Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

He was poised on the starting blocks when suddenly and without warning, he looked up, expressionless, and I realized that he'd seen me all along. I'd been attempting to hide behind one of the columns on the spectator viewing deck, staying out of the way as the kid didn't want friends or family, "making a fuss".

Especially elderly family.

I'm not sure if my presence was a help or a hindrance. Probably the latter.

He was time trialing for the Ontario Championships, having failed to qualify in the previous 3 races, this being his last chance to meet the almost diabolical challenge for a 12 year old in his second year of competition of having to backstroke 100 metres in the pool in 1:15:5

About the time it takes most of us to swim one width across a pool!

His pacer, a 14 year old with a far more powerful build, jumped in nonchalantly, grabbed the backstroke starting bar almost with disdain, smirking that he'd been chosen to pace a mere 12 year old and both, at the gun (fired by an official of Swimming Ontario) took off. The older boy jumped to a quick 2 metre lead.

But the kid, wiry, tenacious and blessed with a "motor" which generated an elite-level oxygen uptake of 65 mg per kg of body weight, soon closed the gap and they came off the first of 3 flip turns in synchro, staying stroke-for-stroke thru the second 25 metres.

The kid, sensing his pacer's muscles were starting to load up, began pulling ahead on the 3rd of 4 laps, the older boy almost frantically attempting to keep up, and in so doing having his previously flawless technique begin to deteriorate.

So the 3rd lap went to the kid, the pacer turning onto his stomach and flip turning about one stroke back.

The last 25 metres was all the kid, who pulled ahead effortlessly, his pacer protesting to anyone who would listen later, "Well, my specialty is breast stroke!"

Touching the wall in 1:15:0, with half a second to spare and the "Ontarios" in the bag, the kid leapt from the pool, looked up to the viewing deck, and an elderly observer lip read, "Beat that, old man!"

But did I note a twinkle in our little star's eye?

AOC Is The Future

Michael Moore recently said of Alexandria Ocasio Cortez (AOC), "She is the leader. Everybody knows it. Everybody feels it"

I agree, Mike.

We've had superstars in the past who might have improved civilization's motley time here on earth - JFK, Bobby and MLK.

But the worms crawled out from under rocks and tragically, "That was the end of that"

Will the Democrats, in a rare moment of enlightenment, ensure that the future of their Party (AOC) is well protected?


As well as, say, as the orange-haired lunatic who currently occupies the White House?

'The Big Miss' Misses

As soon as I began reading 'The Big Miss' I thought, "This is professional quality prose. Either golf teacher Hank Haney is a natural born writer or he's got a ghost writer backing him up."

As it turns out, Jaime Diaz, who has recently been appointed as Editor-In-Chief of Golf World Magazine, did all the writing. Haney dictated his memories plus any notes that he might have made following his resignation after 6 years as Tiger Woods swing coach. 

Haney has been blistered - rightfully so - in his revelations both personal and professional of his time spent with Woods, in which he revealed virtually everything that could be utilized either by Tiger's enemies or the competition. For example, Tiger fears the driver as it might create the so-called Big Miss, where the ball flies off the course into surroundings that probably make it unplayable. With Tiger's macho inclinations, it would not take much for a competitor to goad him into using it, even if it threatens his competitiveness.

He also revealed personal stuff such as his dislike of Phil Mickelson and certain other pros. Woods' ruthless dismissal of caddie Steve Williams after 13 years is given as an example of his being cold hearted and tightfisted, devoid of empathy and utterly selfish in his pursuits - be they golf, women or Navy Seals.

I feel that Diaz controlled and created the tone of this book. He knew full well as a professional writer, the boundaries of due fairness and respect. He surely knew that many of the Haney's statements crossed the line, were defamatory and out of bounds. 

Like any professional relationship- a designation Haney seems to feel applies to himself - there is surely a teacher-student confidentiality that has been violated.

Should Tiger, with money to burn, take this twosome to court, highlighting supposed friend Haney's duplicity and Diaz' sensationalist writing and sue for defamation of character it should  make for an interesting trial!

The Big Miss is a gossipy tell-all, and when not getting up close and too personal, a book with some good golf tips. Kitchener's Moe Norman, with all of his idiosycracies brought on by his autism, gets a top billing. 

Nevertheless, technical expertise is outshone by personal vindictiveness, perhaps a reaction by Haney of not being taken into Tiger's inner circle in the grandiose manner that he thought he deserved.

Regardless, it strikes me that Tiger gets the benefit of the doubt and the sympathy vote of golf fans throughout all of this, and Haney-Diaz are not perceived as the heroes of the unvarnished written word as they may have hoped, but simply as two hangers-on living off the avails.

Battle of the Blades No Girl's Sport

I've never been a figure skating fan, and to this day I'll watch World Champion Patrick Chan - and then only briefly -  out of a sense of obligation to support a fellow Canadian.

When I played hockey as a 10 year old at the old Dixie Arena in Mississauga, there was a kid playing for the Dixie team named Peter Hughes who wore black figure skates. Dixie was a macho team in the hierarchy of Pee Wee hockey, with players such as perennial scoring champion Tom Chudleigh, he of the Milton apple farm fame, Spencer and Bob Fosbury, rock-'em, sock-'em defencemen right out of the Don Cherry mold and Freddie Stanfield, who later made an effortless leap to the NHL and fame with the Boston Bruins.
But here was this kid Hughes, who played good hockey, scored goals, was fully accepted by his team mates and gave as good as he got, distracting us Lorne Parkers with his black figure skates!

We'd lose the game, then attempt to deflect criticism of our lack of scoring, porous defence and puck-shy goaltending with a remark such as, "Yeah, but they got this guy that wears figure skates..."

Sadly, even at that age, there was a stigma attached to any boy who had the audacity to use the ice for something God had not designated it for, which of course was hockey, and to go out and skate with neither pads nor stick nor puck, and attempt spins, jumps and flowery motions with his hands.

It was considered, well, a girl's sport.

So it was with feelings of conflicted emotions that I read of the format of Battle of the Blades, which was to take former NHLers, put figure skates on them,  team them with past female figure skating luminaries and let them compete in front of a 3 person judging panel led by former figure skating champion Sandra Bezic.
The viewing public also played a large part in selecting who stayed for the next week and who became champion by electronically sending in votes for their favourites.

I was hooked after the first episode. Those were real live, macho men out there! They had the courage to skate in-line, using their picks, to fall ingloriously, to become frilly, dance to music, make flowing motions with their stick-free hands and to lift their sometimes wary (but always courageous) partners overhead.

They showed without a shadow of a doubt that figure skating is not just a girl's sport.

In 2011, things were reversed when former pairs Olympic gold medallist David Pelltier scooped Tessa Bonhomme, Canadian Women's hockey team member, as a partner, and they swept the competition when Tessa got rid of her edginess and adopted Jaime Sale-like moves and charisma.

'Battle' had Kurt Browning, Ron McLean, occasional guest judging from Don Cherry, large crowds at Etobicoke's Mastercard Centre, major TV viewership and an enthusiastic, considerable number of sponsors.
They were profitable.
So when CBC, following miniscule budget cuts, recently announced the cancellation of 'Battle', and shoved diminutive, former figure skater Julie Bristow to make the official announcement, it smacked of typical, CBC bully boy retaliation. Of  pouting, and reacting with, "This will teach you a lesson, government and viewers! Nobody sits CBC in the corner!"

Let's hope the demise of 'Battle' is short-lived and picked up by a network that gives a damn.

I bet Peter Hughes would make a great addition to the next episode.

First Spin of the Year

I went for my first cycle of 2012 yesterday, a late start in an odd spring which offered 22 degree temperatures a month ago, swung back to snow flurries, finally this week getting seasonal and drifting back into the 20's - or as we used to say before political correctness shot down our perfectly adequate Fahrenheit system - the 70's.

I rode north on the Mono-Amaranth Townline, sharing the same side of the road with homeward bound commuter traffic, into a stiff northwest breeze that didn't help my untrained legs, which quickly tired on every molehill that I contested. I thought of Tour de France cyclists tackling roads which wound 6 kilometres up mountains with 8% grades, and felt better.

I gained rapidly on a 17 year old kid who was skate boarding to Shelburne, suggesting as I passed, "This wind must be tough for you!" to which he replied between puffs, "You got it, man!"

Shortly after, I stopped, gave him the entire contents of my water bottle, for which he seemed to be eternally grateful. He told me he'd been on the road for 2 hours, having started in Orangeville, and was about halfway.

Since I had a cellphone, I asked, "Want me to call a taxi?" to which he replied, "Sure, if you pay!"

That settled that.

On the way back, I ran into a trendy looking guy on a Cervelo bike, who was kind enough to stop and offer solicitous advice after I'd shifted too quickly and my chain had fallen off.

"Nice bike" I commented, "Cervelo has a large and impressive presence at the Tour. It's nice to see Canada represented"

"What is yours?" he asked, more in politeness than curiosity.

"Garage sale. $200. Runs like a tank. Wanna trade?"

He begged off, then made plans to continue his ride to the 20th Sideroad, some 5 minutes further north. I knew he'd be flying when he made the turn to return south, so, pedal-to-the-metal, I charged hard for home and thankfully, was not overtaken.

"You look ashen and gray" commented Juice. "Who were you racing today?"

"First spin of the year, dear. You know they're always tough!"

Expectations Kill the Leafs

The Toronto Maple Leafs will never again win the Stanley Cup.

In a few years, by finishing near the bottom of the 32 team league, they might acquire a few players that in the draw will allow them to make the playoffs, but they will shortly acquiese and disappear quickly after the first series.

Owners who want to be seen as diligent and as, "doing something about the problem" will continue to fire coaches, general managers, trainers, assistants, publicity flacks and Zamboni drivers at an ever-increasing rate.

The Leafs will continue to metamorph otherwise competent professional hockey players into Nervous Nellies who won't have the confidence to play a vigorous game of road hockey with 10 year olds.

Owners will post apologies before, during and after the season, and will employ writers to come up with unique ways of saying, "We stink, stank and stunk!"

Why? Expectation. Expectation that whatever Miracle-On-Ice team a harried GM puts together will erase 30, 35, 40 or 45 years of failure by miraculously leapfrogging into Lord Stanley contenders.

Players come to Toronto with a pedigree, confidence in their skills, be they a knack for scoring, playmaking, defense or goaltending. Within a couple of years they have become lifeless, slackjawed shells of their formers selves, tossed aside for the next wunderkind who is introduced to Toronto media like a sacrificial lamb.

One of the requirements of future Leaf players should be that, like Eddie Shack, they cannot read. How else might a player survive with ego intact, with upwards of 30 sportswriters putting them under the microscope and finding them deficient in one category or another on a daily basis? And the ubiquitous "posters" - even more ruthless in their appraisals of talent which they themselves neither showed on the ice nor with pen in hand. Or bloggers.

Can any newbie live up to the fame and lore established 40 and 50 years ago by names such as Syl Apps, Teeder Kennedy, Bill Barilko, Tim Horton or Bobby Baun?

Even the Leaf motto "Defeat does not rest lightly upon their shoulders" rings of negativism.

There is hope, however. The Leafs, if they are to succeed, must become a national laughingstock, a joke, the brunt of comments by politicians and of boos from the 19,000 plus fans who jam the Air Canada Centre every game; or the millions throughout the land who clamber aboard the Leaf bandwagon each Fall, only to claim in April they were secretly Montreal or Pittsburgh or Washington fans.

And when this persona is established, and there are no aspirations, and they have truly given up all hope, and have resorted to lengthy on-ice prayer following the National Anthem, then they might , strictly by chance, put together a compatible team that is loose and confident, a team with no expectations, which no longer plays a tentative, get-rid-of-the-puck and scrambly game.

A team that can play like it actually enjoys being at the ACC, not anywhere but.

A team that wins.

With billboards saying, "Free lapdance during all Leaf playoff games" and "It must be Spring, the Leafs are out" they are close to this laughingstock requirement.

Now all they have to do now is fire the GM, all their star players and the Zamboni driver.

Camelot Reflects

In 2003, as a courier with cross border experience, I was asked late on a friday to make a 'Super Rush' trip to Dallas, Texas
"That's ridiculous!" I countered, "Surely it would be cheaper and faster to fly the parts!"
The tall foreheads who decide such matters replied that such was not the case, that a good driver could get the parts to Dallas by Sunday in time for their use on a stalled assembly line first thing Monday morning.
"Faster than flight" one trumpeted.

"How much?" I queried.

"$1800. $1.50 a mile. Take it or leave it" They don't mince words in the courier wars.

As it was November 19 and the usual Christmas expenses loomed, it was a no brainer. After faxing my border access documents, I picked up the load in Toronto and was on my way.

Within an hour, in the Daylight Saving darkness, I was cross-eyed with fatigue. By the time I got to London, I was forced to pull into a service centre on Hwy 401 for the first of many power naps. Fifteen minutes later, I was back on the road, slightly more alert, pedal to the metal, heading for the always-under-construction Ambassador Bridge, scary Detroit and even scarier US Customs agents.

There was the usual half hour truck lineup while agents asked idiotic post-911 questions. When I got to the booth I was interrogated by a gun toting goon, a bully in uniform.
"Nationality"
"Canadian"
"Whaddaya got?"
"A 300 lb skid of coaxial cables for Chrysler diathermal units"
"Where you going?"
"Dallas"
You know you're missing paint on your roof?"
"Yes"
"What'd you say you had?"
"A skid of cables"
"Your tires are worn"
"I know"
"$10.75"

Relieved at finally getting into Michigan, I flew down Interstate 75 until midnight, when, overcome by hallucinations, no doubt assisted by the exhaust gases in my rusty 1996 Chev Astro Van that had a habit of cycling through my lungs before exiting the vehicle, I pulled into one of Ohio's rest areas, locked the doors, put a steel bar through the back doors which had no lock, pulled out my sleeping bag and slept until 4 am.

Thusly I progressed, state after state, as I did, idly wondering about the plight of Indians in Indiana, feeling slightly ill in Illinois, noting the misery in Missouri, wondering what Art saw in Arkansas and finally, at 11 pm on Sunday night, making Dallas and my destination.

To my vast relief there was somebody at the Chrysler plant on a Sunday, and a disinterested Receiver unloaded my skid, put it on a rack with 20 others just like it and signed my packing slip.
"I drove straight from Toronto with this. Had you been notified and were you waiting for these parts?" I asked.
"Don't know nothing about 'em. We're just mushrooms down here. Have a good day"
It was November 21.

I found a Wal-Mart, purchased mounds of junk food and celebrated my delivery in style, then, oblivious to squealing tires, banging carts and yappy shoppers, had my first decent sleep in 3 days.

When I awoke, it was Monday, November 22. I decided to acquaint myself with the City of Dallas, bought a map and drove to a spot that held consuming interest for me, Dealey Plaza.

Although it was only 10 am, crowds of people had already gathered in the shadow of the Texas School Book Depository, some weeping openly. When I saw the white 'X' on the pavement near the grassy knoll, I struggled to contain similar emotions, recalling working at a consulting engineering company in Toronto and hearing the devastating news exactly 40 years earlier. I remember it being a friday, and going to the barn on Lorne Park Road with my brother John where we were building our stock car. Depressed and unfocused, I cleaned and sorted while John, far more sensible, got roaring drunk.
Every once in awhile John would yell, thrusting his arm in the air for emphasis, "We must go to Cubar!" or, "Let me say this about that!" or, recalling a White House press conference, "Go ahead, the lady in the red hat!" or, "Let them come to Berlin!" and finally, "We must move ahead with great vigah!"

Distancing myself from the crowd, I walked along the fence which separated the grassy knoll from a train yard, thinking how easy it would have been for a marksman to make a killing shot from that range. Noting that the sidewalk on the railway overpass was vacant, I walked to it and stood at the railing.

As I was reminiscing about the charismatic president who brought a refreshing, youthful vigour to the White House, I was joined by an old man on my left, and, desperately looking for company after 3 days of seclusion, I said, "It's a sad anniversary. It's as vivid in my mind today as it was 40 years ago"

"Yes, he replied, "The world lost a person who sought peace, not war. Making clear his objectives was his mistake"

I thought his words were unusually prescient, and turned and looked at him. He was about my height, just a little over 6 feet, but much thinner at about 150 lbs, stooped, almost frail, with a tousled, unruly head of grey hair. A grey beard and mustache covered much of his face. He had sharp, penetrating blue eyes behind rimless glasses and although his slight smile was engaging, he carried an air of reserve, of distance. I estimated his age to be in the mid to late 80's.

"Yes", he continued, "Had the president not been such a macho-oriented person, he would have had the bulletproof glass bubble top on the Lincoln that day, but he ignored Secret Service warnings and placed vote-getting and personal popularity ahead of safety"

"You seem to know alot about it"

"I was in Dallas that day"

"Good heavens! What was your take on the events? Was it Lee Harvey Oswald or a conspiracy?

"The president never had a hope. It was a shooting gallery. There were two on the lower floors of the School Book Depository, two behind the fence at the grassy knoll, two at the Dal-Tex building up the street and one 'insurance' shooter right where we're standing.
They were all in on it - the FBI, CIA, Cuban rebels, mafia, Lyndon Johnson and the military-industrial complex"

Silence. Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I felt that the old man bore a vaguely familiar resemblance to somebody I'd seen in the past, but I couldn't quite nail it down. The Boston accent. His hands in his suit jacket pockets.

"Sir" I said, "Would you mind if I told you who you remind me of?"

"Yes, I would mind"

"Would you mind if I tell you who you do not remind me of?"

"Not at all. Go ahead"

You don't remind me of Gerald Ford"

Slight acknowledgment with a curt nod.

'You don't remind me of George Dubya Bush"

Nod with a suppressed smile.

"And you definitely don't remind me of Barack Obama"

He turned to me and burst into laughter. The charisma that had worked on a thousand maidens in 1,000 days was finally unleashed!

"OK, dammit, I'm going to say it anyway. You remind me of some guy who was called Camelot"

He shook his head and then let loose, "I never liked that comparison. That was a result of Jackie getting together with Ted Sorenson and going over the top with rhetoric that bent history to suit the occasion. Camelot was a place, a kingdom, not a person. And I was supposed to have pulled a sword out of an anvil? Good luck with that, I'm lucky to be able to lift a teaspoon - and that's on a good day when my Addison's Disease isn't kicking up. On the other hand, I must admit to being attracted to Queen Guinevere...when Jackie dragged me to see the play that was the only time I woke up!" He smiled again, broadly, reflecting.
He sighed and continued, "I used a double. Poor Johnny MacPherson always boasted that he could step into my shoes and nobody would ever be the wiser, so Jackie finally convinced me to use him for the parade through Dallas that day. I watched the procession on local TV, and after it happened assumed his identity along with the disguises he always used. My God it cost alot to keep Jackie quiet - I thought she was going to bankrupt the old man, and her unrelenting demands led to his having the stroke. She even demanded her own personal stamps be minted, with our profiles superimposed and 'JFK JBK' printed underneath. No one but Jackie ever had access to these stamps.
Thank heavens Aristotle Onassis came along!
But I do walk by here almost every day, and wonder if I could not have changed the world as we know it by pulling out of the war in Viet Nam, making peace with Russia and with Castro."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He laughed again. The charisma and quick mind that had worked so well for him was not just reserved for the countless damsels!
"I have to talk to somebody. And you're no kid. If you ever open your mouth to talk about this they'll have you in the psych ward or nursing home so quickly you won't know what hit you!"

Was I talking to a looney? Or was I simply hallucinating because of too many miles driven in a stupor?

As my recently dubbed 'Camelot' turned to leave, he said, "My back is killing me. Oh how I wish I had that rocker from the White House"

50 feet away, something fell from his pocket and I yelled, "Sir, you dropped something!"
But whether it was a train shunting or the traffic chaos, he didn't hear, kept going and was soon swallowed up by the din, the crowds and the intrigue of Dallas.

I walked over and picked it up. It was a worn, shabby envelope addressed to a Mr John MacPherson in Dallas, Texas. I drew out the letter within which read, "Dear John, Caroline is excelling in Grade 2 and says she's going to be a lawyer like her daddy. John-John - well, I don't think he'll ever be a student, but he's a charmer and there's not a female from 8 to 80 that isn't gaga for him in our New York apartment building! Talk about picking up where his dad left off! Hope you stay safe. We miss you terribly. Love, Jackie"

Surely this was just an elaborate hoax so that an ancient schemer could have a laugh at the expense of a gullible Canadian!

I wondered why anyone would go to the trouble of engineering such an elaborate setup. Where was his vantage point - was he observing my anguish from the 6th floor of the Texas School Book Depository?

Fortunately, when I got back and recounted the story to my pal Dapper, he said, "You've been breathing too many exhaust fumes! Conspiracy? What conspiracy? Don't you read the papers? The Warren Commission concluded without a shadow of a doubt that JFK was killed by a lone gunman, Lee Harvey Oswald!"

I was so fortunate that I'd decided to discuss my experience with Dapper! I'll never tell my story to another soul!

But I'm still puzzled about one thing. The envelope of the letter dropped by the person whom I'd called Camelot, the envelope addressed to a Mr John MacPherson in Dallas, Texas, had Jackie's personalized JFK JBK stamp, a stamp used only by her and no one else.