You Ess Ay! You Ess Ay! You Ess Ay!

…I have been a stranger in a strange land.
~Exodus 2:22

The Russians certainly mean no offense by it; in their language, the word is absolutely neutral and has no other connotations. But being repeatedly called “foreigner” begins to grate on one’s ability to empathize, to fit in, to weather the long, cold winter.

So sometimes we rebel. I received an e-mail that invited me to a friend’s house. “Bring beer and patriotism” it instructed. One strength, and weakness, of my character is that I’m rarely without either. I’ll let you decide which is the strength and which the weakness.

We gathered on Friday – 5 Americans, a Frenchman, and an Englishman – to privately stick it to the Russians the best way we knew how. Through the international language of sport.

We watched the first segment of the movie Miracle, and then a DVD transfer of the actual 1980 US-USSR hockey game from the Olympics in Lake Placid. We all knew the outcome of that legendary match when the upstart US squad beat the juggernaut Soviet team to advance to the gold medal round. But still we sat with baited breath as it all transpired once more.

We traded stories of where we were when we saw it. I recalled sitting on the floor close to the TV with my brothers, Dad perched on the edge of the corduroy ottoman, all of us leaping up at each of our goals – Mom on the couch at a safe distance. I remember it much more vividly than many other – arguably more important – moments of my life so far.

Of course, the Frenchman and the Englishman had no such personal connection to the moment, and were quite interested at the level of importance that we attached to it. So too, actually, was one of our American friends who had yet to be born when the game was played. But at least he could understand the mythos and the cultural background – that is to say, the nearly jingoistic nationalism of the “USA” chant.

It was wonderful to sit around and watch and reminisce. Of course, like all good reminiscences, we ascribed greater significance to the events than they actually deserved. Our consensus was that after that game in 1980, finally, everything started to go right again. Naturally, we knew that wasn’t true; but it felt good to gloss over the following 26 years and say that everything was alright, and maybe everything was going to be OK for a bit longer, too.

And if it took the Soviets losing to create all that goodwill– well, then, so be it.

None of us has dared tell our Russian friends how we spent last Friday evening. I just don’t think they’d understand. Perhaps the Russians are getting the last laugh. After all, we watched the glorious triumph of the US team while drinking Russian beer and snacking on Russian treats.

I suppose, when you think about it that way, everyone wins.