The Serbs and Croats Sure Know How to Hug a Grudge
Interview with a Chair Thrower
By Terrance Gavan
This just in on my Twitter from the Guardian of London.
“The Australian Open is fast getting a reputation as the Fight Club of the tennis world after fans from the Serb and Croat communities clashed yesterday, hurling chairs and missiles at each other and injuring an innocent bystander.”
You may have seen it on the news or maybe on TSN, our all-star sports network that kept the Serbo-Croat riot incident on a continuous and riotously funny loop for about 72 hours last weekend.
This year’s hijinks bubbled to frothy fruition as defending Aussie Open Champion (and Serbian) Novak Djokovic hugged Bosnian-born American Amer Delic at the net after the defending champ’s third-round win. This was apparently too much for some ex-pat Serbs and Croats, now living in Australia, who harbor deep and rooted fears that letting bygones be bygones may lead to tolerance, peace and understanding between the two internecine factions.
The London Guardian reported that, “Under the hot Melbourne sun tensions boiled over in the beer garden outside center court. Drinks, tennis balls, punches and dozens of chairs were thrown, the first of which knocked a female Bosnian supporter to the ground. A witness said the woman ‘got the full force of it’ and lay on the ground for some time.”
Both Djokovic and Delic had pleaded with fans before the match to forget the past. Delic wrote on his personal blog: “As we all know, Bosnians and Serbs have had some differences in the past, however, this is not the place nor time to settle those differences,” he wrote.
What’s causing this and why, oh why, can’t the Serbs and Croats just unclench the fists and let it go?
I phoned a guy in Melbourne who should know. Professor Dukit Outic is a Serbian who holds doctorates in Functional Flagrant Anthropology and Abnormal Political Science and he teaches at Melbourne University. He was also one of the chair-wielding idiots holding forth at the Aussie Open beer tent last Friday.
“Are you sorry it happened professor?” I asked.
“Sorry? No, never. We had a few Fosters, I cheered as my countryman Novak ground that piece of crap Croat-born Yank into the ground with the heel of his very stylish Nike Avenger boot,” said professor Outic. “The trouble came when these mealy-mouthed Croats in the beer garden begin to whine like puppies about this and that and how their precious Yankee-defector Delic should have won. Bah! Babies, whiney snobs. One thing leads to another and chairs begin to fly. I take off my left boot, a nice Birkenstock, and begin to pummel a very drunk Croat on his brainless noggin. This is very normal with us; we are passionate people … we live, we love, we fight. Case, as you Canucks say, closed. No big deal.”
I was a little stunned. “But professor, a Croatian woman was taken to hospital after being hit by a flying chair, that just doesn’t seem right to me.”
“Ah, I know for a fact that was a friendly fire incident. The woman was hit by her husband, another drunk Croat. Classic case of collateral damage. And, as you said, she was a Croat. Casualty of war. No biggie. And by the way what don’t you get. You Canadians kill me. No passion, no fire, and all this peace, love and tenderness. You are phonies.”
“Phonies?” I said, a little incredulous. “Explain that professor, because you’ve lost me.”
The good professor just laughed. “You are a simpleton or what? Let me break this down for the feeble-minded Canadian reporter. I am saying that you must harbor some political grudge. Surely you have some issues, some people who have tried to separate you from your country. Usurpers, traitors, people like the Croats. People to hate. You have them. I know it. It is part of being citizen.”
“Well, hmm, let’s see,” I said, wracking my brain. “There were the Fenians.”
“Aha, there,” said Outic. “I knew it! And what did these Fenians do?” asked Dukit warming to his task.
“Well they shot poor old Prime Minister Thomas D’Arcy McGee on the Sparks Street Promenade in 1868,” I said.
“Eureka!” screamed Dukit Outic. “I knew it. There, Terrance, is something to grasp onto. Run with this. Find a mantra; wake up in the morning with the words ‘I hate the Fenians’ burning on your lips. Next time you see one, summon your inner zeal, seize your hate. Yell like a banshee: ‘I hate you Fenian!’ And then grab your Macbook Air with the hard shell aluminum body and hit that bloody Fenian over the head with it till he screams for mercy. If he doesn’t go down, grab a nearby credenza or love seat, and badda-bing, baddam-bam, badda-boom you chuck it at this Fenian with much gusto. And then you must yell at this Fenian miscreant. ‘Hah, Fenian, this is for shooting my friend Thomas D’Arcy McGee in April, 1868. Take that you traitor.’ You will, I guarantee Terrance, feel immediately and fervently, the power and the passion of the hugged grudge.”
I thought and pondered. “Problem, Professor. No Fenians. “
Dukit Outic was outraged. “No Fenians? What happened?”
“Well,” I said. “I’m not sure, but I think we just evolved and grew into country, and the Irish Catholics and the Fenian brotherhood all came to realize that as Canadians we just might have to learn to put all those old feuds with British colonialism and our Irish past behind if we wanted to flourish as a nation.”
“Ah, bull, no nation is that nice,” scoffed the Prof. “There must be something. An obnoxious griping entity that you can come to despise and hate with verve and vigor. We all need a foil, a resentment, a target for spite, even you whiney Canucks.”
And as he spoke it suddenly hit me like an airborne ottoman.
“Leafs fans, professor!” I shouted. “We all hate leafs fans!”
“Good, good! Hah, I knew it. You know what to do Terrance. Follow the worn footpath of we Serbo-Croats, and find that passion. Grasp a resentment, hug that grudge, sally forth, throw a chair, chuck a bar stool, fire a pound of chicken wings at an obnoxious Maple Leaf’s fan.
“And shout at the top of your lungs.
“That is for subjecting all Canadians to your oppressive regime and constant whining. I hate you Leafs’ fans!”
I tried it at home. Feels good.
We’ll see how it flies at Mckecks next Saturday night.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Me and Bama -Twittering Friends
My Letter from Obama
Being Part of the Transition Team is Daunting Work
By Terrance Gavan
I wrote a column recently about me and the President-Elect Barack Obama.
It was about an apocryphal game of one-on-one hoops played out in a gym in South Bend, Indiana.
I sent it over to Barack’s peeps on his website about a month ago.
I didn’t expect a reply.
But I did get one which was in retrospect a little surprising. Relayed by a staffer, the letter, addressed to me personally, said that the President-Elect had read the column, liked it, and wanted to convey that to me.
I have been getting emails ever since.
Emails like the one that follows.
“Dear Terrance,
“Last Thursday, President-elect Barack Obama gave a major speech outlining his plan for getting us out of this economic slump we're in, called the American Recovery and Reinvestment Plan. It's a far-reaching and aggressive plan, and we think it's what the economy needs to get going again.
“But it's going to take a lot of work to get the plan approved, and your involvement is essential. That's why we asked some of the leading members of the Transition's policy teams to sit down and talk a bit about it -- why it's necessary, how it will work, and how we'll make sure it's as efficient and effective as it is bold.
“We're committed to keeping those promises -- and now, given the challenges we face, they're more important than ever.
“We're counting on your help and your support.
”Thanks, John”
John is John Podesta, Co-Chairman of the Obama-Biden Transition Project.
They want my input.
Heady stuff.
Hard stuff.
But all things considered, nice stuff.
Good to be respected.
Beautiful to be wanted.
I’ve been working nonstop over the past two weeks to put together some seminal thoughts.
I got another cellphone beep recently, urging me to get on it. Pronto.
Well, not so much a letter, but a quivering twitter.
From the President-elect himself.
“Gav … loved the article … man we need that input … I got a speech to write … and some things that need to be fleshed out … we are of course relying on you … to provide that insight … that acumen … that velvety nuance … counting on you man … keeping it real … always …. Bama!”
I do not, dear friends, work well under pressure.
I twittered my new best friend back.
“Hey Bam … it’s cold here in the Highlands … and I have recently been diagnosed with Adult Onset Attention Deficit Disorder (AOADD) … my doctor has prescribed pills … she told me how many to take … but apparently I was so engrossed in a chipmunk dancing down a hydro line outside the clinic that the dosage info that she relayed didn’t quite reach my firing synapse … so I apparently took seven pills when I got home and slept for the next 32 and a half hours … my bad Bama … a waste of quality time that could have been spent pumping out economic reform … but really, hmmm … where was I? it’s like … oh my … a bluejay … in my feeder … look Bam … I am tryin’ … I have all these suggestions for you and the team … but my editor … that scowling son-of-a-bitch Stephen Patrick … has mandated that I get my sports stuff in before I even consider changing the course of the free world as we know it … I apologize Bam my good dear friend … I lie awake at nights pondering the state of the nation … I am taking this very seriously dear Bam … oh look … a raccoon on a surfboard … YouTube … oops sorry … my pills dammit, where are those pills? … this AOADD thing Mr. President is wreaking havoc on my thought process … hah, did you know that a bear can ride a unicycle … arggh! where was I … let me add dear Bam that I am fully entrenched in this quest to get you my input … phone dammit … sorry Bam, phone call … that s.o.b. Patrick is asking for a rewrite on that curling story … let me just say that I have some suggestions that will literally blow your mind … starting with universal healthcare … and now dear Bama … I am feeling strangely tired … hey, did you know that a bulldog can pilot a skateboard? … Bama, I think I took another 7 pills by accident … and your inauguration is in an hour … oh look, a bear just fell out of a tree and onto a trampoline and now, ouch! Off the tramp and onto his noggin … god I love YouTube and bear pranks … oops, getting sleepy … have to set my PVR to the ceremony … talk to you in about 33 hours or so … I’ll have something I’m sure by then … my best to John and Joe and everyone on the Transition Team … for now … my dear Bama … it’s to sleep … perchance to dream … of policy … hah … a Dachshund on water skis, hah, goddam YouTube ... thank you lord for YouTube! … oops! ... pills more pills! dammit… Love Gav”
My cellphone twittered just before I sank to slumber.
“Gav … don’t sweat the small stuff … we love you here at Transition Central … Sleep tight good friend and peace always … your pal … Bama.”
He’s right of course. Hah. A cat has just jumped off my roof. How the hell did he get up there?
ZZZZZ....
Being Part of the Transition Team is Daunting Work
By Terrance Gavan
I wrote a column recently about me and the President-Elect Barack Obama.
It was about an apocryphal game of one-on-one hoops played out in a gym in South Bend, Indiana.
I sent it over to Barack’s peeps on his website about a month ago.
I didn’t expect a reply.
But I did get one which was in retrospect a little surprising. Relayed by a staffer, the letter, addressed to me personally, said that the President-Elect had read the column, liked it, and wanted to convey that to me.
I have been getting emails ever since.
Emails like the one that follows.
“Dear Terrance,
“Last Thursday, President-elect Barack Obama gave a major speech outlining his plan for getting us out of this economic slump we're in, called the American Recovery and Reinvestment Plan. It's a far-reaching and aggressive plan, and we think it's what the economy needs to get going again.
“But it's going to take a lot of work to get the plan approved, and your involvement is essential. That's why we asked some of the leading members of the Transition's policy teams to sit down and talk a bit about it -- why it's necessary, how it will work, and how we'll make sure it's as efficient and effective as it is bold.
“We're committed to keeping those promises -- and now, given the challenges we face, they're more important than ever.
“We're counting on your help and your support.
”Thanks, John”
John is John Podesta, Co-Chairman of the Obama-Biden Transition Project.
They want my input.
Heady stuff.
Hard stuff.
But all things considered, nice stuff.
Good to be respected.
Beautiful to be wanted.
I’ve been working nonstop over the past two weeks to put together some seminal thoughts.
I got another cellphone beep recently, urging me to get on it. Pronto.
Well, not so much a letter, but a quivering twitter.
From the President-elect himself.
“Gav … loved the article … man we need that input … I got a speech to write … and some things that need to be fleshed out … we are of course relying on you … to provide that insight … that acumen … that velvety nuance … counting on you man … keeping it real … always …. Bama!”
I do not, dear friends, work well under pressure.
I twittered my new best friend back.
“Hey Bam … it’s cold here in the Highlands … and I have recently been diagnosed with Adult Onset Attention Deficit Disorder (AOADD) … my doctor has prescribed pills … she told me how many to take … but apparently I was so engrossed in a chipmunk dancing down a hydro line outside the clinic that the dosage info that she relayed didn’t quite reach my firing synapse … so I apparently took seven pills when I got home and slept for the next 32 and a half hours … my bad Bama … a waste of quality time that could have been spent pumping out economic reform … but really, hmmm … where was I? it’s like … oh my … a bluejay … in my feeder … look Bam … I am tryin’ … I have all these suggestions for you and the team … but my editor … that scowling son-of-a-bitch Stephen Patrick … has mandated that I get my sports stuff in before I even consider changing the course of the free world as we know it … I apologize Bam my good dear friend … I lie awake at nights pondering the state of the nation … I am taking this very seriously dear Bam … oh look … a raccoon on a surfboard … YouTube … oops sorry … my pills dammit, where are those pills? … this AOADD thing Mr. President is wreaking havoc on my thought process … hah, did you know that a bear can ride a unicycle … arggh! where was I … let me add dear Bam that I am fully entrenched in this quest to get you my input … phone dammit … sorry Bam, phone call … that s.o.b. Patrick is asking for a rewrite on that curling story … let me just say that I have some suggestions that will literally blow your mind … starting with universal healthcare … and now dear Bama … I am feeling strangely tired … hey, did you know that a bulldog can pilot a skateboard? … Bama, I think I took another 7 pills by accident … and your inauguration is in an hour … oh look, a bear just fell out of a tree and onto a trampoline and now, ouch! Off the tramp and onto his noggin … god I love YouTube and bear pranks … oops, getting sleepy … have to set my PVR to the ceremony … talk to you in about 33 hours or so … I’ll have something I’m sure by then … my best to John and Joe and everyone on the Transition Team … for now … my dear Bama … it’s to sleep … perchance to dream … of policy … hah … a Dachshund on water skis, hah, goddam YouTube ... thank you lord for YouTube! … oops! ... pills more pills! dammit… Love Gav”
My cellphone twittered just before I sank to slumber.
“Gav … don’t sweat the small stuff … we love you here at Transition Central … Sleep tight good friend and peace always … your pal … Bama.”
He’s right of course. Hah. A cat has just jumped off my roof. How the hell did he get up there?
ZZZZZ....
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Joe Two Rivers and My Grizzly Encounter
In the Locker Room
Golfing with Bears and Ursus Horribilis
How Joe Two Rivers Saved my Life
By Terrance Gavan
One of the perks wrapping around a job as irrigation manager on a golf course deep in the heart of cottage country in the East Kootenays in BC includes the Fairmont Range. A jackdaw jumble of jagged clefts, which hiccups nimbly from Invermere to Cranbrook. It’s celebrated as one of the five prettiest ranges in the Rocky Mountain Chain.
Another perk includes serene holes played out on the back nine, overlooking the Columbia River, in those hours just between dusk and full moon. No one else on the course. The sprinkler heads already dispersed on the front nine. The John Deere Turf Pro four wheeler acting as ersatz cart. There is jazz playing through the sound system in the John Deere.
Dave Koz, Jacksoul and Steely Dan float mellifluously over the green parapet toward the high arching cliffs on the east and down the steep sides of the wide drooping Columbia Valley on the west.
I play two balls per hole. Never look for a ball. Another perk of working irrigation in the heart of the Rockies on an upscale course. In three days without even breaking stride we can collect 150 balls. Nice balls mind. High-end Titleists, Srixons, Top-Flites.
When it gets too dark to see the pin I plot a course of sprinklers on the back nine, always making sure to head out to 14 and shoo the herd of 37 or so elk from the greens and fairways and back down the steep terminus of the Columbia Valley.
One year, work included another perk. Getting to know a family of Black Bears who had made Mountainside Golf Course their summer home. We worked the same hours, the bears and I. Molly was the mum and Polly and Lolly were her two yearling cubs. They, like me, seldom ventured onto the course in the heat of the day, when the course was busy with shouts of fore, madly swaying carts and the crack and crumble of underbrush ingenuously cleared by mashie-wielding plaid and pastel colored lumberjacks.
Molly, Polly and Lolly preferred the late evening and the pitch of night. When it was quiet, except for the nuance and sway of tenor sax and Bradford Marsalis wafting above the gentle spzzt-spzzt-shzzzz-sprttt of the sprinkler heads. We were never what you might call fast friends, Molly, Lolly, Polly and I, but we did, after a few weeks, come to an understanding of sorts. Molly would “rowfff” deeply when Lolly or Polly ventured too close to my cart, and she would stamp the ground and indulge in some mock charges when I got a little too familiar. But mostly I could go about my business with little fear. Twenty-five feet was the chosen buffer. Any closer and we both got a little nervous. Twice, the cubs attempted to broach the recognized “Maginot Line” and both times I simply turned a sprinkler head on them and they soon learned to keep their distance. Bears hate water, especially when fired from a sprinkler head at 600 psi.
Now bears are not generally regarded as a perk of night work on a golf course, especially in the heart of the Rockies where bear vigilance often goes hand-in-hand with self-preservation. In fact, because we were working alone in open cart at night, night irrigation staff were treated each year to a “Bear Aware” class held by legendary BC Natural Resources Officer Wombat Kerzinski.
I took the course for three seasons and Wombat started each seminar with the same bold spark. He would unbutton his light brown BC Resources khaki shirt, revealing the upper part of his torso, and a nasty alabaster scar stretching from shoulder to belt line. Then he would pull up his trouser leg revealing an equally hideous ankle to thigh ragged and sallow rip.
“And that ladies is how Ursus Horribilis says hello,” chuckled Wombat. “For those of you who never took Latin in high school, ursus means bear and horribilis … well you get the picture. We call them Grizzlies and you don’t ever want to meet one alone on a lonely trail at sunset. And if you do, well, I hope you are right with your god, have your papers in order and are carrying a change of underwear.” And here Wombat would laugh, gently, knowingly. “The clean shorts will come in handy, just in case you’re one of the lucky few that come away from this little tête-à-tête with Ursus Horribilis unscathed.”
And then he would proceed to take us through our paces. The tips came like staccato burps from a popgun.
Wombat’s tip number one: “Never run from a bear, because you will be mistaken for prey. Remember that bears are like people, they just love fast food,” chuckled Wombat, a joke that is met with the usual smack and smatter of nervous giggles, especially from the new staffers who have just arrived for the summer from Great Britain.
Wombat’s tip number two: “Popular misconceptions. Please my ladies, don’t climb a tree. Bears can climb trees and they do it faster than most humans. You are not Tarzan ladies. And also, don’t run downhill … we have heard that bears don’t run downhill very well … news flash here ladies … humans are not particularly good at it either … and you don’t want to be rolling downhill in front a tumbling bear, because when you reach the bottom and you both stand up, that bear is going to be very, very angry, because bears get pissed when you make ‘em look stupid. And when that happens you will want to have your bear spray handy. You will want to point it at the bear and press the button when the bear is within three feet. That way when the wind blows it back in your face and blinds you, you will not be able to see as the bear runs you down and proceeds to swat away at your noggin like Sugar Ray Robinson on a speed bag.” Wombat was not a big fan of the bear spray.
Wombat’s tip number three: “Challenge a Black Bear … yell, shout, whistle, stand on your tiptoes, wave your arms, stomp the ground, make a few fake charges. And now … listen very carefully,” Wombat would say ominously, leaning into the group. “When you meet a Grizzly, avert your eyes, get small, say a prayer, and never assume a challenging posture … oh … and if you have a cell … the number to call is 911. Just so they’ll know where to send the coroner.” This last bon mot, followed by a large guffaw.
Johnny Elton, the summer worker from Liverpool, asks: “How, do we know it’s a Grizzly, Wombat?”
“Well, ladies,” whispers Wombat, “I could give you the textbook flash, but let’s just say … you’ll know … and we’ll leave it at that.”
And of course Wombat was right. A night in August, back in 2001. It was 10 pm. I was just popping out to chase the elks off the back holes. Usually they required some urging. But not this night. The herd was skittish and had already started toward the bank sloping to the valley.
In hindsight this should have presented a warning. Instead I decided to play a ball onto 15 at the very back edge of the course. My ball wandered just off the fringe and I detoured into the brush. My cart was 100 feet away and so was my walkie-talkie. I had a seven iron and two provisional balls in my hand when I heard the noise. I peered through the brush and noticed the dark form. “Molly … what are you doing back here,” I yelled, at the same time looking around for signs of Lolly and Polly. The shape moved again, and so did every hair on my body. Wombat’s words came back like the cold hard crack and slap of a wet towel in a grade-nine gym class.
“You’ll know.” And in that nano-second blink, I knew. This was not Molly. Molly liked to spend her time on the front nine, near the cottages and the time-shares and the berry trees. I was on the back nine, in the gentle folds of a Rockie night, alone, seven feet from Ursus Horribilis. He was on his hind legs and he was sniffing the air. The wind was at his back. He (she?) had been stalking the Elk on the far fringes of the course. The Elk had picked up his scent and that’s why they had moved off. I cursed my stupidity. The hairs on the back of my neck were up and I had a tingling sensation of raised flesh up and down my spine.
The clouds suddenly drew back revealing a full moon and it fell on us like a theatrical spot. We were suddenly etched against the night. I gripped the seven iron. I forgot all I had ever read about Grizzly bears, anything that Wombat had said in three years of bear aware tutelage.
What popped into my head was a long-forgotten call sign. “XNY556 A for Apple calling XNY556 G for George … come in George.” The Forest Rangers, that iconic CBC television staple from my youth. And then a picture of Joe Two Rivers (Mike Zenon), flooded my neuron-knocking noggin. Joe Two Rivers. Of course. He would talk, gently in Ojibwa to the bear; the bear would cock its head; Joe would talk some more; the Grizzly would then return to all fours, nod gently and amble away.
My problem. No Ojibwa. I spoke one sentence of Saulteaux-Cree, and I wasn’t going to tell this 500 pound grizzly to “go to hell.” Instinctually, I knew that English would simply not suffice. Joe Two Rivers spoke excellent English and he never once used it to commune with the bears he met once or twice per Forest Rangers episode. My mind raced.
Icelandic! I spent summers on the farm with Icelanders. My mother had grown up speaking Icelandic. I grew up with it summers near Gimli, that Icelandic enclave in the heart of Manitoba’s Interlake.
And so I turned to the bear and like Joe Two Rivers (denying Wombat’s advice) I looked my grizzly square in the eyes and whispered “Fara heim, kyssa kýra asnit” over an over again.
We stood eye to eye, for what seemed like an eternity. I never stopped talking, never broke eye contact. Hearkening Joe Two Rivers, I maintained that stoic stance. Calmly I chanted “Fara heim, kyssa kýra asnit” like a mantra. I lost all track of time and space. Suddenly, the bear fell to fours, shook his head gently, turned around and sauntered gently away.
I looked at my watch. And it hit me. Fulsome as that locomotive chugging in the distance. For the past three minutes I had been standing under a cloudless moonlit Rockie sky, frozen in some tangled time-space trance, calmly telling a 750 pound Grizzly to “Go home and kiss the cow’s arse.” In Icelandic.
I did two things when I got back to the cart. I phoned the Fairmont Lodge to ask them to report the Grizzly sighting.
And I reached into my knapsack for that extra pair of Calvin Kleins. Yes, folks, Bo knows football.
But Wombat Kerzinski knows all about Grizzlies and the utility of the standby boxers.
Golfing with Bears and Ursus Horribilis
How Joe Two Rivers Saved my Life
By Terrance Gavan
One of the perks wrapping around a job as irrigation manager on a golf course deep in the heart of cottage country in the East Kootenays in BC includes the Fairmont Range. A jackdaw jumble of jagged clefts, which hiccups nimbly from Invermere to Cranbrook. It’s celebrated as one of the five prettiest ranges in the Rocky Mountain Chain.
Another perk includes serene holes played out on the back nine, overlooking the Columbia River, in those hours just between dusk and full moon. No one else on the course. The sprinkler heads already dispersed on the front nine. The John Deere Turf Pro four wheeler acting as ersatz cart. There is jazz playing through the sound system in the John Deere.
Dave Koz, Jacksoul and Steely Dan float mellifluously over the green parapet toward the high arching cliffs on the east and down the steep sides of the wide drooping Columbia Valley on the west.
I play two balls per hole. Never look for a ball. Another perk of working irrigation in the heart of the Rockies on an upscale course. In three days without even breaking stride we can collect 150 balls. Nice balls mind. High-end Titleists, Srixons, Top-Flites.
When it gets too dark to see the pin I plot a course of sprinklers on the back nine, always making sure to head out to 14 and shoo the herd of 37 or so elk from the greens and fairways and back down the steep terminus of the Columbia Valley.
One year, work included another perk. Getting to know a family of Black Bears who had made Mountainside Golf Course their summer home. We worked the same hours, the bears and I. Molly was the mum and Polly and Lolly were her two yearling cubs. They, like me, seldom ventured onto the course in the heat of the day, when the course was busy with shouts of fore, madly swaying carts and the crack and crumble of underbrush ingenuously cleared by mashie-wielding plaid and pastel colored lumberjacks.
Molly, Polly and Lolly preferred the late evening and the pitch of night. When it was quiet, except for the nuance and sway of tenor sax and Bradford Marsalis wafting above the gentle spzzt-spzzt-shzzzz-sprttt of the sprinkler heads. We were never what you might call fast friends, Molly, Lolly, Polly and I, but we did, after a few weeks, come to an understanding of sorts. Molly would “rowfff” deeply when Lolly or Polly ventured too close to my cart, and she would stamp the ground and indulge in some mock charges when I got a little too familiar. But mostly I could go about my business with little fear. Twenty-five feet was the chosen buffer. Any closer and we both got a little nervous. Twice, the cubs attempted to broach the recognized “Maginot Line” and both times I simply turned a sprinkler head on them and they soon learned to keep their distance. Bears hate water, especially when fired from a sprinkler head at 600 psi.
Now bears are not generally regarded as a perk of night work on a golf course, especially in the heart of the Rockies where bear vigilance often goes hand-in-hand with self-preservation. In fact, because we were working alone in open cart at night, night irrigation staff were treated each year to a “Bear Aware” class held by legendary BC Natural Resources Officer Wombat Kerzinski.
I took the course for three seasons and Wombat started each seminar with the same bold spark. He would unbutton his light brown BC Resources khaki shirt, revealing the upper part of his torso, and a nasty alabaster scar stretching from shoulder to belt line. Then he would pull up his trouser leg revealing an equally hideous ankle to thigh ragged and sallow rip.
“And that ladies is how Ursus Horribilis says hello,” chuckled Wombat. “For those of you who never took Latin in high school, ursus means bear and horribilis … well you get the picture. We call them Grizzlies and you don’t ever want to meet one alone on a lonely trail at sunset. And if you do, well, I hope you are right with your god, have your papers in order and are carrying a change of underwear.” And here Wombat would laugh, gently, knowingly. “The clean shorts will come in handy, just in case you’re one of the lucky few that come away from this little tête-à-tête with Ursus Horribilis unscathed.”
And then he would proceed to take us through our paces. The tips came like staccato burps from a popgun.
Wombat’s tip number one: “Never run from a bear, because you will be mistaken for prey. Remember that bears are like people, they just love fast food,” chuckled Wombat, a joke that is met with the usual smack and smatter of nervous giggles, especially from the new staffers who have just arrived for the summer from Great Britain.
Wombat’s tip number two: “Popular misconceptions. Please my ladies, don’t climb a tree. Bears can climb trees and they do it faster than most humans. You are not Tarzan ladies. And also, don’t run downhill … we have heard that bears don’t run downhill very well … news flash here ladies … humans are not particularly good at it either … and you don’t want to be rolling downhill in front a tumbling bear, because when you reach the bottom and you both stand up, that bear is going to be very, very angry, because bears get pissed when you make ‘em look stupid. And when that happens you will want to have your bear spray handy. You will want to point it at the bear and press the button when the bear is within three feet. That way when the wind blows it back in your face and blinds you, you will not be able to see as the bear runs you down and proceeds to swat away at your noggin like Sugar Ray Robinson on a speed bag.” Wombat was not a big fan of the bear spray.
Wombat’s tip number three: “Challenge a Black Bear … yell, shout, whistle, stand on your tiptoes, wave your arms, stomp the ground, make a few fake charges. And now … listen very carefully,” Wombat would say ominously, leaning into the group. “When you meet a Grizzly, avert your eyes, get small, say a prayer, and never assume a challenging posture … oh … and if you have a cell … the number to call is 911. Just so they’ll know where to send the coroner.” This last bon mot, followed by a large guffaw.
Johnny Elton, the summer worker from Liverpool, asks: “How, do we know it’s a Grizzly, Wombat?”
“Well, ladies,” whispers Wombat, “I could give you the textbook flash, but let’s just say … you’ll know … and we’ll leave it at that.”
And of course Wombat was right. A night in August, back in 2001. It was 10 pm. I was just popping out to chase the elks off the back holes. Usually they required some urging. But not this night. The herd was skittish and had already started toward the bank sloping to the valley.
In hindsight this should have presented a warning. Instead I decided to play a ball onto 15 at the very back edge of the course. My ball wandered just off the fringe and I detoured into the brush. My cart was 100 feet away and so was my walkie-talkie. I had a seven iron and two provisional balls in my hand when I heard the noise. I peered through the brush and noticed the dark form. “Molly … what are you doing back here,” I yelled, at the same time looking around for signs of Lolly and Polly. The shape moved again, and so did every hair on my body. Wombat’s words came back like the cold hard crack and slap of a wet towel in a grade-nine gym class.
“You’ll know.” And in that nano-second blink, I knew. This was not Molly. Molly liked to spend her time on the front nine, near the cottages and the time-shares and the berry trees. I was on the back nine, in the gentle folds of a Rockie night, alone, seven feet from Ursus Horribilis. He was on his hind legs and he was sniffing the air. The wind was at his back. He (she?) had been stalking the Elk on the far fringes of the course. The Elk had picked up his scent and that’s why they had moved off. I cursed my stupidity. The hairs on the back of my neck were up and I had a tingling sensation of raised flesh up and down my spine.
The clouds suddenly drew back revealing a full moon and it fell on us like a theatrical spot. We were suddenly etched against the night. I gripped the seven iron. I forgot all I had ever read about Grizzly bears, anything that Wombat had said in three years of bear aware tutelage.
What popped into my head was a long-forgotten call sign. “XNY556 A for Apple calling XNY556 G for George … come in George.” The Forest Rangers, that iconic CBC television staple from my youth. And then a picture of Joe Two Rivers (Mike Zenon), flooded my neuron-knocking noggin. Joe Two Rivers. Of course. He would talk, gently in Ojibwa to the bear; the bear would cock its head; Joe would talk some more; the Grizzly would then return to all fours, nod gently and amble away.
My problem. No Ojibwa. I spoke one sentence of Saulteaux-Cree, and I wasn’t going to tell this 500 pound grizzly to “go to hell.” Instinctually, I knew that English would simply not suffice. Joe Two Rivers spoke excellent English and he never once used it to commune with the bears he met once or twice per Forest Rangers episode. My mind raced.
Icelandic! I spent summers on the farm with Icelanders. My mother had grown up speaking Icelandic. I grew up with it summers near Gimli, that Icelandic enclave in the heart of Manitoba’s Interlake.
And so I turned to the bear and like Joe Two Rivers (denying Wombat’s advice) I looked my grizzly square in the eyes and whispered “Fara heim, kyssa kýra asnit” over an over again.
We stood eye to eye, for what seemed like an eternity. I never stopped talking, never broke eye contact. Hearkening Joe Two Rivers, I maintained that stoic stance. Calmly I chanted “Fara heim, kyssa kýra asnit” like a mantra. I lost all track of time and space. Suddenly, the bear fell to fours, shook his head gently, turned around and sauntered gently away.
I looked at my watch. And it hit me. Fulsome as that locomotive chugging in the distance. For the past three minutes I had been standing under a cloudless moonlit Rockie sky, frozen in some tangled time-space trance, calmly telling a 750 pound Grizzly to “Go home and kiss the cow’s arse.” In Icelandic.
I did two things when I got back to the cart. I phoned the Fairmont Lodge to ask them to report the Grizzly sighting.
And I reached into my knapsack for that extra pair of Calvin Kleins. Yes, folks, Bo knows football.
But Wombat Kerzinski knows all about Grizzlies and the utility of the standby boxers.
Magic Helmet and Hockey Boors
Miller Donnelly’s Magic Helmet – A Few Words to the Wise
Young Sudbury Hockey Player Calls Out Arena Brats
By Terrance Gavan
Miller Donnelly dropped a puck at an Ottawa 67s home game last weekend (Jan 10).
Later that same day he was invited as a special guest to watch the Ottawa Senators versus the Rangers at ScotiaBank Place in Kanata.
Miller Donnelly is only 11, but wise beyond his years.
A few years ago Donnelly wrote a speech. Nothing special. It was a school project.
He was nine.
It was a public speaking gig penned and delivered for an elementary school contest at Larchwood Public in the Sudbury School Division.
Miller won the school contest and went on to deliver the speech at a regional competition at Royal Canadian Legion Branch 503. Miller’s dad, Mike Donnelly, recorded his son's speech and uploaded it on YouTube for family members in Halifax.
Over 30,000 hits and two years later, Miller Donnelly’s Magic Helmet mantra is being adopted as a theme by minor hockey in Ontario. It may go viral and achieve national prominence if more hockey honchos on this lamentably traditional and entrenched minor hockey dais would take the time to ingest the message.
You see, young Miller is convinced that his hockey helmet comes with incredibly potent powers. Powers that might impress a David Blaine or a Copperfield.
“How is this hockey helmet magical?” asks Miller at the start of the video. “Well, it does something simply amazing. It changes me from a 9-year-old boy to a 20-year-old man. The minute I put on my magic helmet and step on the ice, adults treat me much differently. They yell at me, they curse at me, and they call me names. They treat me like I’ve been playing hockey for 15 years and get mad when I make a mistake, and I know it’s the helmet because when I go to a backyard rink and I’m wearing a toque adults treat me much nicer.”
Sound familiar?
When I was living in Ottawa, a long, long time ago, I used to spend time at hockey arenas. Sometimes I would be reffing a basketball tournament at local high school.
Tired of the stuffy gym, I would wander or drive over to a nearby arena. I noticed a disturbing trend. At house league games or tourneys, I was met by a devoted cognoscente of parents who sat in the stands and berated opposing players and literally screamed at their own children.
I was quite frankly shocked. The level of intolerance and the rudeness of the spectators was something that I just never encountered at any level while reffing basketball for 20 years in the Ottawa area.
I found basketball parents to be laid back, affable and for the most part respectful of the game and the players. There was a different atmosphere in the hockey arena. Tense faces, spat epithets and a general level of complete and utter disrespect for the young players who were only there, after all, to please. To appease their coaches, to help their teammates and to earn the respect of their parents. This is what kids want from sports. Fun.
Instead, young players were met with approbation and an alarming level of vitriol. Eight-year-olds enduring the slings and arrows of raised expectations. How many of these kids were destined for the NHL? Exactly none. So what’s the fuss? I have no idea. I know one thing. The players just didn’t seem to be enjoying the game.
Fun simply wasn’t happening in Ottawa in the 70s. It ain’t happening today. I took in a few games at the Silver Stick tournament in Haliburton recently. The same knot in my stomach. The same old wheel. The same level of intolerance bubbling fitfully and in jerks from the stands. Like a locomotive leaving the freight yards, these games accompanied by much din, scraping and the harsh grate of rusty wheels. It all hearkened seedy memories.
I quit going to rinks after an especially disappointing run-in with the surly denizens of a Bells Corner’s Arena on a Saturday afternoon in 1975, while taking a break from a basketball tourney at Bell High School. I heard 10 parents screaming at their children. I saw fear and confusion on the face of two young hockey players. I saw another 8-year-old player retreat to the end of the bench literally drenched in his own tears. I heard his dad yell, “Quit crying … Baby! … be a man!” I swear to god, I wanted to saunter over and hit that dreadful, dreadful man. I felt my face reddening. My stomach rolled to a tight knot. I fled, ran to my car, and then back to the gym.
I never returned to an arena on a Saturday morning.
As an adult I was embarrassed. And confused.
A little like Miller Donnelly.
Miller at least had the guts to confront the problem. At nine years old, he asked some poignant questions. He told a compelling story that is just now getting the recognition that it deserves. It’s making the rounds and it’s being promoted on some Ontario hockey websites. Miller’s measured tones seeking resonance from the hoards. Those parents and coaches who would seek to insert the pressure of their own griping lives onto the children.
Don’t they realize? Do they need a class? Is there psychotherapy available for the broken psyches of those hockey moms and dads who just don’t seem to get it?
Ask Miller. He’s seen it all, and remember he was only nine when he delved into this Canadian psychosis.
“Many young players are scared of the magic helmet, the yelling that it brings makes them frightened and confused while playing the game,” says Miller. “And most of the times the adults that are yelling are the player’s own parents.”
Near the end of the speech Miller hearkened a heavy hitter and former Maple Leafs’ captain.
“George Armstrong said it best when he suggested, ‘Hockey in Canada would be in good shape when parents decide it’s being played for their children’s benefit and not their own.’ ”
Hail to the Chief.
Is there a solution?
From the mouths of babes and from Miller’s lips to god’s good ear.
“You can help destroy the bad magic in the helmet. Be a real fan, have fun at the rink, cheer loudly, and enjoy the real magic of minor hockey,” says Miller.
And while we’re talkin’. A little post-game shout out to Miller Donnelly please.
Hip-hip-hooray!n
Young Sudbury Hockey Player Calls Out Arena Brats
By Terrance Gavan
Miller Donnelly dropped a puck at an Ottawa 67s home game last weekend (Jan 10).
Later that same day he was invited as a special guest to watch the Ottawa Senators versus the Rangers at ScotiaBank Place in Kanata.
Miller Donnelly is only 11, but wise beyond his years.
A few years ago Donnelly wrote a speech. Nothing special. It was a school project.
He was nine.
It was a public speaking gig penned and delivered for an elementary school contest at Larchwood Public in the Sudbury School Division.
Miller won the school contest and went on to deliver the speech at a regional competition at Royal Canadian Legion Branch 503. Miller’s dad, Mike Donnelly, recorded his son's speech and uploaded it on YouTube for family members in Halifax.
Over 30,000 hits and two years later, Miller Donnelly’s Magic Helmet mantra is being adopted as a theme by minor hockey in Ontario. It may go viral and achieve national prominence if more hockey honchos on this lamentably traditional and entrenched minor hockey dais would take the time to ingest the message.
You see, young Miller is convinced that his hockey helmet comes with incredibly potent powers. Powers that might impress a David Blaine or a Copperfield.
“How is this hockey helmet magical?” asks Miller at the start of the video. “Well, it does something simply amazing. It changes me from a 9-year-old boy to a 20-year-old man. The minute I put on my magic helmet and step on the ice, adults treat me much differently. They yell at me, they curse at me, and they call me names. They treat me like I’ve been playing hockey for 15 years and get mad when I make a mistake, and I know it’s the helmet because when I go to a backyard rink and I’m wearing a toque adults treat me much nicer.”
Sound familiar?
When I was living in Ottawa, a long, long time ago, I used to spend time at hockey arenas. Sometimes I would be reffing a basketball tournament at local high school.
Tired of the stuffy gym, I would wander or drive over to a nearby arena. I noticed a disturbing trend. At house league games or tourneys, I was met by a devoted cognoscente of parents who sat in the stands and berated opposing players and literally screamed at their own children.
I was quite frankly shocked. The level of intolerance and the rudeness of the spectators was something that I just never encountered at any level while reffing basketball for 20 years in the Ottawa area.
I found basketball parents to be laid back, affable and for the most part respectful of the game and the players. There was a different atmosphere in the hockey arena. Tense faces, spat epithets and a general level of complete and utter disrespect for the young players who were only there, after all, to please. To appease their coaches, to help their teammates and to earn the respect of their parents. This is what kids want from sports. Fun.
Instead, young players were met with approbation and an alarming level of vitriol. Eight-year-olds enduring the slings and arrows of raised expectations. How many of these kids were destined for the NHL? Exactly none. So what’s the fuss? I have no idea. I know one thing. The players just didn’t seem to be enjoying the game.
Fun simply wasn’t happening in Ottawa in the 70s. It ain’t happening today. I took in a few games at the Silver Stick tournament in Haliburton recently. The same knot in my stomach. The same old wheel. The same level of intolerance bubbling fitfully and in jerks from the stands. Like a locomotive leaving the freight yards, these games accompanied by much din, scraping and the harsh grate of rusty wheels. It all hearkened seedy memories.
I quit going to rinks after an especially disappointing run-in with the surly denizens of a Bells Corner’s Arena on a Saturday afternoon in 1975, while taking a break from a basketball tourney at Bell High School. I heard 10 parents screaming at their children. I saw fear and confusion on the face of two young hockey players. I saw another 8-year-old player retreat to the end of the bench literally drenched in his own tears. I heard his dad yell, “Quit crying … Baby! … be a man!” I swear to god, I wanted to saunter over and hit that dreadful, dreadful man. I felt my face reddening. My stomach rolled to a tight knot. I fled, ran to my car, and then back to the gym.
I never returned to an arena on a Saturday morning.
As an adult I was embarrassed. And confused.
A little like Miller Donnelly.
Miller at least had the guts to confront the problem. At nine years old, he asked some poignant questions. He told a compelling story that is just now getting the recognition that it deserves. It’s making the rounds and it’s being promoted on some Ontario hockey websites. Miller’s measured tones seeking resonance from the hoards. Those parents and coaches who would seek to insert the pressure of their own griping lives onto the children.
Don’t they realize? Do they need a class? Is there psychotherapy available for the broken psyches of those hockey moms and dads who just don’t seem to get it?
Ask Miller. He’s seen it all, and remember he was only nine when he delved into this Canadian psychosis.
“Many young players are scared of the magic helmet, the yelling that it brings makes them frightened and confused while playing the game,” says Miller. “And most of the times the adults that are yelling are the player’s own parents.”
Near the end of the speech Miller hearkened a heavy hitter and former Maple Leafs’ captain.
“George Armstrong said it best when he suggested, ‘Hockey in Canada would be in good shape when parents decide it’s being played for their children’s benefit and not their own.’ ”
Hail to the Chief.
Is there a solution?
From the mouths of babes and from Miller’s lips to god’s good ear.
“You can help destroy the bad magic in the helmet. Be a real fan, have fun at the rink, cheer loudly, and enjoy the real magic of minor hockey,” says Miller.
And while we’re talkin’. A little post-game shout out to Miller Donnelly please.
Hip-hip-hooray!n
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Player Dies in Hockey Fight? Blame the Helmet
The Passing of a Hockey Player should sound the Death Knell for Fighting
Instead? We Devolve to Red Herring Helmet Discussion
By Terrance Gavan
I don’t buy it.
I don’t buy this crap about fighting in hockey as a safety valve. Or a method to ensure the safety of marquee players. Or the fact that no one really gets hurt in a hockey fight.
And I’m also not buying the sturm and drang and tight-fisted embellishments delivered by blathering idiots who support fighting as a valiant and longstanding tradition of the NHL.
You know the idiots I’m talking about. They include a long and hardy laundry list of goon technicians who will stutter and sway and prattle long and windy into their hats about the drop of the gloves and the crunch of the fist. They include the effervescent clown prince Don Cherry, execs like Brian Burke, Bobby Clarke, and the burping hoards of bobbleheaded fans who simply love to watch two guys go at it bare-knuckled, bleeding and broken, because, well that’s the way it is in Hockey Land.
Well, there was a funeral today in Port Perry, Ontario. A young man was placed in the ground, a full six feet underneath the hard frozen tundra. Tears were shed for this young man. A young man with a life full of expectations, hopes and dreams. All of that hope and promise snuffed by a hard scrape of unleathered hand and a subsequent snapping fall to the hard arena ice.
Don Sanderson was 21 when he dropped the gloves in a senior hockey game while playing for the Whitby Dunlops just a month ago.
His helmet came off during the altercation and he was pushed backward, his head hitting the ice with a horrendous thud. This collision with the ice prompted a series of events inside his brain. It provoked coma and last Friday it led inevitably to his death.
Please note an important ingredient in this story. His death and the act of violence that engendered it were separated by a full three weeks.
In the news biz we call this the “diminishing window.” You see, sadly, by the time young Mr. Sanderson succumbed to his injury we, the collective whole, had all but forgotten the circumstances involved. Oh we were told countless times that he had actually died from his altercation with another player and the ice.
But the two events were so far removed. And we are blessed with such short memory when it comes to the news. Sanderson had been on life support since Dec 12, 2008. He died on Jan 2, 2009. Three weeks, and a change in years.
The window of diminished responsibility has worked its magic. The spin doctors in the hockey community have chucked a red herring onto the arena ice.
Lamentably, this discussion has suddenly been detoured and hijacked by the pro-fighting cognoscente. I hear the word accident now. I hear the word unfortunate accident even more. I hear the words, “freak accident,” rising with the tide. And I hear the words “if only his helmet had stayed on.”
Yeah? Bull.
This was no accident. Don Sanderson died as the direct result of a hockey fight and he died for all intents and purposes on that same day. He passed away on Jan 2, 2009, but Don Sanderson’s brain was delivered from this mortal coil on Dec 12, 2008.
Please can we do young Mr. Sanderson a huge favor here. Can we please get tough on those pretenders and frauds who would diminish the argument with heinous and egregious lies. The people who are calling this an accident and those that would like to prompt an inappropriate and insulting diversion to an excursive argument regarding the proper wearing of protective headgear.
Yes, Mr. Sanderson’s death has now engendered an argument about helmets. News reports are suggesting that Sanderson’s helmet came off during the altercation exposing the back of his head to the trauma.
This is the gist of the argument. We are slowly being deflected by this red herring. The harsh reality of a discussion about the legitimacy of fighting in hockey is being clouded by butcher block censors who mandate that no viable discussion about the ethics of bare-knuckled combat should occur in the harsh light of this tragedy.
If the 21-year-old Don Sanderson had been pronounced dead at the arena, and if a coroner’s hearse had pulled up to the back door instead of an ambulance, we may have a different discussion on our hands.
But alas, he was young and strong. He clung to life with the hardwired desperation of the fit gladiator. Make no mistake. Don Sanderson was fit and struggled hard to cheat the reaper. That does not change the outcome.
A young man died on the ice. A young man died as the direct result of a hockey fight. The bump n’ grind Cherry-ists have now taken to calling this an “unfortunate altercation.”
Some of these lovely non-peaceniks and obstructionists have gone so far to say that this could all have been avoided if only Mr. Sanderson had kept the chin strap of his helmet done up tight.
That’s just wrong. Like fighting in hockey. Just wrong.
The NHL has retained its finely honed and detailed every man on deck stance in the wake of this fight-related death.
The NHL has indicated it has no plans to alter its rules in the wake of Sanderson's death.
“Its an issue that from time to time is a point of discussion, so this may prompt further discussion. But I don't sense a strong sentiment to change the rules we currently have relating to fighting.” said NHL deputy commissioner Bill Daly in an email on Friday.
Canadian Press reports that OHA president Brent Ladds said the issues arising from the death of Sanderson, who received four fighting majors in the 11 games he played with Whitby this season, will be raised at his organization's next monthly board meeting.
Four fights in 11 games in a league that remains just some passive steps and some grey hairs removed from the beer league should have prompted warning bells. But fighting is part of the game. In his four previous fights Sanderson probably heard the approving shouts of the crowd and the slapping sticks of his teammates as he wandered off the ice. Flaying fists are accepted in no other team sport on the planet.
In hockey, here in Canada we reward our fighters with praise, slaps and post-game beers.
Part of the party, even on the dais of a senior men’s league.
So Don Sanderson continued to fight until that fateful night on Dec 12, 2008.
When the cheering stopped.
Forever.
Instead? We Devolve to Red Herring Helmet Discussion
By Terrance Gavan
I don’t buy it.
I don’t buy this crap about fighting in hockey as a safety valve. Or a method to ensure the safety of marquee players. Or the fact that no one really gets hurt in a hockey fight.
And I’m also not buying the sturm and drang and tight-fisted embellishments delivered by blathering idiots who support fighting as a valiant and longstanding tradition of the NHL.
You know the idiots I’m talking about. They include a long and hardy laundry list of goon technicians who will stutter and sway and prattle long and windy into their hats about the drop of the gloves and the crunch of the fist. They include the effervescent clown prince Don Cherry, execs like Brian Burke, Bobby Clarke, and the burping hoards of bobbleheaded fans who simply love to watch two guys go at it bare-knuckled, bleeding and broken, because, well that’s the way it is in Hockey Land.
Well, there was a funeral today in Port Perry, Ontario. A young man was placed in the ground, a full six feet underneath the hard frozen tundra. Tears were shed for this young man. A young man with a life full of expectations, hopes and dreams. All of that hope and promise snuffed by a hard scrape of unleathered hand and a subsequent snapping fall to the hard arena ice.
Don Sanderson was 21 when he dropped the gloves in a senior hockey game while playing for the Whitby Dunlops just a month ago.
His helmet came off during the altercation and he was pushed backward, his head hitting the ice with a horrendous thud. This collision with the ice prompted a series of events inside his brain. It provoked coma and last Friday it led inevitably to his death.
Please note an important ingredient in this story. His death and the act of violence that engendered it were separated by a full three weeks.
In the news biz we call this the “diminishing window.” You see, sadly, by the time young Mr. Sanderson succumbed to his injury we, the collective whole, had all but forgotten the circumstances involved. Oh we were told countless times that he had actually died from his altercation with another player and the ice.
But the two events were so far removed. And we are blessed with such short memory when it comes to the news. Sanderson had been on life support since Dec 12, 2008. He died on Jan 2, 2009. Three weeks, and a change in years.
The window of diminished responsibility has worked its magic. The spin doctors in the hockey community have chucked a red herring onto the arena ice.
Lamentably, this discussion has suddenly been detoured and hijacked by the pro-fighting cognoscente. I hear the word accident now. I hear the word unfortunate accident even more. I hear the words, “freak accident,” rising with the tide. And I hear the words “if only his helmet had stayed on.”
Yeah? Bull.
This was no accident. Don Sanderson died as the direct result of a hockey fight and he died for all intents and purposes on that same day. He passed away on Jan 2, 2009, but Don Sanderson’s brain was delivered from this mortal coil on Dec 12, 2008.
Please can we do young Mr. Sanderson a huge favor here. Can we please get tough on those pretenders and frauds who would diminish the argument with heinous and egregious lies. The people who are calling this an accident and those that would like to prompt an inappropriate and insulting diversion to an excursive argument regarding the proper wearing of protective headgear.
Yes, Mr. Sanderson’s death has now engendered an argument about helmets. News reports are suggesting that Sanderson’s helmet came off during the altercation exposing the back of his head to the trauma.
This is the gist of the argument. We are slowly being deflected by this red herring. The harsh reality of a discussion about the legitimacy of fighting in hockey is being clouded by butcher block censors who mandate that no viable discussion about the ethics of bare-knuckled combat should occur in the harsh light of this tragedy.
If the 21-year-old Don Sanderson had been pronounced dead at the arena, and if a coroner’s hearse had pulled up to the back door instead of an ambulance, we may have a different discussion on our hands.
But alas, he was young and strong. He clung to life with the hardwired desperation of the fit gladiator. Make no mistake. Don Sanderson was fit and struggled hard to cheat the reaper. That does not change the outcome.
A young man died on the ice. A young man died as the direct result of a hockey fight. The bump n’ grind Cherry-ists have now taken to calling this an “unfortunate altercation.”
Some of these lovely non-peaceniks and obstructionists have gone so far to say that this could all have been avoided if only Mr. Sanderson had kept the chin strap of his helmet done up tight.
That’s just wrong. Like fighting in hockey. Just wrong.
The NHL has retained its finely honed and detailed every man on deck stance in the wake of this fight-related death.
The NHL has indicated it has no plans to alter its rules in the wake of Sanderson's death.
“Its an issue that from time to time is a point of discussion, so this may prompt further discussion. But I don't sense a strong sentiment to change the rules we currently have relating to fighting.” said NHL deputy commissioner Bill Daly in an email on Friday.
Canadian Press reports that OHA president Brent Ladds said the issues arising from the death of Sanderson, who received four fighting majors in the 11 games he played with Whitby this season, will be raised at his organization's next monthly board meeting.
Four fights in 11 games in a league that remains just some passive steps and some grey hairs removed from the beer league should have prompted warning bells. But fighting is part of the game. In his four previous fights Sanderson probably heard the approving shouts of the crowd and the slapping sticks of his teammates as he wandered off the ice. Flaying fists are accepted in no other team sport on the planet.
In hockey, here in Canada we reward our fighters with praise, slaps and post-game beers.
Part of the party, even on the dais of a senior men’s league.
So Don Sanderson continued to fight until that fateful night on Dec 12, 2008.
When the cheering stopped.
Forever.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Yard Darts and Relative Dysfunction
In The Locker Room
Yard Darts and Relative Dysfunction
The Names are Changed to protect the Guilty
By Terrance Gavan
Okay, so some of you may remember yard darts.
It was a lovely little “fun for the whole family sport” which raged round backyards in the late seventies and early eighties. It was a staple at many family parties.
Yard Darts are 12 inches long with a weighted, pointy metal tip on one end, and three plastic fins on a rod at the other end. The darts were tossed underhand toward a horizontal ground target, where the weighted pointy end hits first and sticks into the ground. The target is typically a plastic ring. Less typically, but more or less frequently, dependant upon the level of alcohol consumption, the heavy, piercing, two pound projectile would find other, more entertaining, places to land. The family heirloom crystal punch bowl, Aunt Neddy’s unsuspecting 18-year-old Siamese cat, the windshield of Uncle Tony’s 1965 vintage Porsche or the newly installed $5,000 bay window on cousin Edwina’s solarium.
For those of you too young to remember the fun – since Yard Darts were banned in Canada in 1989 – it goes something like this. Picture a yard filled with a dozen or so semi-toddlers, 26 scrambling teenagers on summer hiatus from strict Ritalin regimen, eight doddering seniors, twenty to thirty middle-aged adults in erratic and various states of inebriation, three dogs, two cats and two teams of three twenty-something cousins, each with beers in hand, at opposite sides of the rambling yard. Now picture a brightly colored fire-engine-red projectile with a heavy metal sharpened tip whistling with whispered finality toward earth, from a 93-foot orbit, and into this cacophony of oblivious humanity.
Hasbro, or Mattel or whoever made the Yard Dart version of the game suggested placing the target hoops about 50 feet apart or “further dependant upon skill level.”
We Gavan’s have always had a very high opinion of our various and sundry skill sets. We preferred setting our targets 40 yards apart. Extra points were awarded for trajectories that mimicked Homer Hickam’s backyard boyhood rocket shots.
The game is played like horseshoes. In horseshoes, however, people are warned away from the playing area by the sharp clang of metal shoe on iron post. The beauty of Yard Darts, I think, rested with the tranquility of the pursuit. Hasbro invented the first truly astral stealth technology. Dependent upon your perspective, this can be a mixed blessing.
In conducting my de rigueur Internet research, cruising You Tube, Google and America’s Funniest Home Videos, I came across a few humorous Yard Dart moments but none to match my real life redux at the expense of an in-law who we’ll call Tom.
Cousin Tom had married into the Gavan clan and like a lot of our tribe didn’t mind the occasional nip now and then, and again, now and then. He had, after several, or seven, or 17 Jameson’s on the rocks, apparently forgotten the unwritten law. Gavan’s First Law of the Summer Reunion goes something like, if you intend to get drunk and wander aimlessly about the yard babbling to all and sundry, make sure, first and foremost, that you remember where the Yard Dart runway begins and ends. This is important, especially if you are new to the family and some people at the party have forgotten your name. For some reason the words, “Hey, you … staggering guy … ummmm… like, heads’ up there buddy,” doesn’t carry quite the same cachet as “Hey Tom! You slobbering drunk! Look out!”
But I’m letting the eighteen-year-old Siamese cat out of the bag here. (Her name was Tabitha, by the way, and she lived another four years. The yard dart barely grazed her luxuriously appointed tail.)
I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was watching with four of my cousins from the safety of the covered porch as the Reverend Donald Francis Gavan toed the dart line and let loose one of his patented Apollo moon shots.
Up the Yard Dart rose. And up. And up. It was, in a word, one of the most prodigious lofted Yard Dart shots I have ever seen, before or since. Up it went like a hawk drifting on seminal zephyr. It seemed to disappear to spec before it reached apex, where it suddenly stopped and shuddered, in the way that yard darts do. And then, it fell, grasping for terminal velocity at 32 feet per second squared, I heard the fateful words from cousin Don who was standing beside me. “Oh, crap,” said cousin Don.
We averted our gaze from descending projectile to the meandering specter of Tom, stumbling inanely toward a date with dart.
The dart seemed suspended in flight and I swear we had time to discuss several probable scenarios in the interval.
“Whattya’ think.” I asked. “That’s not gonna’ hit him, is it?”
“Yep … yep … I’m pretty sure that it is … yep, no doubt about it now,” answered Don. I was, like Don, and my two similarly afflicted cousins (names excluded to protect their sensibilities), suddenly and inexplicably devolving into a paroxysm of laughter.
“Should we yell or something?” I sputtered. “Nope … I think it’s probably too late … yep, geezuz … this won’t be pretty,” stuttered Don, derailing into spasm. My other two cousins were already floor of the porch, chuckling like demons.
“Oh crap ... that’s gonna’ hurt,” I said crumbling to the floor.
We watched with tears in our eyes as the descending dart landed with a solid thunk on poor Tom’s shoulder. I swear to god it hit and sort of stuck and then it stuttered like an arrow on a Roadrunner cartoon … boiinnnggg! … for a split second, before falling to the ground. Tom dropped like he was pole-axed. “Ohhhh … yoooo … owwwwww!” said Tom. Then he suddenly sat up and took a sip from his drink, which by some miracle had made it through the accident unscathed.
The Reverend Donald Francis went from concern, to relief and then suddenly – upon seeing Tom sprawled smack on top of the plastic bulls-eye, and now calmly sipping gin, and realizing that Tom had deflected the de facto the game winning toss – to anger.
“Geezuz, Tom … are you as dumb as a bag of hammers or what? Judges, we need a ruling here … rethrow … dammit … I get a rethrow … Tom for god’s sake, quit moaning, get the hell up and throw me that dart … I’m throwing again. And put some ice on that shoulder … it’s looking a bit swollen.”
Lest one get the wrong idea, Reverend Donald Francis was loved by his parishioners and the students he taught. He was just … hmmm, let’s see … a little edgy when it came to the sports thing. We four cousins quietly retreated to the kitchen, lest our relatives get he wrong idea and book us for an intense regimen of psychotherapy. My sides hurt for two days.
I think it should be noted here that Yard Darts were banned in the US in 1988, Canada in 1989, but are still legal in the United Kingdom.
I have my own theory about that. We know that the Irish have an affinity for the sport. And we also know about the Brits’ ingrained antipathy for the Irish. At the risk of getting all Ollie Stone here, I have put two and two together and have come to the obvious conclusion.
The British Parliament, by their tacit support of this dangerous pastime, is waging a concerted and covert campaign of genocide by Yard Dart. I have sent cease and desist letters to the Prime Minister in London, to the UN, to authorities in Geneva.
If that fails to garner response, I’ll consider a hunger strike. Hell, it worked for Gandhi.
Yard Darts and Relative Dysfunction
The Names are Changed to protect the Guilty
By Terrance Gavan
Okay, so some of you may remember yard darts.
It was a lovely little “fun for the whole family sport” which raged round backyards in the late seventies and early eighties. It was a staple at many family parties.
Yard Darts are 12 inches long with a weighted, pointy metal tip on one end, and three plastic fins on a rod at the other end. The darts were tossed underhand toward a horizontal ground target, where the weighted pointy end hits first and sticks into the ground. The target is typically a plastic ring. Less typically, but more or less frequently, dependant upon the level of alcohol consumption, the heavy, piercing, two pound projectile would find other, more entertaining, places to land. The family heirloom crystal punch bowl, Aunt Neddy’s unsuspecting 18-year-old Siamese cat, the windshield of Uncle Tony’s 1965 vintage Porsche or the newly installed $5,000 bay window on cousin Edwina’s solarium.
For those of you too young to remember the fun – since Yard Darts were banned in Canada in 1989 – it goes something like this. Picture a yard filled with a dozen or so semi-toddlers, 26 scrambling teenagers on summer hiatus from strict Ritalin regimen, eight doddering seniors, twenty to thirty middle-aged adults in erratic and various states of inebriation, three dogs, two cats and two teams of three twenty-something cousins, each with beers in hand, at opposite sides of the rambling yard. Now picture a brightly colored fire-engine-red projectile with a heavy metal sharpened tip whistling with whispered finality toward earth, from a 93-foot orbit, and into this cacophony of oblivious humanity.
Hasbro, or Mattel or whoever made the Yard Dart version of the game suggested placing the target hoops about 50 feet apart or “further dependant upon skill level.”
We Gavan’s have always had a very high opinion of our various and sundry skill sets. We preferred setting our targets 40 yards apart. Extra points were awarded for trajectories that mimicked Homer Hickam’s backyard boyhood rocket shots.
The game is played like horseshoes. In horseshoes, however, people are warned away from the playing area by the sharp clang of metal shoe on iron post. The beauty of Yard Darts, I think, rested with the tranquility of the pursuit. Hasbro invented the first truly astral stealth technology. Dependent upon your perspective, this can be a mixed blessing.
In conducting my de rigueur Internet research, cruising You Tube, Google and America’s Funniest Home Videos, I came across a few humorous Yard Dart moments but none to match my real life redux at the expense of an in-law who we’ll call Tom.
Cousin Tom had married into the Gavan clan and like a lot of our tribe didn’t mind the occasional nip now and then, and again, now and then. He had, after several, or seven, or 17 Jameson’s on the rocks, apparently forgotten the unwritten law. Gavan’s First Law of the Summer Reunion goes something like, if you intend to get drunk and wander aimlessly about the yard babbling to all and sundry, make sure, first and foremost, that you remember where the Yard Dart runway begins and ends. This is important, especially if you are new to the family and some people at the party have forgotten your name. For some reason the words, “Hey, you … staggering guy … ummmm… like, heads’ up there buddy,” doesn’t carry quite the same cachet as “Hey Tom! You slobbering drunk! Look out!”
But I’m letting the eighteen-year-old Siamese cat out of the bag here. (Her name was Tabitha, by the way, and she lived another four years. The yard dart barely grazed her luxuriously appointed tail.)
I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was watching with four of my cousins from the safety of the covered porch as the Reverend Donald Francis Gavan toed the dart line and let loose one of his patented Apollo moon shots.
Up the Yard Dart rose. And up. And up. It was, in a word, one of the most prodigious lofted Yard Dart shots I have ever seen, before or since. Up it went like a hawk drifting on seminal zephyr. It seemed to disappear to spec before it reached apex, where it suddenly stopped and shuddered, in the way that yard darts do. And then, it fell, grasping for terminal velocity at 32 feet per second squared, I heard the fateful words from cousin Don who was standing beside me. “Oh, crap,” said cousin Don.
We averted our gaze from descending projectile to the meandering specter of Tom, stumbling inanely toward a date with dart.
The dart seemed suspended in flight and I swear we had time to discuss several probable scenarios in the interval.
“Whattya’ think.” I asked. “That’s not gonna’ hit him, is it?”
“Yep … yep … I’m pretty sure that it is … yep, no doubt about it now,” answered Don. I was, like Don, and my two similarly afflicted cousins (names excluded to protect their sensibilities), suddenly and inexplicably devolving into a paroxysm of laughter.
“Should we yell or something?” I sputtered. “Nope … I think it’s probably too late … yep, geezuz … this won’t be pretty,” stuttered Don, derailing into spasm. My other two cousins were already floor of the porch, chuckling like demons.
“Oh crap ... that’s gonna’ hurt,” I said crumbling to the floor.
We watched with tears in our eyes as the descending dart landed with a solid thunk on poor Tom’s shoulder. I swear to god it hit and sort of stuck and then it stuttered like an arrow on a Roadrunner cartoon … boiinnnggg! … for a split second, before falling to the ground. Tom dropped like he was pole-axed. “Ohhhh … yoooo … owwwwww!” said Tom. Then he suddenly sat up and took a sip from his drink, which by some miracle had made it through the accident unscathed.
The Reverend Donald Francis went from concern, to relief and then suddenly – upon seeing Tom sprawled smack on top of the plastic bulls-eye, and now calmly sipping gin, and realizing that Tom had deflected the de facto the game winning toss – to anger.
“Geezuz, Tom … are you as dumb as a bag of hammers or what? Judges, we need a ruling here … rethrow … dammit … I get a rethrow … Tom for god’s sake, quit moaning, get the hell up and throw me that dart … I’m throwing again. And put some ice on that shoulder … it’s looking a bit swollen.”
Lest one get the wrong idea, Reverend Donald Francis was loved by his parishioners and the students he taught. He was just … hmmm, let’s see … a little edgy when it came to the sports thing. We four cousins quietly retreated to the kitchen, lest our relatives get he wrong idea and book us for an intense regimen of psychotherapy. My sides hurt for two days.
I think it should be noted here that Yard Darts were banned in the US in 1988, Canada in 1989, but are still legal in the United Kingdom.
I have my own theory about that. We know that the Irish have an affinity for the sport. And we also know about the Brits’ ingrained antipathy for the Irish. At the risk of getting all Ollie Stone here, I have put two and two together and have come to the obvious conclusion.
The British Parliament, by their tacit support of this dangerous pastime, is waging a concerted and covert campaign of genocide by Yard Dart. I have sent cease and desist letters to the Prime Minister in London, to the UN, to authorities in Geneva.
If that fails to garner response, I’ll consider a hunger strike. Hell, it worked for Gandhi.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
If it Walks Like a Duck ... It Ain't a Plover
Sports Column
From the Locker Room
If it Quacks it’s a Duck
By Terrance Gavan
Here’s what I know about steroids.
If it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, it’s not a platypus.
Here’s what my Pops used to say about athletes.
“If you want to soar with the eagles, don’t waddle with the ducks.”
Here’s what I know about that statement.
Many athletes who want to soar with the eagles are taking certain substances to help get them off the ground.
Here’s what those athletes are telling me about the stuff they are taking.
“My chemist tells me that it’s a derivative of flaxseed oil.”
Here’s what I know about that statement.
Any elite athlete who starts a sentence with “My Chemist tells me” needs to find a new agent… and a lawyer, and a friendly ear on a Senate subcommittee.
Here’s what I know about flaxseed oil.
If it really did the amazing things that Marion Jones and Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire and Victor Conte and Ben Johnson say it does… well there would be a lot of very, very rich farmers in our prairie provinces.
And here’s what I know about the farming economy in the Canadian Prairies. It’s slowly moving from abysmal to moribund.
And here’s what I know about Martina Hingis, who was recently outed in a Wimbledon drug test for traces of cocaine.
She says that she has never used cocaine because she has a family and is a good person.
Here’s what I know about that.
Having a family, being a good person and cocaine use are not mutually exclusive things.
Here’s what we now know about Martina.
She has retired, claiming that she’s tired of the whole business.
Here’s what Shakespeare says about that.
“Methinks the Lady doth protest… too much.”
Martina has volunteered to give a sample of her hair follicle to prove that she has never taken cocaine.
Here’s what I know about that.
If you know enough about drug pathology to know that hair follicles can be used to trace vestigial signs of long term cocaine abuse…. then you know way too much about cocaine to be playing the innocent and getting all Seventh Day Adventist on us.
Here’s what I know about the Mormon’s and Seventh Day Adventists.
Because they will not place anything in their body that is not approved by their Church Elders… no Seventh Day Adventist or Mormon will ever win the Tour de France.
But I digress… here’s what I know about Martina Hingis.
Martina… Martina! Cocaine is NOT a performance enhancer!
If you are still confused Martina… please look up www.crackheadscaughtonfilm.com and take a glance at some of the pictures.
Here’s what I know about cocaine.
It will never be confused with the clear or even flaxseed oil.
Here’s what I know about Marion Jones, who won a lot of gold medals.
Marion Jones will be returning a lot of those gold medals and some of her teammates on the US relay team will also be returning their Gold Medals because they were handing or being handed tainted batons.
Here’s another thing I know about Marion Jones.
Marion Jones spent years saying that the only juice she used was a little of the old flaxseed.
Here’s what I know about that.
The flax farmers are still broke.
Here’s another thing I know about Miss Jones.
For years and years “the Lady didth protesteth way, way too much!”
Here’s what I know about that.
“Liar, liar pants on fire!”
And here’s another thing I know about Marion Jones, who, for years soared like an eagle.
If it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck?
Guilty, guilty, guilty!
From the Locker Room
If it Quacks it’s a Duck
By Terrance Gavan
Here’s what I know about steroids.
If it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, it’s not a platypus.
Here’s what my Pops used to say about athletes.
“If you want to soar with the eagles, don’t waddle with the ducks.”
Here’s what I know about that statement.
Many athletes who want to soar with the eagles are taking certain substances to help get them off the ground.
Here’s what those athletes are telling me about the stuff they are taking.
“My chemist tells me that it’s a derivative of flaxseed oil.”
Here’s what I know about that statement.
Any elite athlete who starts a sentence with “My Chemist tells me” needs to find a new agent… and a lawyer, and a friendly ear on a Senate subcommittee.
Here’s what I know about flaxseed oil.
If it really did the amazing things that Marion Jones and Barry Bonds and Mark McGwire and Victor Conte and Ben Johnson say it does… well there would be a lot of very, very rich farmers in our prairie provinces.
And here’s what I know about the farming economy in the Canadian Prairies. It’s slowly moving from abysmal to moribund.
And here’s what I know about Martina Hingis, who was recently outed in a Wimbledon drug test for traces of cocaine.
She says that she has never used cocaine because she has a family and is a good person.
Here’s what I know about that.
Having a family, being a good person and cocaine use are not mutually exclusive things.
Here’s what we now know about Martina.
She has retired, claiming that she’s tired of the whole business.
Here’s what Shakespeare says about that.
“Methinks the Lady doth protest… too much.”
Martina has volunteered to give a sample of her hair follicle to prove that she has never taken cocaine.
Here’s what I know about that.
If you know enough about drug pathology to know that hair follicles can be used to trace vestigial signs of long term cocaine abuse…. then you know way too much about cocaine to be playing the innocent and getting all Seventh Day Adventist on us.
Here’s what I know about the Mormon’s and Seventh Day Adventists.
Because they will not place anything in their body that is not approved by their Church Elders… no Seventh Day Adventist or Mormon will ever win the Tour de France.
But I digress… here’s what I know about Martina Hingis.
Martina… Martina! Cocaine is NOT a performance enhancer!
If you are still confused Martina… please look up www.crackheadscaughtonfilm.com and take a glance at some of the pictures.
Here’s what I know about cocaine.
It will never be confused with the clear or even flaxseed oil.
Here’s what I know about Marion Jones, who won a lot of gold medals.
Marion Jones will be returning a lot of those gold medals and some of her teammates on the US relay team will also be returning their Gold Medals because they were handing or being handed tainted batons.
Here’s another thing I know about Marion Jones.
Marion Jones spent years saying that the only juice she used was a little of the old flaxseed.
Here’s what I know about that.
The flax farmers are still broke.
Here’s another thing I know about Miss Jones.
For years and years “the Lady didth protesteth way, way too much!”
Here’s what I know about that.
“Liar, liar pants on fire!”
And here’s another thing I know about Marion Jones, who, for years soared like an eagle.
If it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck?
Guilty, guilty, guilty!
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