by James Duthie
So join me. Abandon your good sense and high moral ground for a few minutes. Find your inner–Edward Norton, and join this little fantasy Fight Club. Since there's no one else around, I'll go first. Feel free to play along at home.
Tale of the Tape: I'm 5-foot-10, 170. In a soaked parka.
I've been in three full-fledged fights in my life. Two before Grade 5 and the other against a cat. I don't plan on anymore until I'm at least 80, grumpy and in a nursing home. At that point, if you steal my remote, or my one daily-allotted cookie, I will whale on you.
So, Who Could Ya Take? Frankly, hardly anyone. I'm a realist. And perhaps of more relevance, I'm sober. Put a six-pack in most males, and they will inevitably try to convince you they could go the distance with Roy Jones Jr.
“Seriously, man! I'd just juke and jive him. Juuuke. . . And Jiiiiive. He couldn't touch me!”
Still, there are a few guys I figure I could handle. Like goalies. Maybe not all goalies, but some. I've seen Ron Tugnutt shirtless in the dressing room. He looks like Ghandi. I might be able to take Tugger. (Of course, because he's about the nicest guy in the NHL, he'd probably let me. I could live with that.)
As far as position players, it's grim, though I do like my chances against either of the Bure brothers. I'd play headgames with them. Make 'em cry.
“Hey, Pav. . . wonder what Sergei's doing right now? Could have been you, Pav, could have been you.”
“Hey Val, Full House sucked.”
Football? Again, position players are essentially a write-off.
Flutie's smaller than me, but I couldn't catch him. I could probably hurt Rob Johnson. Apparently, anyone can do that.
Besides that, it's tough. Even the kickers are into the creatine these days. But unless he booted me in the shin, I know I could take the Bucs' Martin Gramatica. He looks like Gazoo.
I figure I could probably take a few of those portly baseball pitchers, too, though they are crafty. I hear Tim Wakefield punches really slow. . . it looks like its coming at your head then drops to your gut at the last minute.
The arms are just too long in the NBA. I'd have a shot against that human twig Shawn Bradley. But I'd have to use the Van Gundy technique, and bite his ankles.
That's about it for the big He-Man sports, unless you count golf. All these guys wearing slacks, whose names end with “III.” Them, I could take.
And jockeys. I believe if they put the whips down, I could take every living jockey.
So Ron Tugnutt, the Bures, Martin Gramatica, Davis Love and friends and jockeys. Against anybody else, I'm turtling.
You do any better, tough guy?
By the way, you can also play Celebrity “So, Who Can Ya Take?” Example: Russell Crowe. No. Sheryl Crow. Maybe.
Now kids, we're not advocating more Falconian acts here, so please remain in your seats. This is pure Tuesday night beer and wings conversational machismo.
Though I must admit, there have been times, when interviewing some monster-ego superstar, that I wished I'd responded to one of his snippy comments with a more suitable follow-up question:
“You wanna go?”
• • •
Postscript: There are dated sports and pop-culture references throughout this book, but I'm not going to bother explaining them all. I want the columns to be snapshots of the times they were written. Besides, my buddy Scooter always said, “If you need to explain your jokes, they aren't funny enough.” But I'll make an exception here. Anna Kournikova had broken up with Pavel Bure and was dating Sergei Fedorov. Val Bure is married to Candace Cameron, from Full House. And Bills' quarterback Rob Johnson was getting hurt every second game. That's all I got. You're on your own the rest of the book.
Chapter 10
Growing up in Section G
June 2002
It is Father's Day this week, and as usual, I have no idea what to get Dad (do they serve brunch at Hooters?). But I do know what he wants. Sometime in late June, the CFL will announce whether football is coming back to Ottawa next season. Next to Mom and us, the Riders were Dad's life's passion. Getting them back. . . Now that would make his day. And it would sure beat the bottle of Lectric Shave I get him every year. As for a card, well, I'm not much of a Hallmark guy, so this will have to do:
Everything I know about life, I learned in Section G, Row 22, Seat 30 of Frank Clair Stadium. Most of it from the guy in Seat 29.
Passion
I spent almost 20 years on that piece of plywood, right next to my Dad, shouting our lungs out for the Ottawa Rough Riders. They were, arguably, the 20 most miserable years any franchise in any sport has ever had. And they were the best times of my life.
Football was the first thing I ever really loved, with the exception of maybe Karen Andrews in Grade 3. She rocked my world. Well, as much as an eight-year-old's world can be rocked. That was puppy love. The Riders were the real thing.
Pride
My entire grade-school wardrobe consisted of two black mesh Rider jerseys: Number 7 for Conredge Holloway, Number 2 for Tommy Clements.
In the winter, I added a turtleneck underneath (don't say I can't accessorize, ladies).
Dad was worse. Shirts, sweaters, jackets, socks, gonch—if it had a big R on it, he wore it.
At some point, I got too cool and stopped wearing anything Rider. Dad never got too cool. Dad couldn't care less about cool. Dad was the true definition of fan.
Faith
The Riders sucked. Boy, did they suck. They had bad players, bad coaches, bad owners, bad karma. Just to recap, they:
once drafted a dead guy.
once traded their first round draft pick. . . to two different teams.
once sent a player to the locker room to get his injured knee shot up, and the team doctor shot up the wrong knee.
once decided to move a practice across town, couldn't fit all the guys on the bus, left a few behind, and then forgot about them. I know this because I came across them, in full uniform, sitting on their helmets in the Carleton University parking lot, and had to give them a ride (there's frosh-week fun: how many football players can you fit in a Dodge Colt? Answer: five, with a DB in the hatch).
From 1980 to their demise in 1996, the Riders had a grand total of ZERO winning seasons (though we did get to .500 twice in a row from '91–'92, a period we simply call “The Dynasty”). And through it all, Dad still believed.
“This is going to be the year.” (1-15)
“I really think they got a shot this week.” (62-3 loss)
“This new kid could be the next Russ Jackson.” (Charlie Weatherbie—he lasted seven games.)
His faith was seldom rewarded. Doesn't that make it even more admirable?
Girls
I don't remember when the cheerleaders became as important as the game, but I'm guessing it was when I was about 13. Dad brought binoculars every week, and I'd spend every TV timeout going up and down the dance line. Once I'd picked out my favourite, Dad would do the same, and then give me a “Don't Tell Mom” wink.
When I was 20, I dated a Rider cheerleader (her eyesight was bad) for, oh, about a halftime. Dad never said anything, but I think he thought that was pretty cool.
Generosity
I loved baseball, too, so when I was 14, Dad bought me a Sony Walkman, so I could go to the Rider games and listen to the Montreal Expos. On the last Saturday of the 1981 baseball season, the Expos had a chance to clinch their first-ever pennant against the Mets. I seemed to be the only one in Section G with a Walkman (they were pretty new back then, a fact that officially qualifies me as an old fart). Before long, I was doing play-by-play for all the folks around me. When I described Wallace Johnson tripling home the winning run, Section G went nuts. I decided then and there I wanted to be a broadcaster.
Thanks for the Walkman, Pops.
Love
In all those years, we never once left a game early. The place would be empty as the clock wound down on another 55-7 massacre, and Dad wouldn't budge until :00. For years, I could
n't figure out why. I'm sure part of it was simply his unwavering belief that something good might actually happen, but there had to be more.
Then one day, not long ago, it hit me.
It was one of those perfect Sunday evenings, and I was playing with my 18-month-old in the park. He'd throw (some semblance of a throw anyway) his mini-football at me, I'd do the full Cuba Gooding Jr. touchdown dance, and he'd laugh like I was Richard freakin' Pryor. In those Kodak moments, just hanging out with your son watching him grow up, a father wishes he could call timeout and stop the clock permanently, so the game would never end.
My guess is, all those wonderful nights in Section G, Dad felt the same way.
• • •
But the clock did hit :00. In the last few years before the Riders died, I moved down to the sidelines to cover the team for a local TV station, and Dad moved to the swanky midfield section (I think he figured buying more expensive tickets would somehow help the team survive). He'd bring Mom or one of his friends, and sometimes I'd look up during a timeout and find him working the binoculars.
“The blonde, third from the end, is cute.”
He couldn't see me, but I'd wink anyway.
Hope
Dad's been retired for a while now, and spends most of the year at a cottage a couple of hours outside Ottawa. I asked him the other day if he'd still buy season tickets if the Riders were re-born.
“First in line,” he replied.
He would be, too. Oh, and Dad, if it does happen. . .
Save me a seat.
• • •
Postscript: CFL Football did come back to Ottawa the next year in the form of the Renegades, a franchise that somehow managed to be even worse than the Rough Riders. They lasted four seasons before folding again. But Dad was first in line, and didn't miss a game. He now patiently awaits another CFL revival in Ottawa, which, at the time of writing, will likely be in 2014.
Chapter 11
Taking out the Trash
November 2007
In the wake of the nasty trash-talking incident between Sean Avery and Darcy Tucker last weekend, the National Hockey League knew it had to act.
After all, what kind of example does this set for our children? My six-year-old daughter saw Avery's antics on SportsCenter. The next day, she got in her best friend's face about how she dressed her Polly Pocket.
“You put the pink dress on her?!? Don't bring that weaka** fashion into my dollhouse! Go back to Barney until you're ready to play with the big girls, you JK bee-otch!”
Deeply troubling. (Though it did work. She got the girl totally off her game.)
The NHL wants its players to be role models. It has levied fines to discourage trash talking, but knows it needs to do more in the area of prevention.
Since totally eliminating verbal jousting in hockey is impossible, the league has instead produced a manual to instruct players what language and phrasing are acceptable during on-ice confrontations. The book, called Let's All Be Friends! An Educational Guide to Proper On-Ice Etiquette in the National Hockey League, will be distributed to every player in the league (*who can read) next week.
We have obtained an advance copy. Here are some excerpts:
SECTION 1.1 References to opponent's mothers:
Unacceptable: “You M!#*!*?#!**r.”
Acceptable: “I understand you have a very close relationship with your mother. I must tell you this is a quality that I greatly admire.”
SECTION 1.2 References to opponent's spouses/girlfriends:
Unacceptable: “Hey D*%*!#**e! Is that your woman? When did she break up with the Rangers?”
Acceptable: “I must say, your life partner seems like a wonderful person with a good heart. And her posture is excellent.”
SECTION 2.4 Pre-game banter:
Unacceptable: “You cross that centre line, I will rip your f#*%*#*%! eyes out. And even if you don't, I'm doing it on the first shift.”
Acceptable: “Did you see The Bachelor last night? I can't believe he sent home Tina from Milwaukee! She was sooo sweet! Any hoo, good luck tonight!”
SECTION 3.5 Comments on opponent's hockey skills:
Unacceptable: “Hey jerkface! You're horrible! You skate like Snuffleupagus on Sesame Street on Ice! What is this, bring your minor-leaguer to work day?”
Acceptable: “Wow, your skating has really improved. And I must say that slap shot has impressive velocity. Do you do Pilates?”
SECTION 4.1 Comments on opponent's physical appearance:
Unacceptable: “Nice face, freak! You were great in 28 Weeks Later! You make Ricci look like Clooney, you d%*#$!”
Acceptable: “Your face has a lot of character. And your skin is radiant. What moisturizer do you use? Oh, and when you get your teeth done, I know a great cosmetic dentist in Dallas. He did my veneers! Text me!”
SECTION 7.9 References to embarrassing off-ice incidents:
Unacceptable: “Hey Dirk Diggler, saw that photo of you on the Internet! Were you swimming before that was taken?”
Acceptable: “I really admire how you go to such lengths to connect with your fans.”
• • •
Postscript: That last one, in case it slid past you, was in reference to former Toronto Maple Leaf Jiri Tlusty, who took some. . . uh. . . revealing photos of himself, which ended up being posted by the girl he sent them to. In retrospect, it was the most impressive thing we saw from the Leafs that season.
Chapter 12
The Terror Beneath
September 2006
OK, so the title is a stretch, but over-dramatizing is just what I do. And for the record, this column has nothing to do with sports. Except for one Brad Richards quote. Which is good enough for me. Look, I've been on holidays all summer. It's all I got.
So we're planning our Griswald summer vacation back in May and everyone we know chirps: “Go to PEI! You've got to go to PEI! It's Canada's Hamptons! Our secret paradise!”
Now, they were right, mostly. Gorgeous island. Wonderful people. Great beaches. But there was one teeny-weeny detail they left out. No biggie really. Just the BILLION BLEEPIN' JELLYFISH ATTACKING MY FAMILY!
You don't understand. This was biblical. Apocalyptic. It was like War of the Worlds. I half expected Dakota Fanning to come running past me screaming some cheesy line like “My puppy. . . They took my puppy!”
The first signs of impending terror came on the ferry over from Nova Scotia. As we were approaching shore, we started to notice all these hugantic red dots floating near the surface.
“What are those, Daddy?” asks my inquisitive five-year-old daughter.
Being the astute marine biologist I am, I answer: “Umm. . . those are. . . uh. . .. plankton mussels. . . or something. . . oceany like that, honey.”
I really have to start reading more. Ah, who's kidding who. I really have to start watching Discovery more. Fortunately, there was this Captain Highliner–type character standing right next to us.
“Aye matey! Them's Giant Jellyfish!”
OK, he may not have really said “Aye matey,” but he did have the white beard, and I believe he was concealing a pipe.
Big deal. Jellyfish. All part of the adventure, right? And besides, suckers that big can't possibly come close to shore.
Flash forward. Next day. North Cavendish Beach. Large hairy American man next to me in the water.
“Hey, neat! Look at that cool thing near my leg. . . OWWW!!#$% MOTHER OF @*$!*#! Mommy! I need my mommy!”
This scene would be repeated over and over. From the few words I could decipher between the curses and primal screams of victims, being stung by a jellyfish is roughly akin to having a wasp's nest shoved up your. . . ah. . . bellybutton.
The lifeguard at Cavendish tells us this is the largest jellyfish invasion anyone on the island has ever seen. He claims they usually show up only for a couple of weeks later in the summer, and even then, there is only a handful.
Thanks, Hasselhoff. So you're telling us we picked th
e single worst swimming week in the history of Prince Edward Island. Thirty freakin' degrees and sunny every day. Clear, crystal water, bathtub warm. And these gargantuan Jell-O Pudding Pops with four-foot-long stingers every second step.
Seriously, this could have been a Peter Benchley novel.
Granted, jellyfish are not the most cunning and elusive of sea predators. In fact, they move like Bengie Molina. From what I can tell, the travels of a jellyfish are dictated entirely by the current. They will bring you down only if you bump into them. Much like the Raiders defence.
I call NHL star Brad Richards, who still spends his summers in PEI, for emergency advice.
“Just grab them by the tops, and they can't sting you. You can pick them up and chuck them as long as you don't touch the tentacles.”
Sure, Mr. Conn Smythe. Easy for you to say. I'd probably toss the queen jellyfish, causing the rest to hunt me down and latch on to my face, like the guy who orders the Nagafuki Surprise in that classic Bud Light commercial.
You know what they say. Hell hath no fury like a jellyfish tossed.
So I spend most of the week playing Chief Brody, scouring the shoreline with my binoculars, then screaming at my children to get out of the water if they are more than ankle-deep. Of course, you can't keep kids from anything that looks remotely like Jell-O. By week's end, my boy was bopping them on the heads with his plastic shovel, and my two-year-old daughter had taken to scooping up the dead jellyfish washed up on shore with a stick and dissecting them. I know. There may be issues there.
Anyway, we miraculously got through The Great PEI Jellyfish Invasion of '06 sting-free. And oh, the tales we'll tell future Duthie generations.
