The Game That Will Decide

(Every week I send out a reminder to my hockey team about when and where we are playing. The time changes and the location changes each week. I sent this out Friday night before the Olympics match...)

I was tempted, sorely and most severely tempted, to send this e-mail in three hours or so.

Which would be *after* tonight's game which will decide who battles the Americans for the gold medal in hockey.

And the e-mail would be witty and eloquent and insightful and all of those P.G. Wodehouse kind of things.

But then, with a realization of Deadwood and Mamet eloquence, I thought "Fuck it" and decided to send it now.

Gentlemen. Dudes. My fellow Dragons: we are blessed -- *blessed* I say -- with a late evening game this Sunday.

Some might say that late evening games are a bitch because it's impossible to fall asleep before two in the morning because you're so incredibly wired after you've played a fabulous game.

But this week our game time is a gift from the Gods of Hockey (Howesky? Orrmieux?) because we will be able to watch the final Olympics game and then take to the ice ourselves. Blessed are we who can enjoy the battle for the gold, drink a bunch of beers and then still have time to consume a ton of coffee in the feeble but noble attempt to sober up and prepare for the Dragons game.

Sunday 10:20 Rinx 3.

The final game of the regular season.

The game that will decide our position as we head into the playoffs.

The game that will decide whether blueberries or broccoli is the more healthy food.

The game that will decide whether Raquel Welch or Julie Newmar is the ultimate '60s sex symbol.

The game that will decide whether Betty or Veronica would be better in the sack.

The game that will decide whether Greece's economy will stabilize or collapse like the will power of a nymphomaniac at a Chippendales convention.

The game that will decide whether or not I can keep doing these thing all night or will eventually give up and have some chicken wings and watch the Canadians in the semi-final match.

Gents, I hope to see you Sunday.

Advice vs. Care

I would never say that a woman is a better parent than a man.

Both sexes can be great parents. To say that one is better than the other is a generalization along the lines of ‘blondes have more fun’ or ‘all blondes are stupid’.

--> and I have to wonder if the craze of “Stupid blonde jokes” that appeared years ago was the result of a bunch of pissed-off brunettes and redheads getting together and saying “Screw the not-so subliminal ‘Blondes Have More Fun’ campaign that’s been running for decades. Let’s wipe the smug smile off their collective snide faces. Veronica, you’re in charge: start with ‘how many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb?’ and move from there. Gilda, you start with the ‘computer screen and liquid paper’ joke and get your fellow reds to help."

And within ten years, no one was talking about how blondes have more fun. <--

But, when it comes to being a parent, I think women are probably better at being mothers.

Let me explain...

Try this: picture someone who is described as “fatherly”. Or imagine how the word “fatherly” is used.

Usually the word would be used in the context of “fatherly advice” which would be a father figure sitting and handing down words of wisdom much like Moses did (but probably without the big tablets coming down the mountain) ...

“Son, fight only when it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Never trump your partner’s Ace.”

“Don’t go to bed mad. If you go to bed mad, you risk waking up with that anger still lingering bitterly.”

I picture a Fred McMurray or Dick Van Patton fatherly figure giving insight and advice. He’s usually smoking a pipe and wearing slippers. He sets his newspaper down and looks pensive before he speaks. He probably won't give you a hug, but the warmth radiates from him nonetheless.

(Which makes me wonder if there are any good Father Figures on tv today. Is there anyone on tv in a fatherly role that you would want to turn to for advice? -- Charlie Sheen in “Two and a Half Men”? – Yuk! Michael C. Hall in “Dexter”? -Yipes! And look at all of the characters with Daddy issues in “Lost” – Jack, Sawyer, Kate, Ben, Locke, Hurley, Michael & Walt! Where have all the good fathers gone?!?)

But do the same thing with the word “motherly” and it’s images of caring and nurturing and acceptance.

My soon to be 10 year old son, Gee, was incredibly ill yesterday. High fever, headaches, throwing up – the whole Technicolor mess.

My wife had to head into work for the day so I stayed home with him.

And while it was my job to comfort him and help him feel better, instead I found myself giving him advice.

"Don't worry, you'll feel better soon," I said.

"We have an appointment to see the doctor at 11:45. You'll feel better after we see the doctor."

And as he was puking his stomach contents out, I was saying to him, “Don’t worry, it all has to come out. You’re doing fine.” And back to what was obviously my favourite line: "You’ll feel better soon.”

The sad thing was that over and over he kept asking me if I was mad at him. And honest to god I wasn’t. I was worried. But my concerns must have looked like anger and frustration. And again I said something fatherly like “You’ll feel better soon. You just have to get that stuff out of your system.”

His mum phoned to see how he was doing and I told her we had a doctor's appointment. I then put Gee on the phone and he cried as he was talking with mother because he just felt so horribly sick. And my wife told me that she was leaving work and she would meet us at the doctor’s office and then came back home afterwards.

Doctor saw him. It's strep throat. We get the medicine. We all come home.

Later that afternoon, after the medicine kicked in, Gee fell sound asleep in his mum’s arms. He looked secure, safe and at peace. He looked like all good boys should look in the comfort of their mother’s arms.

That night, reviewing the day’s worth of medicine, vomiting, fever and pain, my wife said to me, “The doctor once told me that sometimes the best medicine is just being held.”

As a man, as his father, I trusted that he would get better and the doctor would help us out. And I told him that. Over and over again.

But my wife wanted to be there to see it through. Not because I couldn’t do it, but she just felt that she had to be there for her own peace of mind.

And at that moment I realized that women are probably better mothers than men will ever be. I kept telling him he would feel better in the future. But she helped him feel better in the here and now.

So I better start practice getting all-wise and all-insightful and sage-like…

“Learn to win as gracefully as you learn to lose.”

“Never spit in the wind.”

“Always carry a condom. Even it is a first date.”

Because while my boys are more likely to remember their mum being there for them when they were sick, I am going to need them to remember me for my words of wisdom.

The Weight of the World

Yesterday at physio, my therapy provider (aka The Giver of Both Relief and Pain) was talking with one of her co-workers about the scales in their office.

They said the scales at the office added 5 pounds to their weight compared to the scales they usually use.

I told her that you should never use another set of scales. Always stick with the ones you know because then (like Desmond in ‘Lost’) you have a constant. I asked her why she would use some other scales, knowing that the scales would either make her feel worse or want to beat her usual scales within an ounce of its useless, poorly functioning life.

(I also said that it’s like using someone else’s toothbrush: you can do it, but you always risk some unpleasantries.)

She replied that she can’t resist it: if she sets some scales, she has to step on them.

I then explained that I’m the same way with photos of beautiful women: if they’re there, I have to look at them.

And I realized that we had come upon the solution to the one of the great mysteries of life: What’s the difference between men and women? - Women can’t resists scales and men can’t resist pictures of women.

To extrapolate it further, both sexes would be happy and both sexes would be satisfied if we had more photographs of curvaceous women standing on scales. Women could relate to the irresistible temptation and allure of the scales; men could relate to the irresistible temptation and allure of the lovely ladies. 

I am sure that world peace is one mere step (on the scales) away.

Howard Hughes was right

If I could live my life in a hotel, I'd be a happy man.

It would be the lifetime of clean sheets that would have me sign up. There is nothing quite as fine as crawling into bed with crisp, fresh, clean sheets.

And if I lived in the hotel, I would eventually get over the whole 'Strange Bed Syndrome' that usually makes for rough sleeping the first few nights.

Oh, and little chocolates on my pillow every evening. That would rock, too.

Pizza Scientist

There are moments where your child says something that you will remember forever, when they say something that you will never forget.

Sometimes what he says is like a single flower that is beautiful and gentle and unexpectedly gorgeous. Other times it arrives like a huge overflowing amazing bouquet of dazzling wonderment and you end up thinking, “Wow, where did this come from?”

Walking home after picking the boys up from school, Zed (who is seven) was holding my hand and chatting away when he looked up and asked me…

“Dad, what do you want me to be when I grow up?”

And I was momentarily speechless because of the question.

I was speechless because the question is usually reversed and asked by the adult looking down (physically and perhaps even emotionally) at the child. I remember my step-grandmother asking me the question when I was a teenager and me giving a less than genuine response.

And I was also speechless because I did want to give him a sincere answer. What did I want him to be when he grew up?

With a lot of wheels turning and steam rising from my head, I eventually replied, “I want you to do whatever makes you happy. If you enjoy what you’re doing, that would be great.”

Zed gave my response some thought and replied, “I want to be a scientist.”

“If that’s what you want to be, that would be great,” I said.

But he wasn’t finished yet. “And a pizza maker. I want to be a scientist and a pizza maker.”

“Ahhh, so a scientist by day, but a pizza maker by night?”

“No, I would be a pizza maker during the day. That way I could have pizza for lunch.”

“And you’d be a scientist at night?”

“No, I’d make pizza for lunch and dinner. And then I’d be a scientist after.”

“Okay,” I replied.

But this is the kicker…

He continued, “And as a scientist, I would discover a formula so that you and Mum would never die. That way you could stay with me forever.”

And again, I was speechless at his insight. But even more so this time.

--> I think that at age seven the idea of your parents’ death must tickle the back of their mind. Not quite a toothache that is constantly prodded into focus with each slip of the tongue. Perhaps it’s more like a rip in a pair of jeans – it should be patched, but it can’t be perfectly patched, so you’re aware of their faults and you wear them a little more carefully and you try not to think about when they’re going to have to be thrown out.

(That’s right: all parents are like a pair of jeans that each child will eventually wear out, grow out of and that will eventually be cast aside. All I can hope is that I am a comfortable, all-time favourite pair of jeans.) <--

I finally responded, “Zed, that sounds lovely. So you would be a pizza maker by day, have pizza for lunch and dinner, and then be a scientist at night.”

“Yes. And when I found the formula, I would invent a grenade and blow up the lab.”

“Reee-ally?” I replied.

“Yes. Oh! No! I also want to discover a formula to make dogs talk.”

--> We don’t have a dog, so of course Zed is fascinated by them. Loves them. Loves the idea of them. But hates the thought of having to clean up their poop. “Zed,” we say, “you know you’d have to pick up their poo.” “Welll,” he responds, “Maybe we could…” And somehow it turns from a discussion about puppies into a discussion of how to avoid picking up poo. <--

“So you would be a pizza maker by day, scientist by night, discover a formula to make Mummy and me live forever, and then a formula to make dogs talk. And then you’d blow up the lab?”

“Yes. That’s right.”

And I smiled at him as I held his hand and said, “If that’s what you want to do, it sounds lovely.”

In summary…

He will give food to the world. He will make it a better place for parents and dogs. And then, when he is done, he will leave in a blaze of glory.

Not a bad plan.

Bettman sings "Blame Canada"

Gary Bettman, NHL Commissioner and Guiding Light For All Things Professional Hockey in North America, does not want his league’s players to play in the Olympics.

Depending on the weather, he says it’s because of money. Or he says it’s because the Olympics cause the regular season schedule to shut down. Or he says it’s because of the owners and empty arenas. Or because he's worried about players getting injured at the Olympics. Or he says it’s “about the competitiveness of the season.”

But I think the real reason is this…

It’s all about the NHL making in-roads into the United States.

Everything originates from that one key and essential goal: how can the NHL be more popular in America? How can the current teams survive? How can we get more teams? And how can the we get hockey onto a major American network?

But, much like I would love grow another three inches in height and be six feet tall, that new found American adoration of hockey is just not likely to happen.

There is a terrific article on gawker* about the Canadian/American hockey game.

The great quote is this: “Not caring about hockey is a cherished American tradition, up there with starting to follow baseball right before the playoffs and being vaguely aware of how your alma mater is doing in the NCAA tournament.”

Americans, on the whole, don’t like hockey. They don’t get it and, perhaps more important, they don’t want to get it. They like the fighting and the body checks, but the skating, the passing and the 'watching a bunch of guys chase around a little black disc' holds no appeal for them.

But somehow, Bettman is going to convince Americans to like hockey. It is his Holy Grail: the goal of creating awareness and hockey luv.

And so, his greatest fear has to be this: the final game for the gold medal is Canada versus the U.S. -- and the Canadians win!!

Regulation time, overtime, shoot-out – it doesn’t matter. Canada wins, we go crazy with a patriotic frenzy usually only reserved for European soccer, and then the Americans care even less than they did before.

The NHL is now stacked so that it’s incredibly unlikely that two Canadian teams will compete for the Stanley Cup.

But the Olympics could create a Canadian vs. American finale.

And Bettman certainly doesn’t want that to happen.

* Reference made to Gawker found at http://gawker.com/5476851/everyone-cares-about-hockey-all-of-a-sudden?skyline=true&s=i