When I was young, I was in love with love. I tried to discover all women through each of them. I was like a hedgehog with men: I kept them at a distance, not out of a lack of human interest, but because I did not recognize myself much in them. I had a good number of male friends, but they all shared one common trait: an analytical way of thinking, far more academic than clan-based, far more artistic than athletic. I have always been a religious man. The mythical, mythological, and theological dimensions fascinated me. My love for certain sports came later in life, when I understood their social and solidaristic nature. That is why I am neither worn out, nor tired, nor disenchanted with sport. It is a relatively new subject in my life, even though I watched hockey from a young age. I used to watch hockey like a motion detector, incapable of synthetic thought. Today, I watch hockey like a father. I cast a patriarchal gaze upon this national sport. I observe hockey through a retrospective lens, constantly answering the same question: what does this mean? I am still charmed by the beauty of the jerseys, by the iconographic transposition between the groupings, the territorial clans of performance, and the relationship that exists between these groups of athletes and the urban environment in which they evolve. They are transcribers of collective subconsciousness, packs, modern knights of medieval tournaments. I watch hockey as a rabbi reads the Torah.
