Squirrelly Bitch

"Hey man you talkin' back to me?
Take him out
You gotta keep 'em separated
Hey man you disrespecting me?
Take him out
You gotta keep 'em separated"

     Some men are fit for civilized society and some men, well, some of us are barely more evolved than knuckle dragging primates.  Being a man myself, I don't think that statement is overly offensive and I also happen to think it's fairly accurate, because I myself wrote it.  I submit this Tuesday's events as Exhibit A.  A for Alpha.

     The sun, she was a-shining and I had just left my favourite Queen West coffee shop, freshly caffeinated and not thinking about too much in particular.  In fact, I can't really recall if I was thinking at all.  I'm walking down the street, headed home to enjoy the afternoon.  Coming up the opposite side walk is a wiry, sunglass wearing semi-degen who proceeds to cross the street at a brisk pace, and as he walks by me (no one around by the way), leans his shoulder out and clips me with a little more force than could be explained as accidental, considering the space around us.  We both took about 2 steps before we turned around to see what was what.

     I was just about to open my yap to say "Sorry bud" or some variation, when he starts verbally assaulting me with some high school level shit talking.  Asking me if I wanted to go, calling me a 4 eyed motherfucker (which made zero sense because we were both wearing sunglasses), eloquent phrases in other words.  The guy just gives me a verbal tirade and says he's having a real bad day and that he wants to kick my ass.  I counter with asking how us fighting would improve his day?  So I just stood there with a half grin on my face, and slowly started to realize what was happening.  He calls me a bunch of other names that are NSFW and says "I hit you, you call the cops, give me a guarantee you don't call the cops."  I respond with another, "Why would we fight over a sidewalk bump?" but he's having none of it.

     He gives me a very aggressive stomp forward, the type of move known by younger brothers and hallway nerds everywhere and I instinctively put my hands up in a defensive fashion, just in case.  I mean, I had just seen Mayweather/Pacquiao not two weeks before.  He doesn't throw and calls me a squirrelly bitch, among other things.  I try to come up with some sort of comeback but it's no use.  A few seconds and cusses later and he keeps walking, as do I, at this point amped up on more than the caffeine.  I managed to say I hoped the rest of his day went better as we parted ways.  

     Minutes later, given time to assess the situation, it becomes clear this guy crossed the street to come at me when there was acres of room for both of us and our egos.  Judging by his dress and demeanour, he was right at home in Parkdale and if you don't know what that means, come to Parkdale sometime and walk around in the middle of the day.  You'll get the point.

     Now I'll be the first to admit I am not a fighter.  Haven't had a bout since Grade 4 and since then I've seemed to be able to side step trouble if it ever popped up.  I am, however, a male and that means I have testosterone and and an overly developed amygdala, which is the part of the brain most responsible for bloody noses and bruised egos.  And I won't lie to you friends, I left the encounter perhaps 90% sure I had done the right thing, but 10% sure I pussied out like a bitch.  That might sound stupid and immature, but its how I felt.  The street offered up a chance to get it on, as they say, and my civilized brain managed to cool the situation before we both ended up in the back of a Crown Vic or worse.  Call it a win by judges decision I suppose.         

     I've always said it's the guys who want to fight on a Tuesday morning that are the ones to worry about, and I believe that even more firmly now.

     Can't help but think I'm a bit of a squirrelly bitch though.

OK, Blue Jays?

"This town ain't big, this town ain't small, it's a little of both they say.
Our ball club may be minor league, but at least it's triple A"

    It's nearly April, the time of year when beleaguered Leafs fans take a ninety degree turn and devote their full attention to that other Toronto franchise, the once mighty Blue Jays. After the Jays shake off the cobwebs down in Dunedin, in front of geriatric snowbirds, the legions of the faithful will dutifully flock to Toronto's temple of sport, the Stadium Formerly known as the Skydome.

     Torontonians of all races, ethnicity and socio-economic status will no doubt have a glimmer of hope in their collective eyes, as once again the Jays take to the turf for yet another chance at the coveted AL East, and dare I say, October baseball.  Toronto was once the Rome of the baseball world, and the back to back World Series titles proved Canada was no AAA training ground for the proper American teams.  We had real pride in our team and 50,000 devoted worshippers to fill the temple.  The city now has Blue Jays way, and a good story to tell ourselves on those cold winter nights when the Leaf's season becomes to difficult to stomach.  We once had the best team in baseball.  Twice.

      Now, I've been to various ballparks and sports arenas in the US and Canada, and I've seen a level of worship bestowed upon athletes that borders on North Korean-style cult of personality, and one thing that is a common element of these places of worship are the statues.  Bronzed and frozen in time, many arenas and stadiums worth the price of admission have a False Idol out front, praising a hero of yesterday who brought the team and the city glory, honour and most importantly, championship rings.

     If you were an alien from an advanced interstellar civilization, here on Earth to study our worship of athletes, and you put your flying saucer down at say, the Steamwhistle brewery lawn and went for a walk, you'd have zero clue that one man clinched the second and crowning World Series title with a swing of his Lousiville Slugger on a 2 and 2 count in the bottom of the ninth in game 6 versus the Phillies.  That man sent an entire city into an orgiastic frenzy not known since.  No, for some reason that this writer cannot wrap his grey matter around, there is no statue of Joe Carter next to the Rogers Centre.

     Other sports cities immortalize their heroes in their prime, at the height of their powers with a statue in a prominent public area.  Not here in Hog-town.  We've got two story pictures of mediocre hockey players and some post modern versions of what I assume to be baseball bats(?) out front of the ACC, but no where can Joe Carter and his fabulous flat top be seen in pagan idol form.  He achieved a feat only accomplished one other time in recorded history, the rarest of gems, a walk-off home-run to win the World Fucking Series.  And yet no statue.  Yes, #29 hangs in its rightful place of honour on the inside, but what about the outside?  Why is there no Joe Carter statue outside the Dome?  We've a few creepy, vaguely gargoyle-esque faces coming out of the north side, but no Joltin' Joe icon to pay homage to anywhere.  I cannot fathom the reason.  And don't tell me there's no room, some prime real estate exists right outside of gates 5 and 6, where kids walk past and old men could look up and relive that sense of pride and pure ecstasy that only clinching a championship can bring.
 
    Today's generation of Beliebers are running the very real risk of not knowing their cities sports history and that is simply a failure on everyone's part.  It's bad enough I once had to explain to a 19 yr old punk who Kelly Gruber was.  If we are to relive our past sports glory in this city, how about we build a goddamn statue of Joe "Touch 'em All" Carter right out front of the Dome so we can at least remember and nod to ourselves and say, yes, once we were champions.    

  

Hope Springs Eternal?

"The goalie jumps, and the players bump, and the fans all go insane"

     Spring is here in Toronto.  The snowbanks have begun to melt, uncovering long forgotten cigarette butts and a unreasonable amount of dog shit.  In other NHL cities, hockey fans are gearing up for the playoffs.  On-the-fence fans suddenly become die-hards, and people's allegiances take on a whole new level of insanity.  But not here.  Not in the Centre of the Universe.  This year's demise of the Leafs, perennial also-rans, has taken on a new feel of despair bordering on shame.  In a province that was once the economic engine of the nation, where Maritimer's migrated just to get a decent paying job so their kids could have some bologna to eat, we are left with little hope.  Leafs' fans everywhere are doing some deep soul searching about the Blue and White.  

  It's been about decade since the TML's had a decent playoff run, and in about that amount of time the provincial debt has effectively doubled to just under $300 billion.  This decade of demise has battered the soul of once proud fans from Oshawa to Thunder Bay, to the far reaches of Leaf Nation forgotten by condo-dwelling Toronto Elites.  In other economically battered cities, having a successful sports franchise is paramount to the cities identity, to it's cultural back bone and to it's pride.  Detroit, a bankrupt heap of memories, at least can count of the Red Wings to put some joy into spring.  Not so in Leaf Country.  The Buds have become something of a sideshow, and the bush league sports journalism in this city has not helped one iota.  Fans have, perhaps with good reason, thrown their once beloved jerseys onto the ice as a final act of frustration.

  Your average Leaf's fan likely doesn't give two flying hockey pucks about the state of the province's finances, likely because they are stuck dealing with their own.  The frustration with the Leafs seems to have been equalled by the frustration (and disgust) of Joe Public with Queen's Park.  Scandal after scandal, deficit increase after increase, they've given up on any facade of public accountability, with even the Mounties investigating the OPP in the latest display of Sun-cover worthy corruption.  Scandals have followed this province's government around like a dangerous ex-boyfriend, from E-Health to ORNGE, from gas plants to MARS.  But I digress.        

  In times like these, the province needs a decent hockey team to cushion the blow to the collective psyche, and no Ottawa, the Senators don't count.  At least if we had a successful hockey team it would be a worthwhile distraction to fiscal mess we're in, but that certainly wasn't the case this year.

  If nothing else, Leafs fans are incredibly loyal and eternally optimistic.  According to many of the die-hards, each new hockey season comes with hopes of the Parade down Yonge.  The best case scenario this year would be for them to tank fully completely and land a Messiah in the draft.  If only fixing our province's pathetic government was that easy.  At least hockey fans can hold out hope for next year.  Let's hope somebody turns things around, and soon. 

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