by James Duthie
I saw only one other sub–five-second run the whole week. My seven-year-old son, despite extensive coaching, never broke six. The water-sliding gene must skip a generation (though my six-year-old daughter showed great promise on the kiddie slides).
And the best thing about summer luge? Everyone has a shot! You don't need The Clear, The Cream, or Human Growth Hormone! This is a sport for the masses. I watched fat guys beat fit guys. Wives whip husbands. Little tykes fly past their big brothers. Water-sliding is the great equalizer. Anyone can win! As long as they meet the 48-inch height requirement (so, sadly, Dan O'Toole has no shot).
So write the IOC! Join the “Summer Luge for Beijing 2008” campaign!
Just don't expect to beat me.
No one folds the arms across the chest and crosses the legs (mandatory waterslide form, according to the posted signage) better. No one corners more smoothly. And no one I saw even attempts to bend his feet and toes forward to cut down on wind and water resistance, a move I invented halfway through the week and dubbed “The Horizontal Ballerina.”
My vacation performance was Tiger/Federer type dominance. You should have seen me trash-talk this little German girl after I beat her by two full seconds. She would have cried if she'd understood English.
By the end of the week, the staff of lifeguards had dubbed me “The Albino Torpedo.” (I use an SPF 60 sunscreen; there are corpses with more colour than me.)
OK, actually I asked them to call me The Albino Torpedo. But mostly they just looked at me funny, and asked me not to butt in front of the kids anymore.
• • •
Postscript: I am a pathetic man-child. And of this, I am oddly proud.
Chapter 78
Crosby and Cooke
The Story of a Season
April 2011
One of our producers sent an email this morning with the subject heading: “Crosby and Cooke.” There was no major news in the content, just the fact the two were on the ice together for an optional Pittsburgh Penguins skate. But glancing at the note, it hit me that this could really be the subject heading for the entire NHL season. “Crosby and Cooke”—the two time-capsule images of hockey, 2010-2011.
This is the time of year when every analyst/columnist/blogger weighs in on what kind of hockey season this has been. Guilty (it's an easy topic).
I've already heard several opinionists say this was The Season of Blah—not enough compelling stories, and a huge letdown after last year's Olympic rush. Not sure I buy that. We've had: The Amazing Sedins (rhymes with The Supremes for a reason), the wild season-long race in the middle of the Western Conference (where separation from the pack meant a two-point lead), the Tim Thomas comeback (Second Edition), the polarizing P.K. Subban (has any player been so loved and so loathed so . . . early?), and other poetic performances like Corey and Carey (Perry and Price), Skinner-Grabner-Couture-Calder?, Boudreau on HBO, Stamkos and St. Louis, Reimer and Rinne, Lucic and Lemaire, Iggy rediscovering his pop.
But in the end, this season will likely be defined by, and remembered for, the actions and subsequent inaction of those two Pittsburgh Penguins.
What Crosby was doing before he went down was magic, even by his ridiculous standards. His 25-game point streak was the single most dominant long stretch of hockey any player has had in the last decade (though Perry's last few weeks are giving him a run). The Hart and Art Ross engraver was already at S-I-D-N.
Since I don't root for any one team, I always judge the most compelling current NHL storyline by what game I end up watching on Centre Ice when there are 12 to choose from. I spent a lot of time with the Canucks this season. But during November and December, our TV would always end tuned to the Penguins, no matter who they were playing. Must-See-TV. Must-See-Sidney.
And when it became clear the best player in the game would be gone for a while, NHL '11 (the league, not the video game) instantly became a whole lot less fun. Headshots and concussions were an issue before Crosby went down. They became THE issue after.
Which made Cooke's antics all the more embarrassing. In what we hope (but still doubt) will be a tipping point on head-shot tolerance, he delivered a clear-cut, non-debatable, brainless, elbow to the head of the Rangers' Ryan McDonagh. It happened just weeks after he served a four-game suspension for another dirty hit, and just days after his owner and general manager begged the league to crack down on that very kind of garbage.
I'm guessing the math on his 10 game plus one round suspension went something like this: three games for the hit, another three games because it was serial driller Matt Cooke, and the rest for sheer stupidity of timing (Section 143b: The Dumbass Clause).
(Not that it was surprising. I did a random text poll of a dozen prominent NHL players last year, asking which player they least respected in the game. Cooke got seven votes.)
So now here we are. And here they are. Crosby and Cooke, skating together, an unlikely duo to be hanging out with the Black Aces. And yet suddenly they are somewhat reliant on each other.
Cooke desperately needs Crosby to come back some time in the opening round, to give the Penguins their best chance to advance. Remember, he's suspended until round two. Playing again this season might be Cooke's best chance to salvage what little is left of his reputation.
And if Crosby does come back, he could certainly use Cooke, an efficient penalty killer and decent secondary scorer, if his Penguins are to have a chance at their second Stanley Cup in three years.
So the story of the season rolls over into the playoffs, as we wonder if either, or both, will play hockey again this spring. It's a bit of a quandary for those fans who are Penguins-neutral. Do you root for them because you'd love to see #87 return and make another run? Or against them because you don't want #24 to have that chance?
And so we wait on Crosby and Cooke. The face of the game and the face of its shame.
• • •
Postscript: Neither would get a chance to play again in the spring of 2011. Crosby's post-concussion issues kept him out of the first round, and the Penguins were eliminated in seven games by the Tampa Bay Lightning.
Chapter 79
The Vacation Diaries
March 2011
Thanks to a rare break in the NHL on TSN schedule, for the first time in. . .ah. . .ever, I took the family on a winter vacation. Since I hadn't written a column in. . .ah. . .almost ever, I figured I'd keep a running diary to satisfy the legions of readers (ah. . .three) who ask me to write more of this trivial family stuff.
Day One
-2:45 a.m. wake-up call for 6:10 a.m. flight to St. Lucia. What drug was I on when I booked this? (Charlie Sheen?) Waking up three kids at 2:45 is like inviting that creepy Paranormal Activity spirit into their bodies for the rest of the day. There is now a solid chance one of them will melt my face off before day's end. Wait, that was Raiders of the Lost Ark. Now mixing lame outdated movie metaphors. . .early sign of blogging dementia.
-My seven-year-old daughter looks out the plane window and says, “Dad, we're in outer space!” I tell her, very teacher-like, that we're not quite that high, and we'd have to leave the atmosphere to be in outer space. She says (direct quote): “School's different now from when you were a kid, Dad. Trust me, we're in outer space.”
-Arrive at Windjammer Resort in St. Lucia. It is several degrees of awesome. Hillside villas set over a postcard cove and beach. And it's famous for water sports and little sporting competitions between guests, young and old. Technically these are called “Fun Beach Activities.” I call them “War.”
-Fist-bump wife for finding this place. Tell her I fully intend to dominate the competitions. She looks genuinely terrified of the public humiliation I may bring the family this week.
Day Two
-Eager to make an early statement and show my athletic prowess (which is often lost in my TV studio powder-puffed daily life), I enter resort kayak championship. * Proceed to dominate my heat, semi-final, and final. ** Win T-shirt. Hold it above head like Stanley C
up. Wife hides face under towel on nearby lounge chair.
(*It should probably be noted that in the semis, I cut off my opponent—a 60-something grandmother from Boston—at the turn to win. No mercy.)
(**Oh, and in the final, the guy I was racing against stopped to talk to a hot girl who was swimming, and didn't actually bother to finish. Whatever. His lack of focus will never diminish the historical significance of this title. I'm thinking of getting a ring made.)
-My daughters are playing on the beach with a cute little blonde girl named Emma, who is staying at the resort for a month. “How did you pull off a month-long vacation, Emma?” I ask, trying to make cutesy kid conversation.
“My parents have the Cha-Ching,” she answers, without even looking up from her sandcastle. God, I love kids.
Day Three
-Take a full-day catamaran tour around the island. At one point, late in a perfect day, with the sun going down like a painting, and my seven-year-old and I dangling our feet over the front of the boat, she says, “Dad, I want to tell you something.”
This is it. One of those Hallmark moments where she says something like, “I want this moment to last forever,” or “I love you, Daddy, I'll always be your little girl.” I smile in anticipation and wrap my arm around her. “What is it, honey?”
“I named my butt Bryce.”
“Wha . . . uhh?”
“My butt. I named it Bryce.”
“Oh. That's. . .neat.”
For the rest of the week, she insists I address Bryce every time I speak to her. As in: “Gracie and Bryce, time for dinner!” Should this concern me? Psychologists, feel free to write a paper.
-Still basking in glow of kayaking triumph, accept invitation to participate in resort's “Caribbean King” dance competition during evening entertainment. Pull out every move in my 80s repertoire—robot, running man, lawn mower, sprinkler (my go-to move, much like Seth Rogan's dice-roll in Knocked Up) to qualify for final, where I lose to a large guy who takes off his shirt, jiggles his gut, and does the worm. Who can answer that? I was like the dude Eminem beat in the rap contest at the end of 8 Mile. I had no answer. Just stood there. Crushing loss. Hard to even look at my kids.
Day Four
-Take 11-year-old son on his first snorkeling trip. He dives down and finds a perfect conch. When he surfaces and proudly shows me his find, I yell, “He has the conch! Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!” They apparently haven't read Lord of the Flies by Grade 6, as he just stares at me blankly. Something he learned from his mother.
Get crushed in Windjammer horseshoe contest by. . .just about everyone, including a trio of English women who don't even know how to hold a horseshoe properly. Fear I may actually lose Canadian citizenship for this. Kayaking title now a fading memory.
Day Five
-Take a family kayak (go back to what you know, kid) trip down the beach to a neighbouring resort that is home to a talking parrot. Could swear I hear parrot say: “Chara should got three games for that hit on Pacioretty.”
-Family Activity Day continues with ride on one of those giant inflatable bananas. The banana boat is probably the single safest roped-device-behind-speedboat sport. Your elderly great grandma . . . your infant . . . your pet bunny . . . they could all ride the giant inflatable banana without any fear of falling off.
-Get distracted by girls passing by on Jet Ski. Fall off giant banana. Not kidding. Kids and wife think this is the funniest thing in the history of . . . history.
-Nine-year-old daughter (competitive swimmer) beats me in breaststroke race to giant inflatable iceberg. This is significant because I really tried, instead of the old Daddy-lets-'em-win thing I've been doing for years. Not sure if I should be thrilled for my little girl's ability, or concerned that five days of all-inclusive eating has made me barely buoyant.
Day Six
-Sweet redemption! Daughter and I win back-to-back kids and adults bottle-fishing competition. Bottle fishing involves dropping a little wired circle at the end of a fishing line on to the top of a bottle. Takes the hands of a surgeon. It's extremely compelling. There should really be a televised tour on TSN. OK, TSN 2 anyway. I would have Vic Rauter and Pierre McGuire do commentary. I would watch this.
-Couple gets married at sunset on the beach in front of resort. Could not imagine a more beautiful setting. Say to wife: “I think I may have my next wedding there.” She kinda chuckles. Progress.
Day Seven
-My boy discovers some secret crab commune in the forest near our villa. (Just wondering. . . Shouldn't crabs be in the ocean, or at least next to it, not 100 metres up the hill? Did my son just discover a new step in evolution? Were the crabs fed up with sea life and planning to get a condo in the city? Could someone with a marine biology background tweet me on this?)
-Boy and his sisters gather 20 crabs in a large sandbox and form illegal crab-racing ring. Within five minutes, they have 15 resort guests wagering. Youngest daughter has named every crab, and lets betters know who they have their money on. Grown women are screaming “C'mon, Bob! Get moving!” No crabs are named Bryce. That is taken.
-Rent Jet Ski for half-hour. Each kid gets 10 minutes. Seven-year-old gets on, only after wife makes me promise to not go faster than 10 miles an hour. I'm going about 15 mph when the little one yells, “C'mon, floor it, Grampa!” I comply, as she laughs and whoops for the entire ride. Though she later complains that Bryce is sore from the bumps.
Day Eight
-Fly home. Hear “Best vacation everrrr!” 743 times from kids on the way, and curse the fact that TSN does not have a St. Lucia bureau. Though they'd probably give it to John Lu. Damn Lu. He gets everything.
• • •
Postscript: The whole “Bryce” thing died after a few days. But I grew rather fond of the concept and named mine Darryl. Darryl is much softer and cushier after the daily buffets on the trip. He's just growing so fast. Makes you proud.
The Day I (Almost) Killed Two Gretzkys: …And Other Off–The–Wall Stories About Sports… And Life
Copyright © 2010, 2011 by James Duthie
Published by Collins, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Originally published by John Wiley & Sons Canada, Ltd.: 2010
First published by Collins, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd in this EPub edition: 2013
First HarperCollins Publishers Ltd EPub Edition JUNE 2013 ISBN: 9781443427210
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