly still fresh in his mind.
Before Alfred could actually make a move towards Ivan -or run, whatever came first-, there was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Matthew struggled to his feet, wiped the blood from his face and charged the Russian.
Ivan’s pipe swung for him but Matthew ducked, tackling into Ivan’s stomach and knocking him to the ground. Pinning Ivan’s arms with his knees, Matthew began pummelling him.
Alfred watched in awe. Matthew. Tiny, innocent, adorable, fretting, quiet and completely harmless was punching -no- decimating the Russian. Had the world gone insane, last time he checked, when he fought the Russian, he got his ass kicked, but when Matthew fought him, well, he was winning!
“Okay, time to break it up.” Arthur pushed by his speechless brother and pulled Canada off Ivan. While medics swarmed around Ivan, shouting at each other over the roar of the crowd. Arthur meanwhile was still attempting to calm his brother down. Only after being threatened with a four-course meal with scones included did Matthew stop struggling.
“I’m sorry!” He started fretting, looking between his fists and Ivan’s bloody mess of a face. “I just got a little carried away! I-I-” he started wailing uncontrollably, crying into the United Kingdom’s puffcoat.
“And they say the best fights happened on the ice.” Arthur commented dryly, patting Matthew head awkwardly before grabbing Alfred’s arm and dragging the still awestruck man away.
Author's Note
Inspiration for this goes for the piece “Hockey Culture” on deviantArt by the artist Chira-Chira.
It’s all right for me to stereotype Canadians because I am one!
Every Canadian (well, every REAL communist, bagged milk drinking, hockey lovin', Tim Horton's whore, eh sayin' Canadian) knows about the Canada/Russia hockey games, even if they don’t like hockey. I rarely watch the Olympics but when the hockey comes on, I’m there.
Of course, I wasn’t alive for the Summit Series but that’s what YouTube and Wikipedia are for, amirite? I also talked to my mother and father about it. Apparently, all of Canada stopped to watch the games. Even classes were being stalled so the students and teachers could watch the game. Anyway, it was awesome and I wish I could've seen it!
Author/Artist: twilightrose2
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Canada, America and Russia
Rating: T
Genre: Humour
Warnings: unmoe!Canada kicking ass.
Summary: This would be, perhaps, one of the less friendly outings Alfred F. Jones had attended. Not that he had an exceptional track record in the first place or anything.
Author’s Notes: Another one from fanfiction.net. PREPARE FOR MASSIVE FIC UPLOAD.
Hockey Culture
-
How would you like a job where, every time you make a mistake, a big red light goes on and 18,000 people boo? ~Jacques Plante
-
This would be, perhaps, one of the less friendly outings Alfred F. Jones had attended. Not that he had an exceptional track record in the first place or anything.
It had started out as innocent enough idea. Winter had settled in the northern nations and America, being the genius he is, had agreed go watch one of the hockey games that Matthew and Ivan had been rambling on about for ages.
Being the height of the Cold War, Alfred was hesitant at first to visit the Red country but his brother had insisted so he caved. He was also very interested to see how his brother would act at the game. Rumours had it that hockey was one of the few things Canada would get violent about. America took these warnings without a single grain of salt. He knew his brother; Matthew wouldn’t ever hurt a fly.
So there they were, Alfred, Matthew and Arthur - What was he doing there? - in one row of seats, Ivan sitting below them, chatting amiable to Matthew.
America looked around the rink. It was a huge stadium, the bright red seats all sloping down towards the rink where a Zamboni was sliding around the ice, leaving a smooth, shiny trail behind it. Bleachers were filling in will all sorts of people; Canadians wearing their national colours while the Russians were in theirs, not nearly as animated as the Canuks were in the pre-game build-up.
Beside him, Arthur gave another grunt of displeasure. He was dressed in a puffy jacket, making him look like a giant green marshmallow, his cheeks and tips of ear tinged with a brilliant pink while is nose was steadily running. In all, he looked completely miserable.
“Why did you even come?” Alfred asked, playfully poking his brother’s shining nose, “You’re not going to get any warmer sitting in this giant freezer.”
“I’ve been following this for the past three weeks and a cold’s not going to stop me from seeing it play out,” he swatted Alfred’s hand away.
“You’ve been paying attention to little Matthew’s hobbies? How cute,” Alfred simpered, “You’re such a nice older brother.” He paused, brows furrowing. “Why don’t you ever come to any of my games?”
“Because in your country, football is men running around in tight pants and slapping each other’s asses. Not exactly something I would watch regularly, if at all. Now, hockey on the other hand…” he paused, his face cringing up, and sneezed violently. “Now there’s a sport someone can watch.”
“Still, I can’t believe you’ve paid so much attention to Matthew. It’s not like hockey’s big or anything…”
The United Kingdom glared at him. “Have you even been paying attention to your brother? He hasn’t talked about anything else, I didn’t follow these games just because Matthew asked me to.”
“But it isn’t a big deal is it? I mean, it’s just one game.”
“No, it’s a big deal.” Arthur hid behind his handkerchief one against, blowing his nose forcefully, “This is the final game. The one that decides it all.”
“So what? They played, like, two other games and now they’re going to play a last one. Big, fat, hairy deal.”
“I can’t believe I have to tell you all of this.” He took a deep breath and started, “Russia won the first game 7-3, despite Canada’s goal within the first thirty seconds of the game. The next round Canada won 4 to1 and the first fistfight was had on the ice. A Canadian started it. Yes, one of your brother’s people had started it,” He said when Alfred raised his eyebrows.
“A tie came next followed by one of the worst games in Canada’s hockey history and by the end of the game, they were booed off the rink by their own fans. The games moved to Russia. Canada lost, yet again, going from a strong lead of 4-1 to a loss of 5-4.”
Alfred looked as though he wanted to say something but Arthur talked over him, “Which leads us to the sixth and the most controversial of the games. The Canadian Team accused the German referee,” Alfred coughed, “of being biased but still managed to pull off a 3-2 win.”
America stared wide-eyed at his brother. “All this has been happening? Why wasn’t I told!?”
“Canada told you loads of times.” The United Kingdom sunk lower into his coat, sniffing loudly, “Now shut up and watch the game. Just because you’re here I’m not going to have three weeks of my life be ruined by you.”
So Alfred F. Jones followed Arthur's advice - for once - and watched. And, though he would’ve rather eaten his own hand than admit it, he found that the game was mildly exciting. You know, as exciting as a game on ice could get.
The Canadian almost punching the referee was okay. And the police that came in around the second period to subdue the goalie because his goal light hadn’t gone on was pretty cool. So, maybe it wasn’t that boring. Only maybe.
It was halfway through the third period when he noticed that Canada was flustered, even more than usual. He leaned over and asked, “Matthew, you’re trembling. It’s not that cold.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about. It’s the score.” His blue eyes didn’t look at his brother, but remained trained on the ice.
“You’re tied with the Red. Shouldn’t you be… happy? Or is this some kind of crazy backwards game where having more points is bad?” Alfred said, lips stuck out and eyes narrowed in puzzlement.
Canada gave his brother a disparaging look while on the other side, Arthur was shaking his head. “No. I’m worried because if this tie keeps up till the end, Ivan wins by default.”
Alfred’s eyes were no more than tiny slits now. “Isn’t that the opposite of what a tie usually is? Because in my country when there’s tie, it means that neither side will win or lose. We call it a draw.”
Matthew’s jaw dropped a little before he shook his head and turned his attention back to the game. Alfred looked to Arthur for help, but his brother was on the edge of his seat, watching the ice.
“I have won more points, so I win automatically.” Ivan had a triumphant smile on his face, as he looked at Alfred. “It makes sense, no? Those with a more skilled team obviously win more.” He laughed and turned away from America. Canada was trembling, fists clenched on his legs, his blue eyes glued to the ice as his players sailed onto the rink.
The stadium was bursting with energy as the clocked ticked on. Forty seconds left, America watched as the Canadian players lined up with the Soviets, chests heaving, hair dripping with sweat.
The referee drops the puck and the players surge forward.
Canada steals it right away, sliding easily along the ice, staying on the player’s stick for only a moment before careening towards the Soviet side. One of the Canadians skated forward, making a violent swing for the net.
“Here’s a shot. Henderson makes a wild stab for it and falls.”
The announcer’s voice echoes across the stadium, barely audible over the chaos the crowd is descending into. He strains his ears while keeping his eyes fixed on the ice.
He can’t see the puck, his eyes following Henderson as he slides past the goal smashing into the sideboards. Then the puck appears from the tangle of legs, a Canadian rockets forward, passing it back towards the net, three Soviets closing in on him.
The puck finds its mark. Henderson has risen to his feet and snatched the puck, making another slash for the Soviet goal.
“Here’s another shot. Right in front.”
The goalie turns just in time to see the puck sail into his goal.
“They score!”
The siren screeches but America can’t hear it over the screams of the crowd. He scarcely hears the announcer whose voice is breathless with excitement.
“Henderson has scored for Canada!”
The crowd is on its feet, yelling, booing, shouting and bawling their eyes out. The remaining players on the Canadian team stream out onto the ice, forming one giant group hug around Henderson. The coaches remain on the sides, jumping up and down, congratulating each other.
Matthew had catapulted to his feet, cheering loudly. Arthur is also standing, clapping enthusiastically between sneezes. “F-ING EH! YEAH! WE WON! WE F-ING WON!” Matthew whipped around, ready to see the smirk fall off Ivan’s face, “Take that!”
But Ivan’s seat was empty.
He had slipped away in the madness that had followed the winning goal. It was a humiliating defeat, even for something as small as hockey game. His country needed this and yet he was beaten by that stupid American’s little brother. Moving through the crowd quickly, he had hoped to escape through the locker rooms. That was, until a voice called him back.
“Good game!”
Ivan turned around; Matthew was standing with his hand extended, smiling warmly. He looked to the locker room door; he could still make a run for it. But there was something in that smile that made him walk towards the Canadian.
“Next year I will not let my country be defeated again.” The Russian took the offered hand, shaking it.
“I look forward to it.” Matthew said.
Ivan smiled pleasantly before flooring Canada with a vicious right hook.
Matthew hit the ground, blood streaming from his nose, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he lost conscience.
The crowd was in an uproar, some cheering on Ivan, others fighting against the line of the police that were holding them back, keen on showing just how “peaceful” Canadians could be.
Alfred rushed forward, Arthur right behind him, and knelt beside his brother. “Matt! Are you alright?” He shook his brother’s limp body. “You’ve killed him!” America clutches Canada’s body close to his, “You’re a murderer!” He shouts, voice hoarse with silent sobs.
“Alfred?” Matthew coughed, bleary eyes focusing on his brother.
Alfred had tears in his eyes as he hugged his brother. “I thought you were dead!” He stood up and shoved Matthew into Arthur’s arms. “Prepare to meet your maker!” He proclaimed dramatically, rolling up his sleeves and bearing his fists.
Arthur facepalmed while Ivan laughed coldly. He reached into his coat and pulled out his pipe. Alfred let out a small peep; their last encounter was clearly still fresh in his mind.
Before Alfred could actually make a move towards Ivan -or run, whatever came first-, there was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Matthew struggled to his feet, wiped the blood from his face and charged the Russian.
Ivan’s pipe swung for him but Matthew ducked, tackling into Ivan’s stomach and knocking him to the ground. Pinning Ivan’s arms with his knees, Matthew began pummelling him.
Alfred watched in awe. Matthew. Tiny, innocent, adorable, fretting, quiet and completely harmless was punching -no- decimating the Russian. Had the world gone insane, last time he checked, when he fought the Russian, he got his ass kicked, but when Matthew fought him, well, he was winning!
“Okay, time to break it up.” Arthur pushed by his speechless brother and pulled Canada off Ivan. While medics swarmed around Ivan, shouting at each other over the roar of the crowd. Arthur meanwhile was still attempting to calm his brother down. Only after being threatened with a four-course meal with scones included did Matthew stop struggling.
“I’m sorry!” He started fretting, looking between his fists and Ivan’s bloody mess of a face. “I just got a little carried away! I-I-” he started wailing uncontrollably, crying into the United Kingdom’s puffcoat.
“And they say the best fights happened on the ice.” Arthur commented dryly, patting Matthew head awkwardly before grabbing Alfred’s arm and dragging the still awestruck man away.
Author's Note
Inspiration for this goes for the piece “Hockey Culture” on deviantArt by the artist Chira-Chira.
It’s all right for me to stereotype Canadians because I am one!
Every Canadian (well, every REAL communist, bagged milk drinking, hockey lovin', Tim Horton's whore, eh sayin' Canadian) knows about the Canada/Russia hockey games, even if they don’t like hockey. I rarely watch the Olympics but when the hockey comes on, I’m there.
Of course, I wasn’t alive for the Summit Series but that’s what YouTube and Wikipedia are for, amirite? I also talked to my mother and father about it. Apparently, all of Canada stopped to watch the games. Even classes were being stalled so the students and teachers could watch the game. Anyway, it was awesome and I wish I could've seen it!