I wish I were Bill Benson.

I cried reading Bill Benson once.
It was after Toronto had lost in the playoffs; the final Canadian hope. The lone sentinel.
Bill watched the game in silence and when it finished and they had lost and Canada was done he walked out of his home and just flew away. It was beautiful. He just lifted his arms and was gone. I wanted to fly away, too, after that.

I was alone and drunk in the North of Japan. Bill Benson and I connected that day.
I was filled with a deep love for him that I had never noticed before, it just kind of crept up on me like that.

I saw that even he was as heartbroken as I and I loved him for showing me how he escaped it all, how he wanted to just go away.

I also wanted to fly away, to you, though.
I wanted you to tell me that it would all be alright and that I was good and that I was your bluebird and that we would have next year; we'd do it next year.
I needed solace and from seven thousand kilometers away Bill Benson gave it to me.

I wept and strode, hurriedly to the bathroom at school. They wouldn't understand why a comic would make me cry; they wouldn't understand the beauty and truth in that.

I smoked cigarettes and cut work, I told them I didn't have the stomach for it that day anymore.

When I went home that night I undressed and donned my Oilers jersey and drank two litres of sake.

I wish I were Bill Benson so I could fly away, too, from defeat, from anguish, from failed hope and sick hockey teams.

Thanks, Bill.

-Love Sid
xoxoxoxoxoxooxox