In what has become a yearly reminder that there are, in fact, fates worse than death, then NHL Awards show aired tonight in what is one of the most painful faux celebrations of sport the world has ever not seen. When you long for the days of the awards being some kitchy Canadian affair, you know it was a bad night.
I’m not sure why I subject myself to the awards each year, I know they’re going to be terrible. Yet, time and time again, I watch, out of some twisted obligation to my sport that, honestly, is probably less than healthy. While I may have finally given up on the draft, I still have some faint sense of hope that something might, maybe, possibly, happen at the awards which would redeem them. Last year we had drunk Cuba Gooding Jr and that was, while sad, pretty fantastic. Not enough to make the show, mind you, but enough that when Russell Crowe asks if you’re entertained, you could say, “yeah, actually. I was. Thanks.” This year, instead of realizing why a man’s career had fallen off a cliff, we got to witness it happen.
Poor Rob Riggle was left to die a slow and terrible death before our very eyes tonight. The scripting was terrible, the audience was stiffer than a cemetery and the players had all the personality of a shoe. And not a flashy shoe either, just a boring, plain, maybe late 80s early 90s sneaker than got lost int he back of the closet and everyone forgot about. This is what happens when a league pushes conformity rather than personality; no one displays any emotion and everyone becomes very awkward on TV. I have to think the players actually DO have personalities, they’ve just been carefully trained to not reveal them publicly, lest they be punished for having the audacity to be human. (ignoring Burns and Subban, who, thankfully, have personality in excess and have no qualms about showing it. They’re fantastic, and their ability to be relatable human beings is part of why) Riggle was left to work with what amounted to a bunch of stiffs, and his pain was palpable. He spent two hours in every comedian’s worst nightmare, and his lone consolation is that the vast majority of people weren’t tuning in to watch him bomb.
High points of the night including Jiri Hudler arriving on stage with no shoes and telling jokes that were actually funny (front runner for next year’s host, right here) and a segment with Jonathan Pitre which left pretty much everyone misty eyed. Oh, and the ending. The merciful, merciful ending.
Maybe one year I’ll finally free myself of watching the slow death of comedy and careers while I silently debate the merits of watching paint dry, but then again, I’m a hockey fan. A Sharks hockey fan. Some level of suffering is just an inevitable part of my existence.
