Brian Fawcett’s latest novel is weird for not being weird. I mean, this is Brian Fawcett we’re talking about—experimenter with simultaneous threads of text, genre busting mixer of fiction and non-fiction, railer against professionalizing ossifying literary academics, thorn in the flesh of big media, Cassandra of global capitalism, lamenter of waning local cultures. For ease of reference, we might throw all of this into the basket of public intellectual. So what the hell is he doing writing a hockey novel? More to the point: what the hell is he doing checking his cynicism at the door and writing a feel-good tale of people who are unashamed to be happy? Weird.