Hockey, schmockey

Two similar headlines in a row? Let’s call that a roll and — if we’re all lucky — end it there.

I’ve come to a strange realization this year, I’m not sure I give a fuck about hockey anymore. It’s kind of hard to say out loud, being Canadian and all, but it’s the truth. Even before the Senators completely shit the bed — which is to say before the regular pre-season began — I couldn’t bring myself to care.

There was baseball to watch, playoff series, pitching match-ups, Roy “no-hitter” Halladay and — I can only assume — something that wasn’t baseball.

Here I stand, well past the all-star break, and I have yet to give a fuck.Somewhere along the way hockey no longer grabbed my interest.

So I wait, twenty more days, and then Spring Training begins.

Follow-up, schmollow-up

So how exactly does one follow up a post like that last one? I think it’s pretty clear at this point that you don’t. The more time I put between posting it and subsequently not posting anything else led nowhere.

Questions like, ‘how do I follow that up?’ got me nowhere. I’d come up with a new idea and then drop it, always coming back to the question ‘how do I follow that up?’

I’ve come to realize that there is no way to really follow-up on it. It is what it is, or at least what it was. It’s a moment in time and I think I’m finally ready to move on.

Why I’m quitting tobacco (but not quite yet)

The walk down the hall is rather short. A quick right after the elevator and it stretches just far enough to feel uncomfortable.

There is a gentile noise about the sixth floor; it’s just quiet enough to be disconcerting.

Entering the room there is a slight tightening in the chest: breathing becomes a little shorter; eyes are cast a little farther down.

At the end of the room, closest to the window, there he sits, slowly wasting away.

The mask is on his face, starting at the bridge of his nose, ending below his chin. Slowly the blankets rise: up and down, up and down, up and down.

He opens his eyes, confused at first, searching for something familiar finaly they settle right on you. For a moment they seem bright, but that quickly fades.

Everything seems to be fading at this point.

You want to ask how he is, but that’s a bad question. Stupid even. You can see how he is (dying.)

Whatever is inside him (the cancer: say it) is eating him away. It’s only been a few days but the difference is obvious. Time is growing short.

You sit down against the radiator ledge and he asks if you’re comfortable. Of course you are (lies, comfortable lies.)

He doesn’t say much, the mask won’t let him and the strength isn’t there (it’s never coming back.)

You tell him the latest news. Perhaps he cracks a smile (perhaps he’s just moving his mouth.)

He can’t turn his head, so he looks at you through the corner of his eye. Even when you don’t speak (and he can’t) he’s looking at you.

What do you say? What can you say? (Nothing.)

So you sit.

Oddly, his wrinkles have disappeared. Or at least, the more you look at him, the more they seem to have. So you focus on that.

Focusing on that is easier than focusing on the reality in front of you (he’s dying, right there, right in front of you.)

He knows it. You know it. No one says anything.

Your mind wanders: where is your suit, what shoes do you have to wear, why is the room so warm, why does the heater blow cold air, who chose the pattern for the floor tiles.

He falls asleep and you’re relieved. Finally you can look at him. When his eyes open, you look away (no need to stare at the dying.)

Your mind wanders, thoughts spring up and tears threaten. Both are pushed away (no need to do that here.)

Finally it’s time to go. You look at him, he looks at you. Do you hug him? Can you hug him? When was the last time you did that? Maybe you should just put a hand on his leg, or arm, or something.

You do nothing (you do nothing.)

Walking out, down the hall, you do nothing.

Nothing (nothing.)

Update: In a sad, but inevitable, turn the man whom I wrote about visiting this weekend — my grandfather — died this evening.

A quick word about the Doctor

Roy Halladay salutes fans at Citizens bank park after throwing a no-hitter.

There are very few things that truly bring people together, and as much as I would like, baseball is not one of them. But on Wednesday night, Roy Halladay managed to to do something that hadn’t been accomplished since 1956, Doc threw a no-hitter, in the post-season.

I don’t think very many people cared about baseball before that night, but I think something may have changed.

Suddenly people we asking what a no hitter was. Why is it important? What does it mean? Who is Roy Halladay?

Baseball isn’t on everyone’s mind, but Doc is on the front page of the Globe and it isn’t for nothing.

America’s passtime is coming out from behind the shadow of steroids. Suddenly baseball means something, it means more than out doing a number; it’s about doing the impossible.

Baseball may never out-draw hockey in this country, but for one day a man from Colorado made a name for the sport.

May there be many more of those days to come.

Picture courtesy DayLife

Darkness

Because I’ve never been one to turn down – read: not steal – a good idea, here’s something I wrote for a class last year that was never going to see the light of day. You can read more great stuff over here, where Vince is putting together posts from others in the program.

True darkness envelops you. It surrounds you and disrupts your senses. Your ears ring, your hands tremble, your nose runs and your eyes water. True darkness is inescapable.

A mile below the surface darkness lurks at the edge of your vision, an arms length from reach, taunting you. It laughs at you when you turn away from it and taunts you at every corner. True darkness is everywhere.

Light is a precious thing when you are underground. Where air is vital to your lungs, light is vital to your sanity. Without light your mind suffocates.

After working for four months in small nickel mine just north of Sudbury, Ont. I became attached to my head lamp. Every shift I had the same light – number 259 – clipped to my hard hat. Two-fifty-nine became my best friend, my trusted ally, every time I set foot in the Hole.

I didn’t realise how attached I became to the head lamp until I was without it.

It started with a subtle dimming. I didn’t notice it at first. When a battery begins to loose its charge, it happens in stages. First it dims then it changes colour, from white to orange. If at this point you don’t notice that you are running short on light, you have one last chance.

Your light will start to blink and you have 10 minutes to find a new source of light. The darkness is approaching.

Panic is your first option. You check over your shoulder in a vain attempt to spread the light around. Everywhere you look the darkness is instantly erased, only to reappear just as quickly.

Each step is hurried. The grade of the ramp becomes more arduous with each step. Your boots begin holding you back. Sweat that was so recently a pleasant trickle turns to a torrent.

Dragging yourself upwards, upwards, always upwards; towards light. Towards safety, towards sanity.

Still the darkness clings to your boot heels. It follows each step patiently. The darkness can wait. With each blink of the light you come one instant closer to being swallowed whole.

Just as suddenly it is over. Oncoming headlights wash away the darkness. Light wraps you up like a warm blanket. What seemed foreboding moments before is once again your workplace. Among your friends once more your neck muscles relax and your lips move with easy jokes.

You settle in next to the driver, light a cigarette, and carry on.

True love is only a swing away

I think I will always remember the summer of 2010 as one I fell in love with baseball all over again.

Like most summer loves, started out innocently enough. I’ve always played pick-up ball. Usually it would be six of us, maybe as many as eight, but never enough for a proper game.

It was nothing more than a fleeting romance, an occasional date.

That was until softball season started. We had a full team, uniforms and a schedule. Hell, we had opponents.

This is where baseball and I started to get serious.

The game and I hadn’t had a live-in relationship since I watched Joe Carter and Robbie Alomar as they held court on Lake Ontario.

By the time I was through the first half of the softball season, I was head over heels in love.

We went into the June mid-season tournament having won a single game, tied another and lost the rest.

We swept the entire tournament, becoming mid-season champions.

Our team managed to go the rest of the season without losing again and we finished with a winning record.

Going into the playoffs we were confident, cocky even. After winning our first four games, we went into the last inning of the championship game down by nine runs.

This is where baseball absolutely stole my heart. If I wasn’t jumping half way up the fence, I would have been down on one knee proposing to the game.

In the final inning of the game, with what seemed to be insurmountable odds, our team began mounting a comeback. With only one out we managed to drive in five runs, cutting our deficit by more than half.

Rally cap firmly in place, I stepped up to the plate. My pitcher, noticing my upside-down hat, asked if I had recently had my hair cut. I replied that it was actually that my ears had been lowered.

Then baseball broke my heart.

I swung on the first pitch, smacking the ball the other way to left field in what I was sure was a base hit. The runner on second took off for third, hoping to get enough of a jump to make it all the way home.

Then the unthinkable happened. The shortstop left his feet; arm outstretched, he picked the ball out of the air. Throwing to second he completed the double play.

Our season was over and it was finished on the end my bat. I threw my hat to the ground, utterly deflated; I was ready to cry.

My love for baseball didn’t wane; we were too committed to each other. Losing in such dramatic fashion only deepened our bond.

By the time the next weekend rolled around I had an empty feeling.

I wouldn’t be standing at first or second base anticipating a ground ball. I wouldn’t be on the pitcher’s mound ready to duck if the batter smacked one towards my head. I wouldn’t be feeling the joy of the ball connecting with my bat and soaring off into the outfield.

The summer was over.

Into the abyss

It’s one thing to put your byline in a newspaper, under a flag that has been established, but quite another to start something that is yours, and yours alone. So this is where it begins, at the beginning.