It is like a grey cloud over the city today, despite the 6-degree winter sun. The Whitecaps home opener occurs tomorrow. Emerging on this day, will be a team so-far covered in that grey veil. Who are these people? The pre-season weeks, thrown a crumb by some random calendar alert… “Whitecaps vs LA starting Now.” Not televised. Not live-streamed. Only the irregular tweets.
Our Waston-Stefan-free back end still feels like it is built from a house of invisible cards. Our level-headed manager, whose positivity seemed ridiculous at the end of the season, is rightfully gone, all his chances at Vancouver glory exhausted.
Now, like a single beat from a drum, our hearts pump. It pumps again and again, faster and faster, and our new dream begins.
Emerging from this smoky shroud, first the silhouettes, then the chiseled, lean, multi-shaded faces of the always mighty, world-champion Whitecaps. It is a beat that grows stronger in the fans, and players alike. Our energy permeating one another.
Each silent prayer in the stands, each cross signed, each moment of open hands to the sky, we all connect, and become powerful. This magic, whether you call it vibes, or God, or love-potion number nine, is real. It is all real. In sport, only believers win.
Despite the omissions, some things stay the same. We are the same, and we always believe. We have to believe, because if we do not, there is no hope. We may as well believe.
Omission Pale Ale.