Like most Grizzlies over spring break, I spent my vacation diligently doing my homework, studying, helping others and longing to head back to school.

Oh who am I kidding. I slept past noon every day and didn’t even think about schoolwork until Sunday night.

Like a lot of Grizzlies, and the rest of the freaking planet, I did watch the 2010 Winter Olympic Games in Vancouver, British Columbia.

These games held a special place in my heart because, dear reader, I bleed maple syrup. I was born with one skate on. I might even own a mounty hat.

I am Canadian.

You see, my mother was born in the old country and moved to America as an infant, or as they say in Canadian, a “baby.”

Even though she has her American citizenship, recent laws passed by Canada makes everyone who had to renounce their Canadian citizenship a Canadian again — and the same goes for their kids.

Yeah, one day I just woke up Canadian. Could have been worse.

I’ve heard all the jokes about Canada being America’s hat, or the 51st State, or every other joke abut the Great White North. I’ve also watched the Canadians sit back and let Americans make a joke of themselves, saving them more time to play hockey.

I’m what happens when someone mixes Budwieser with Molsons.

Jokes aside, the Olympics is one of the few times people from around the world are able to get together and celebrate humanity. We finally get most every nation of this war-torn world together in one place … and it’s to kick each others’ asses in sports. No violence, no insurgency, no guns: just athleticism.

Oh, wait, Biathalon. I guess they did have guns.

To compete in the winter games, you need one of two things: something with skates (ice skates, bobsled, luge) on it to play ice games, or something with a flat enough surface (snowboard, skis, your own face if you mess up), to play snow games.

You then take this equipment and prove to everyone that you can make momentum and gravity your bitch while performing and out-scoring the person next to you.

Ohno. Vonn. Rafalski and Miller. These are the names America tossed around during the games with pride in our athletes. Hell, even snowboarder Shaun White proved that goofy-looking people who could easily be mistaken for a stoner can win gold medals.

And then there is curling.

Majestic to some, comical to others, and startling to anyone who watches it the first time and hears the shooter scream their head off at a rock sliding on the ice. Five people, 10 pretty big rocks, and one shot at that rare mix of eternal glory and confused looks. And if you’re the Norwegian team, you did it wearing snazzy pants. Go ahead, Google it.

Canada, for the most part, did a great job hosting the games. Any opening ceremony that has a inspiring dedication to the native people AND a group of fiddle-wielding tap-dancing kilt and leather jacket wearing folk-punk rockers wins in my book. Never mind that part of the torch lighting ceremony apparatus failed to raise from the ground, just be glad they didn’t do a tribute to Tim Horton’s on ice with doughnuts flying from the ceiling and cups of coffee on skates.

The games ended on Sunday night in a classic clash of the titans when Team USA and Team Canada had a final showdown in men’s hockey. Of Canada’s 35 million people, 16 million of them watched the game, and that’s only because of crappy television reception in the igloo’s.

What’s a hybrid like myself to do when I have citizenship to the two countries that are fighting for gold in the greatest sport ever? A native of Hockeytown, torn asunder by — oh shut up, I was rooting for Team USA and I’m damned proud of it.

With a Red Wing and Michigan natives on the team, I had to avoid my mom’s evil glares whenever we scored. I would have been totally cool with Canada winning, what with Red Wings head coach Mike Babcock leading them, and legend Steve Yzerman as the general manager, but one thing stopped me from rooting for them.

Sidney Crosby. I hate Sidney Crosby.

If Sidney Crosby flew down the street in a Toyota with faulty breaks and had venomous spiders crawling on, around and inside his face, my first thought would be “Oh my god, someone has to save those venomous spiders!” Sidney Crosby, for all intent and purposes, can get hit by a bus that has been set on fire and has spikes mounted to the grill.

After listening to NBC worship him during the Stanley Cup playoffs, after hearing him called Jesus Christ on skates, after turning my TV off in insurmountable anger when he stole Stanley from us on our own turf, I have made it a point to hate Crosby more than anyone else on the planet. To have him win the gold medal game, in overtime, was a kick to the face for everyone in the US, let alone Michigan, let alone Detroit.

It was, as they say in Canadian, “shitty.”

Our sports editor, Dan Fenner, called it a dark day in the history of hockey, and said his head almost exploded when he watched Yzerman shake Crosby’s hand after the game. I may have put my fist through a wall, but I can’t recall much from my blind rage. All I know is that my mom was still cheering and she won’t be getting much this year for her birthday.

The game ended, Babcock and the Wings went on to beat the Avalanche the very next day and Crosby went back to knitting, where he mistakenly pricked himself with a needle and proceeded to cry like a little bitch before calling for his mommy.

The Canadians closed the games with a parade of inflated mounties, beavers, and moose, an underwhelming speech by William Shatner and the music of Micheal Buble and later performances by Nickelback and Avril Lavigne. I was embarrassed to be Canadian at this point, but as a freshly scorned hockey fan, I reveled in the stupidity of it all.

The next winter games won’t be until 2014 in Sochi, Russia, where they will convert Cold War era tanks into bobsled tracks, warm the stadium with defunct nuclear waste and shine the ice up with vodka.

The Canadians also have a word for this: “stereotyping.”

By 2014, with any luck, Crosby’s kneecaps will have been decimated by a sledgehammer that looks oddly like the one in the trunk of my car.

See you in Russia, eh?