of investors whose offer to buy the 105-year

Back in the day, the same four of us (Jon, Ian, Darren, and I) would meet up at Montreals legendary Copacabana to watch whatever game was on. We were regulars at the bar, a kind dive where you could just drop in and know someone familiar would be around to have a beer with. The kind of place where the adult beverage of choice was quickly placed in front of you upon your arrival. We were there to watch games, but it was more than that. We were a bunch of writers, at different points in our careers and lives, getting away from our lives. It was group therapy. With beer. There were few better nights in those years than a good Habs game at Copa. Friends would come in and out, for a period or two, for a drink or four. Partners would join us, or not. Between periods wed chide each other the way friends do, bemoan each others losses, celebrate each others victories. We played a game within the game called JägerMuller. If Habs assistant coach Kirk Muller appeared on screen (not including wide angle or crowd shots) the last person to yell JägerMuller had to buy a round of Jägermeister for the group. This often led to empty wallets and foggy third periods, but JägerMuller was ours and it made a contextual experience all that more unique, all that more memorable. As time passed, the opportunity to watch sports as a group got more and more challenging. Copa closed. People had kids, moved away, traveled for work, or had partners who wouldnt permit them to indulge in Tuesday night binge drinking. But we live in the high speed digital age, an age ruled by social media and easy communication. The four of us opened up a Facebook thread that was for any sort of conversation: dating woes, the challenges of child rearing, the merits of wasabi peas, politics, the importance of Tums to men in their 30s, the overwhelming fear of ones own mortality, the petulance of poets, why soccer sucks. We tried Skype and Google Hangouts, but as aging writers we found we preferred the anonymity of messaging, the quiet comfort of watching the game both alone and in the company of those we love. But for the most part the thread is for watching hockey games together from afar, often still with our favourite adult beverage in hand, though the days of JägerMuller are over. That games virtues, like nachos, dont transfer well through the digital ether. The Facebook threads message count is somewhere in the mid-40 thousand range as of this writing, and growing each day. An exponential explosion is expected during the playoffs, though Jon (a Jets fan) and Ian (a Leafs apologist) will be forced to cheer for their second favourite teams. The virtual bar that the digital age has provided us pales in comparison to their company, but it has allowed us to stay close, to continue to care about each other the way we did when were separated by city blocks and not oceans and responsibilities. But the bar that we left just a few years ago is not the same bar where sports are enjoyed today. Its a lesser venue. Consider the bar argument. No longer can hours be spent fighting over what year Gretzky scored 50 goals in 39 games, what round Luc Robitaille was drafted in, the rate at which Randy Carlyles hairline has been receding. Answers are too quickly found on our phones, and the shortened distance of knowledge does not promote an expanse of conversation. Plus, the bars too busy tweeting cleverness in 140 characters, or arguing with some 12-year-old in Abbostford over whos the better d-man, Subban or Weber. Or instagramming retro-filtered photos of our cocktails. Or adding the waitress as a friend on Facebook. Theres a grand irony in the fact that the same advents that have made watching sports a more communal experience with those who cant be in our presence has had the opposite effect on those in our presence. On the off nights where my friends cant meet up in the digital bar, and I dont have the wherewithal or funds to hit the real bar I, like most, watch games with Twitter open. But instead of finding a substitute for those who cant be with me, Im overwhelmed by the faux-expertise and bravado that ends up in my feed. Just because you have a blog and 45 Twitter followers doesnt exactly make you Bob McKenzie. I appreciate fandom and respect the free speech virtues of the medium, but holy hell @HabsFan4lyfe69 if you cant spell Michel Therrien, you really shouldnt be offered the privilege of publicly questioning the size of his manhood. The amount of valuable discourse is too often overshadowed by the sycophantic, or vile, or uninformed. Just look at what happens when Joel Ward scores in overtime or Jason Collins steps on the court the first time. The degenerate xenophobes bear their virtual white sheets in the comfortable anonymity or ignorant ignominy of cyberspace. There are no bouncers online, no bartenders with the ability to cut off the flow of alcohol. But sports are the last collective viewing experience, with the possible exception of the Oscars. With the advent of PVRs and streaming video you can watch Scandal whenever you please, but the sport still requires a live audience. No one wants to watch the game later. Even if youre stuck at work, on a plane, or at your boyfriends sisters third intervention, you can tune in, not miss a shot, a goal, a fight, or a one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that only sport can provide. In 2010 when the Habs made their magical run to the Conference Finals, one of us couldnt make it to Copa to watch the game. Jon was stuck in a hotel room in Vancouver, watching it on his own. There was no thread then. We didnt all own smartphones. No one said "blogoshpere". The Jets were still the Thrashers. Maybe two of us were on Twitter. So as the bar counted down the minutes of Game 7 of an improbable 5-2 Habs win and an improbable series upset over the heavily-favoured Penguins, I called Jon and placed my flip phone open in the middle of our table. He listened as we sung "Olé, Olé, Olé", as we cheered and piled into the streets, as we mocked Sidney Crosby. Strangers would come pick up the phone and speak to him in English and French about the game, about the city, and about the Habs and dreams of 1993. That night was a microcosm of how we watch the games now, the birth of how fandom and friendship defies distance in a digital age. It was a living analogy of how in four short years the experience of watching sports would change. Not all for the better, of course. But Ill put up with a few egotistical bloggers, the occasional Twitter tantrum, and the death of the bar argument if it means I can watch sports the way I want, from wherever I am, with the people I love. With beer. Air Max Shoes Online . 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