The Oshawa Whackers had a season unlike any professional team had ever had in any sport at anytime. They went from a dismal last place finish last year in the Ontario Hockey League to a nearly undefeated season. The franchise had to thank Otto Werner for the turn of events.
Otto was born and raised in Kitchener, Ontario and came from a long line of Germans going back to Prussia. Otto’s grandfather jokingly told Otto at a young age that their family was related to Bismarck and for that reason Otto was named after his great, great uncle by marriage on his mother’s side; Otto Von Bismarck.
At a young age, Otto believed he was born special because he was German and a descendant of the man who was responsible for unifying most of the German-speaking people.
Otto like all young Canadian boys, learned to play hockey and he excelled at it. Otto made it all the way to the NHL and did well at the top level of the hockey world until he was forced to quit due to concussions. Otto had well over five solid concussions during his two years of NHL hockey. Since leaving the NHL, Otto became a coach who knocked around all over Canada at various levels. Otto coached for a few years at Waterloo University and it was while he was at the school that he received a BA in philosophy. At the age of fifty, Otto was the picture of health and virility. Otto ate well, played hockey five days a week, lifted weights, listened to Wagner and studied Friedrich Nietzsche as if he was a god and that is sort of funny since Nietzsche claimed god was dead or worse, never was.
Before the championship game with a 3-0 lead over Guelph after at 74-6 season, Otto made love twice to a young female student who came from a farming community in western Ontario. She read passages of Nietzsche while Otto did pushups naked. Rather than touch his chin to the ground, when his flaccid cock hit the ground, Otto would spring back up. Melanie, with her exposed swollen breasts, full of life, sat on the bed reading a poem out loud which was written by Richard Wagner while Ride of the Valkyries blared on the an actual phonograph.
Is this still German?
Out of a German heart, this sultry screeching?
A German body, this self-laceration?
German, this priestly affectation,
The insense-perfumed sensual Preaching?
Otto stopped Melanie who was not reading the poem as if it was a question but rather a statement. Otto popped two pain pills to stop what he described as broken glass pressing against his brain. Without the pain pills, it felt like shards of glass were digging into his skull. After a glass of German white wine and two pain pills, rough sex and a shower, Otto left for the arena. The young men filed in and began stretching out and taping their sticks. Otto entered wearing a suit with his hands in his pockets. His black hair was slicked back and his eyes made him look as if he was somewhere else all together. The players thought their coach was a whack job and that moniker would be fitting for a hockey coach of a team called The Whackers.
“Between good and evil… Lays victory. Several thousand people from this town will come today to see a victory… A man who says, “I like this, I take this for my own and want to protect it and defend it against anybody”. This is what I have sought in each and every one of you all season long. You trusted me and I believed in you. With so much starvation in the world, what will this victory ultimately mean in the larger scheme of things? Well, not a fucking thing actually to anyone but us. You become a permanent statistic in a book and on a cup so that when we leave this place, it will be noted that on this day, we did something that meant something to several thousand residents of this town and to every man who put everything into achieving something tangible and something memorable. We are less than tiny grains of sand in a cosmos we cannot begin to grasp and yet I must tell you that of all the things in this life that you could undertake, playing ice hockey is among the noblest of occupations. It is a secret we hold dear to our hearts and is our national treasure. It is more than a sport, it is life itself. For those who toil at menial tasks for a pittance to sustain themselves, they always come back to the arena to honour and appreciate those who have mastered the art of working together for a common goal and a greater good which is hockey. Every attainment, every step forward follows from courage, from hardness against oneself. There is an innocence in admiration; it is found in those to whom it has never yet occurred that they, too might be admired someday… Simply put, finish off these suffering Guelph bastards. They couldn’t hold your jocks at a Sunday mass. You all are aware of where you stand in the history of modern day sports if you win this game. Where we go from here is not as important today as what we can and will achieve… Fucking bury them and then say a prayer.”
The Whackers won handily and the coach who was a cross between Adolph Hitler and Vince Lombardi, quietly slipped away during all the celebrating. At a hotel off route 401 that runs from north of Toronto to Windsor, a fire broke out. This fire was a magnificent blaze that took firemen from several small towns to help extinguish. News reporters arrived at the scene to interview those that were able to escape. One of the survivors was a man by the name of Otto Werner. He wore a white robe and had his arm around two young women that looked young enough to be his daughters only they weren’t. The news reporter recognized Otto and asked Otto if he was relieved that he made it out alive and then asked what he was doing in a hotel in a town that he lived in. Otto never took his arms off of the young women that were shy in front of the cameras. Otto smiled and grasped the shoulders of the two young women and then kissed them both on their cheeks before speaking.
“Around the hero, everything turns to tragedy…”
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
A Letter From My Son's Hockey Coach or Darwin Was Right
Parents, Please be advised starting with our next game (Jan. 21st) I will go back to having 5 defence and 9 forwards. This will address any issues we have had with trying to keep ice time balanced during a game. In the event we are short players for a game I will do the best I can as a volunteer coach to try and keep it as fair as possible to all our players. This means I will roll the lines to get as even as possible skating time for each child, regardless of how other teams “match” our lines . TRANSLATION- YOU SIGNED UP FOR PARK DISTRICT ICE HOCKEY. THIS IS NOT AAA OR AA AND SO THE PARK DISTRICT HAS PUT A GUN TO MY HEAD BECAUSE OF YOUR COMPLAINTS AND SO I HAVE AGREED TO PLAY EVER KID AS EQUITABLY AS POSSIBLE. IF ANY OF YOUR KIDS EVER MAKE A AAA OR AA LEVEL, YOU WILL SEE WHAT INEQUITABLE IS ALL ABOUT DESPITE THE FACT THAT THE COST FOR YOUR CHILD TO PLAY BETWEEN SEPTEMBER AND APRIL IS EQUIVALENT TO BUYING A USED AUTOMOBILE EACH YEAR OR TAKING A HAWAIIAN VACATION FOR A MONTH. KEEP THAT IN MIND WHEN YOU ARE CRYING.
It has always been my intent to try and keep everyone’s ice time as close as possible while trying to keep competitive with other teams. It is not an easy task to try and get the kids off the ice for a shift change while play is going on. I am always open to suggestions that any one might have , about ANYTHING . If there are any parents that would like to assist in working the bench during a game I would be more than happy to oblige. TRANSLATION- I WILL GIVE YOUR FAT ASS A STOP WATCH AND TELL YOU THAT YOU NEED TO GIVE EACH PLAYER ON THE TEAM EXACTLY 15 MINUTES OF PLAYING TIME AND YOU CANNOT CHEAT AND GIVE YOUR BORED, UNINSPIRED, SPOILED, TALENTLESS LITTLE BRAT, ONE SECOND MORE OF PLAYING TIME THAN ANY OTHERS. WHEN YOU THROW YOUR HANDS UP AND TELL ME IT IS IMPOSSIBLE, I WILL PAT YOU ON THE BACK, GIVE YOU A HAPPY MEAL AND RECOMMEND THAT YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR THE DURATION OF THE SEASON.
Please contact me with any concerns you may have regardless of what they might be . Don’t forget that we follow the 24 hour rule for any complaints to any of the coaches. The intent of that rule is to prevent any “heated” discussions that may cause hard feelings , not to give you time to forget the problem . Level heads solve more problems than hot ones ! Hockey is a journey , not a destination- TRANSLATION- I HAVE A MILLION OTHER THINGS GOING ON IN MY LIFE OTHER THAN COACHING THIS TEAM FOR NO MONEY. I DECIDED TO COACH THIS TEAM BECAUSE MY NIECE IS THE ONLY GIRL PLAYING ON AN ALL BOY SQUAD AND WANTED TO ENSURE THAT HER EXPERIENCE WAS AS POSITIVE AS POSSIBLE GIVEN THAT YOUR HORMONE DRIVEN LITTLE FUCKS ARE THINKING ABOUT LINING HER UP A WHOLE HELL OF A LOT MORE THAN PUTTING A HIT ON AN OPPOSING PLAYER DURING A GAME. WITH THAT IN MIND, WE CAN DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS AFTER 24 HOURS SO THAT I AM NOT TEMPTED TO ASK YOU TO STEP OUT TO THE PARKING LOT AFTER THE NEXT PRACTICE. I’D ALSO LIKE TO RECOMMEND THAT YOUR SON TAKE UP GOLF BECAUSE THERE IS A LOT LESS PASSING IN GOLF AND HE WON’T HAVE TO FEAR BEING HIT UNLESS HIS ASS IS STANDING ON THE FAIRWAY. I AM FULLY AWARE THAT YOU FEEL YOU COULD COACH THE TEAM A WHOLE LOT BETTER THAN ME. BASED ON THE PARENT/PLAYER GAME THAT WE HAD BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I WOULD HAVE TO CONCLUDE THAT YOU NEVER PLAYED AND ALTHOUGH YOU HAVE SEASON TICKETS TO SEE AN NHL TEAM, I SUSPECT YOU ARE WATCHING THE BEER VENDOR MORE THAN STUDYING THE GAME ENOUGH TO VOICE AN OPINION WORTH CONSIDERING. REMEMBER WHAT DEAN WORMER ONCE SAID IN THE MOVIE ANIMAL HOUSE? “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son” - DON’T BE THAT PERSON.
I hope it will become a life long love your child can someday share with their own kids . There are many skills he will learn along the way . Some children pick up the game easier than others, that doesn’t mean they can’t all have the same amount of fun. See you at the rink- Coach Bob-TRANSLATION- YOUR KID WILL HAVE KIDS ONE DAY PROVIDED THERE ISN’T OCEAN FRONT PROPERTY IN KANSAS WITHIN THE NEXT TWENTY YEARS AND WE GO OUT LIKE THE DINOSAURS. I HOPE YOUR CHILD REMEMBERS YOUR SCREAMING AND BERATING YOU GAVE HIM FROM THE STANDS AND SHUTS HIS FUCKING MOUTH AND JUST SITS AND WATCHES THE GAME. YOUR SON WILL NOT BE IN THE NHL UNLESS HE CHOOSES TO WORK AS AN USHER AND SIT PEOPLE AT AN ARENA. THAT IS AS CLOSE AS HE WILL GET TO WORKING AT AN NHL ARENA. I WOULD SUGGEST YOU ALL READ UP ON DARWIN. YOU MAY GET BORED AND SINCE YOU REALLY DON’T READ MUCH OR UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE READING, PLEASE READ RE-READ. I WOULD STICK TO THE INHERITENCE OF ACQUIRED CHARACTERISTICS. THIS WILL EXPLAIN A LOT TO YOU ABOUT NATURAL SELECTION, SURVIVAL OF THE FITEST AND THAT PHYSIOLOGICAL CHANGES ACQUIRED OVER THE LIFE OF AN ORGANISM MAY BE TRANSMITTED TO OFFSPRING- FURTHER TRANSLATION- WE CANNOT PICK OUR PARENTS. IF YOU ARE UNATHLETIC AND SLOW, DON’T EXPECT TOO MUCH FROM YOUR SON… WHATEVER… I’LL SEE YOU AT THE RINK- COACH BOB
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It has always been my intent to try and keep everyone’s ice time as close as possible while trying to keep competitive with other teams. It is not an easy task to try and get the kids off the ice for a shift change while play is going on. I am always open to suggestions that any one might have , about ANYTHING . If there are any parents that would like to assist in working the bench during a game I would be more than happy to oblige. TRANSLATION- I WILL GIVE YOUR FAT ASS A STOP WATCH AND TELL YOU THAT YOU NEED TO GIVE EACH PLAYER ON THE TEAM EXACTLY 15 MINUTES OF PLAYING TIME AND YOU CANNOT CHEAT AND GIVE YOUR BORED, UNINSPIRED, SPOILED, TALENTLESS LITTLE BRAT, ONE SECOND MORE OF PLAYING TIME THAN ANY OTHERS. WHEN YOU THROW YOUR HANDS UP AND TELL ME IT IS IMPOSSIBLE, I WILL PAT YOU ON THE BACK, GIVE YOU A HAPPY MEAL AND RECOMMEND THAT YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR THE DURATION OF THE SEASON.
Please contact me with any concerns you may have regardless of what they might be . Don’t forget that we follow the 24 hour rule for any complaints to any of the coaches. The intent of that rule is to prevent any “heated” discussions that may cause hard feelings , not to give you time to forget the problem . Level heads solve more problems than hot ones ! Hockey is a journey , not a destination- TRANSLATION- I HAVE A MILLION OTHER THINGS GOING ON IN MY LIFE OTHER THAN COACHING THIS TEAM FOR NO MONEY. I DECIDED TO COACH THIS TEAM BECAUSE MY NIECE IS THE ONLY GIRL PLAYING ON AN ALL BOY SQUAD AND WANTED TO ENSURE THAT HER EXPERIENCE WAS AS POSITIVE AS POSSIBLE GIVEN THAT YOUR HORMONE DRIVEN LITTLE FUCKS ARE THINKING ABOUT LINING HER UP A WHOLE HELL OF A LOT MORE THAN PUTTING A HIT ON AN OPPOSING PLAYER DURING A GAME. WITH THAT IN MIND, WE CAN DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS AFTER 24 HOURS SO THAT I AM NOT TEMPTED TO ASK YOU TO STEP OUT TO THE PARKING LOT AFTER THE NEXT PRACTICE. I’D ALSO LIKE TO RECOMMEND THAT YOUR SON TAKE UP GOLF BECAUSE THERE IS A LOT LESS PASSING IN GOLF AND HE WON’T HAVE TO FEAR BEING HIT UNLESS HIS ASS IS STANDING ON THE FAIRWAY. I AM FULLY AWARE THAT YOU FEEL YOU COULD COACH THE TEAM A WHOLE LOT BETTER THAN ME. BASED ON THE PARENT/PLAYER GAME THAT WE HAD BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I WOULD HAVE TO CONCLUDE THAT YOU NEVER PLAYED AND ALTHOUGH YOU HAVE SEASON TICKETS TO SEE AN NHL TEAM, I SUSPECT YOU ARE WATCHING THE BEER VENDOR MORE THAN STUDYING THE GAME ENOUGH TO VOICE AN OPINION WORTH CONSIDERING. REMEMBER WHAT DEAN WORMER ONCE SAID IN THE MOVIE ANIMAL HOUSE? “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son” - DON’T BE THAT PERSON.
I hope it will become a life long love your child can someday share with their own kids . There are many skills he will learn along the way . Some children pick up the game easier than others, that doesn’t mean they can’t all have the same amount of fun. See you at the rink- Coach Bob-TRANSLATION- YOUR KID WILL HAVE KIDS ONE DAY PROVIDED THERE ISN’T OCEAN FRONT PROPERTY IN KANSAS WITHIN THE NEXT TWENTY YEARS AND WE GO OUT LIKE THE DINOSAURS. I HOPE YOUR CHILD REMEMBERS YOUR SCREAMING AND BERATING YOU GAVE HIM FROM THE STANDS AND SHUTS HIS FUCKING MOUTH AND JUST SITS AND WATCHES THE GAME. YOUR SON WILL NOT BE IN THE NHL UNLESS HE CHOOSES TO WORK AS AN USHER AND SIT PEOPLE AT AN ARENA. THAT IS AS CLOSE AS HE WILL GET TO WORKING AT AN NHL ARENA. I WOULD SUGGEST YOU ALL READ UP ON DARWIN. YOU MAY GET BORED AND SINCE YOU REALLY DON’T READ MUCH OR UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE READING, PLEASE READ RE-READ. I WOULD STICK TO THE INHERITENCE OF ACQUIRED CHARACTERISTICS. THIS WILL EXPLAIN A LOT TO YOU ABOUT NATURAL SELECTION, SURVIVAL OF THE FITEST AND THAT PHYSIOLOGICAL CHANGES ACQUIRED OVER THE LIFE OF AN ORGANISM MAY BE TRANSMITTED TO OFFSPRING- FURTHER TRANSLATION- WE CANNOT PICK OUR PARENTS. IF YOU ARE UNATHLETIC AND SLOW, DON’T EXPECT TOO MUCH FROM YOUR SON… WHATEVER… I’LL SEE YOU AT THE RINK- COACH BOB
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Saturday, November 12, 2011
The Beat Your Ass Cafe
Patrice Fort was born and raised in a really small town that most people never heard of in Alberta. For those of you in the states, Alberta is a province, which is sort of like a state except that it is not a state. The Fort family slowly moved from the Plaines of Abraham near Quebec City and over the years kept moving west like the Mormons in search of a new town called Springfield. The Forts wound up in no place Alberta.
Fort, if you know the French language, means strong and Patrice was the epitome of a Cro-Magnon man of the modern age. Patrice was a hair over six feet tall and weighed 250 lbs. Patrice was a solid mass of muscle like a human pit-bull. At a young age, Patrice learned that his ice hockey skills were mediocre at best. Patrice was not fast and did not make the best decisions on the ice nor did he have the best shot. Patrice was able to fight and from the age of thirteen, Patrice never lost a fight.
The thing that scared people most about Patrice when they were faced with fighting him was that there was no anger or malice. It was just something he was born and bred to do and so he would pummel opponents who messed with the premier players on whatever team he happened to be playing on. It was during juniors that life suddenly changed for Patrice.
Patrice’s Quebec junior team had gone south to New York City to play in a tournament sponsored by some bank that no longer exists in the states. Patrice had never been to a city as large as New York and had never imagined so much humanity crammed into such a small space in a place like Manhattan. Patrice went into a Starbucks and ordered a tall hot chocolate and watched the unique people that walked down the sidewalk near Times Square. From the Starbucks window, for Patrice it was like watching a freak show at the circus. There were so many different types of people, in varying sizes and shapes. An older woman of about sixty years of age came up and spoke to Patrice in a way he had never heard before. Even though the woman was older, she was shapely and confident.
“Many years have come and gone man and you’re one of the last relics of the Neanderthal period, man. All swelled up with muscles and I suppose you never took one supplement… Man, dig that crazy tune.”
Herbie Hancock was playing Cantaloupe Island over the speakers in the Starbucks. The woman put her hand on Patrice’s large forearm and closed her eyes as the song played. Patrice looked at the strange woman and sort of dug the tune that softly played.
“People are always saying that this or that is the shit. I’m here to tell you that this is the true shit, man. You weren’t around when this shit was devised. People were swinging to Benny Goodman and then cats like Herbie came round and opened people’s eyes to music that could speak without words. 1964, we all thought the world would end, man. Kennedy killed and a cowboy with his hands on the nuclear button, man. Beatles came and what did they say? They said too much but listen to this here, man. I know you can feel it, cave man, baby… I bet you’re hung like a horse.”
It was the first time that Patrice had ever had sex with a woman and the woman was older than his own mother and twice as shapely. There were very few sags and lumps on the old Beatnik woman. They made love, if you want to call it that, several time over the course of an afternoon while listening to cool Jazz and hearing the woman read Beat Poetry by Ginsberg and Kerouac. Patrice left the small basement apartment in Manhattan and was never the same.
As the years went on, teammates came to understand that Patrice was a bit out there but they respected the difference. And wouldn’t respect a man who could kill them with his bare hands. On planes and trains, Patrice listened to Coltrane, Miles Davis and Thelonius Monk through earphones and wrote poetry.
What colour is blue when the sky is gray. Walk down the streets of Detroit like I came from Mars, come to visit bars full of coulorful coloured folk and they think they know me because the press wants to own me, ride me, pride me like a pony and it’s phony. Won’t eat gluten. I’m free like Putin who wants to keep Russia from anarchy after the fall of The Wall and Soviet dynamo. The Red Army Team came to town when I was young. Ate biscuits and drank coffee in a vast land. I followed the road from Alberta to everywhere, man. Everywhere is nowhere and yet I’m somewhere between where I should be and where I am. Sit in the shade sipping wine no words to this Monk tune that rolls through my mind. If the colour blue is true, I hold out hope for me and you… Coltrane, last train try in vain… Gonna sit outside in Portugal or Spain and write a few words on the balcony in the rain… Rinse and repeat that, Cat.
Now to you and I, words strung together such as this meant little or nothing. A long stream of unconsciousness. Patrice was traded from Phoenix, to San Jose to Boston and then went to Nashville and landed in Detroit at minimum wage for the NHL. The Detroit Red Wings were a finesse team that really did not need a lug or a goon to go out and fight to protect the true hockey players of the team. The fighters were an outdated necessity from days gone by of clutch and grab hockey a la Philadelphia in the 1970’s. Detroit grabbed Patrice and never really played him until one day against Chicago, a heated rival who happened to be winning the game and taunted the Detroit team. The Detroit coach, Mike Babcock, nodded to Patrice, who on his first shift, beat up two Chicago players and mistakenly punched a referee. From that point on, Patrice had a home in the hearts of Detroit Red Wing fans.
Most people don’t know the story behind the finger snapping when Patrice takes the ice. To those from out of town or watching on Versus, it may sound like the theme from the Adams Family is being played. Before long, large groups of Beatnik poetry types who frequented Patrice’s café in the Detroit suburb of Hamtramck, began going to Detroit Red Wing games, wearing jerseys that had the name FORT on the back. Scruffy faced young men who appeared to be anti-sports, showed up wearing Red Wing jerseys, snapping their fingers violently whenever Patrice got on the ice or fought. Before long, everyone got in on the act. It was like throwing octopus on the ice.
After home games in Hamtramck on Jos Campau there is a Beatnik café where people drink and read poetry to Jazz. It is called, Beat Your Ass Café. It is nothing more than an old Polish watering hole that Patrice bought to host poetry readings and feature live Jazz. On the walls are pictures of some of Patrice’s best fights with the dates and names of opponents. Patrice usually appears after games and reads his latest poetry while young Jazz musicians play behind him and others. It is standing room only after Red Wing games. Dig that.
Fort, if you know the French language, means strong and Patrice was the epitome of a Cro-Magnon man of the modern age. Patrice was a hair over six feet tall and weighed 250 lbs. Patrice was a solid mass of muscle like a human pit-bull. At a young age, Patrice learned that his ice hockey skills were mediocre at best. Patrice was not fast and did not make the best decisions on the ice nor did he have the best shot. Patrice was able to fight and from the age of thirteen, Patrice never lost a fight.
The thing that scared people most about Patrice when they were faced with fighting him was that there was no anger or malice. It was just something he was born and bred to do and so he would pummel opponents who messed with the premier players on whatever team he happened to be playing on. It was during juniors that life suddenly changed for Patrice.
Patrice’s Quebec junior team had gone south to New York City to play in a tournament sponsored by some bank that no longer exists in the states. Patrice had never been to a city as large as New York and had never imagined so much humanity crammed into such a small space in a place like Manhattan. Patrice went into a Starbucks and ordered a tall hot chocolate and watched the unique people that walked down the sidewalk near Times Square. From the Starbucks window, for Patrice it was like watching a freak show at the circus. There were so many different types of people, in varying sizes and shapes. An older woman of about sixty years of age came up and spoke to Patrice in a way he had never heard before. Even though the woman was older, she was shapely and confident.
“Many years have come and gone man and you’re one of the last relics of the Neanderthal period, man. All swelled up with muscles and I suppose you never took one supplement… Man, dig that crazy tune.”
Herbie Hancock was playing Cantaloupe Island over the speakers in the Starbucks. The woman put her hand on Patrice’s large forearm and closed her eyes as the song played. Patrice looked at the strange woman and sort of dug the tune that softly played.
“People are always saying that this or that is the shit. I’m here to tell you that this is the true shit, man. You weren’t around when this shit was devised. People were swinging to Benny Goodman and then cats like Herbie came round and opened people’s eyes to music that could speak without words. 1964, we all thought the world would end, man. Kennedy killed and a cowboy with his hands on the nuclear button, man. Beatles came and what did they say? They said too much but listen to this here, man. I know you can feel it, cave man, baby… I bet you’re hung like a horse.”
It was the first time that Patrice had ever had sex with a woman and the woman was older than his own mother and twice as shapely. There were very few sags and lumps on the old Beatnik woman. They made love, if you want to call it that, several time over the course of an afternoon while listening to cool Jazz and hearing the woman read Beat Poetry by Ginsberg and Kerouac. Patrice left the small basement apartment in Manhattan and was never the same.
As the years went on, teammates came to understand that Patrice was a bit out there but they respected the difference. And wouldn’t respect a man who could kill them with his bare hands. On planes and trains, Patrice listened to Coltrane, Miles Davis and Thelonius Monk through earphones and wrote poetry.
What colour is blue when the sky is gray. Walk down the streets of Detroit like I came from Mars, come to visit bars full of coulorful coloured folk and they think they know me because the press wants to own me, ride me, pride me like a pony and it’s phony. Won’t eat gluten. I’m free like Putin who wants to keep Russia from anarchy after the fall of The Wall and Soviet dynamo. The Red Army Team came to town when I was young. Ate biscuits and drank coffee in a vast land. I followed the road from Alberta to everywhere, man. Everywhere is nowhere and yet I’m somewhere between where I should be and where I am. Sit in the shade sipping wine no words to this Monk tune that rolls through my mind. If the colour blue is true, I hold out hope for me and you… Coltrane, last train try in vain… Gonna sit outside in Portugal or Spain and write a few words on the balcony in the rain… Rinse and repeat that, Cat.
Now to you and I, words strung together such as this meant little or nothing. A long stream of unconsciousness. Patrice was traded from Phoenix, to San Jose to Boston and then went to Nashville and landed in Detroit at minimum wage for the NHL. The Detroit Red Wings were a finesse team that really did not need a lug or a goon to go out and fight to protect the true hockey players of the team. The fighters were an outdated necessity from days gone by of clutch and grab hockey a la Philadelphia in the 1970’s. Detroit grabbed Patrice and never really played him until one day against Chicago, a heated rival who happened to be winning the game and taunted the Detroit team. The Detroit coach, Mike Babcock, nodded to Patrice, who on his first shift, beat up two Chicago players and mistakenly punched a referee. From that point on, Patrice had a home in the hearts of Detroit Red Wing fans.
Most people don’t know the story behind the finger snapping when Patrice takes the ice. To those from out of town or watching on Versus, it may sound like the theme from the Adams Family is being played. Before long, large groups of Beatnik poetry types who frequented Patrice’s café in the Detroit suburb of Hamtramck, began going to Detroit Red Wing games, wearing jerseys that had the name FORT on the back. Scruffy faced young men who appeared to be anti-sports, showed up wearing Red Wing jerseys, snapping their fingers violently whenever Patrice got on the ice or fought. Before long, everyone got in on the act. It was like throwing octopus on the ice.
After home games in Hamtramck on Jos Campau there is a Beatnik café where people drink and read poetry to Jazz. It is called, Beat Your Ass Café. It is nothing more than an old Polish watering hole that Patrice bought to host poetry readings and feature live Jazz. On the walls are pictures of some of Patrice’s best fights with the dates and names of opponents. Patrice usually appears after games and reads his latest poetry while young Jazz musicians play behind him and others. It is standing room only after Red Wing games. Dig that.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
My Night with Toula
Men and women play organized recreational ice hockey for different reasons, primarily because they love the game. Secondly, I believe it is like joining fraternal orders in the past. The Moose, Masons, Elks and so on. Men love women but occasionally need to fraternize with other men. I suspect it is similar for women too.
For me, I would much rather play pick up/shinny/rat hockey than play on a team. More often than not, a team will have over ten guys and at thirteen to fifteen guys, it is more sitting than playing. The hurry-up-I- wanna-get-home attitude of many referees who refuse to blow icing or let just about anything short of decapitation take place so that they don’t have to blow their whistle, puts me more on edge than I need be. Be all that as it may, invitations come up periodically to fill in for absent paid players and I usually answer the call.
A team of police officers needed a fill in one night and so I opted to grab my gear and head over to the local rink after all the youth teams had skated, some time before midnight on a week night. I can’t tell you if we won or lost. Most games are pretty unremarkable for the most part unless one scores a hat trick, gets hurt or has a good fight. None of the above occurred for me.
The cops held court at a particular bar after games and so I accompanied them for the proverbial “one”. I surmised that men primarily join teams more for the fraternity than for calorie burning. Buckets of beer flowed for over an hour. The average was about a six pack per player. At 150 calories per bottle, that is about 900 calories of liquid and that does not include the nachos with cheese, chili and sour cream. I had a good time listening to tales of drunk driving, stopping strippers from a local strip club, wife beaters, bank robbers, speeders, thieves and so on. These men day in and day out see the worst of the worst among us. I mixed glasses of Merlot with Sangria so that each was not too bitter or too sweet. After about an hour, one of each drink arrived at the table compliments of a smiling woman with a pool cue in her hand. She smiled at me and lifted her eyebrows. The cops all kidded me and I rolled with it. Had the woman been beautiful, there would have been no kidding but I was being pursued by a woman twice my size. I politely raised both glasses to her from across the room as a gesture of gratitude. After almost two hours of the lively art of conversation, I decided it was time to leave before I couldn’t leave as I was nearly drunk at that point. I may have been already drunk come to think of it.
As I walked towards my car, a black Trans-Am circa 1984, rumbled towards me. The tinted window dropped and inside was my plus sized suitor. She asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I giggled at the invitation. More often than not, it is a man who sends a drink across a bar to a female that has caught his eye and times the departure of the female so that he can offer a ride or a phone number. It was a week day and I was due at work in less than six hours but decided that going for a ride was going to be worth it. There was a better than even chance that I was going to be calling in sick.
We drove to another bar in a blue collar area of the city to have another drink or maybe two or three. We played pool against a couple of men who were dead serious about their pool playing. My date single handedly destroyed them without any help from me. At stake was a round of drinks and we won. On top of the several drinks that I had downed with the cops and several more at the second bar, I had downed well over two thousand calories of liquid and found that when I turned my head, my vision had a two second delay. What I learned and retained about the woman prior to incoherence was that her name was Toula and that she was Greek, never married and in her thirties. She played competitive pool regularly and had a nephew of high school age that played ice hockey. What Toula learned about me was that I played ice hockey, coached ice hockey, owned a few ice hockey pro shops and played music
Upon reaching my car, I had to divulge to Toula that I was unable to drive home. Being a good Greek girl who was not married, Toula lived at home with her parents so going to her house was out of the question. I told Toula that we should just go to my apartment. Toula scanned my apartment to try and gather what I was about by studying my belongings. She saw the poster of Marlon Brando from the 1950’s on a motorcycle, books about philosophy, every book written by Kurt Vonnegut and anthologies by H.L. Mencken, my couch, television and full sized acoustic bass in the dining room all by itself on a stand. There stood my giant violin alone. I do recall Toula asking me to play it. I not only played it, I sang. I did this for probably a few minutes and then I don’t remember anything else.
I woke up some hours later and the sun felt as if it had been up for a good part of the day. I had a good headache going and was dehydrated. I didn’t move at first because it hurt my eyes to blink. I used my peripheral vision to see if I had in fact brought back home the woman who had purchased me a drink. She was lying on her side, facing me with the palm of her hand supporting her head.
“Good morning, sleepy head…”
I had no choice but to acknowledge her presence. I was missing my shirt and could feel cool sheets against my legs but wasn’t sure if I was wearing anything at all. I reached down by hand to confirm that I had at least underwear on and I did. I must have had a confused look on my face about a few things from the night before and so Toula filled in the blanks.
“Um let’s see… You played the bass for me after you took off your shirt and pants. I told you that you looked like Mogli from the Jungle Book and you sang, “I wanna be like you” until I helped you into bed,” said Toula.
I could have excused myself and went to the washroom to examine myself for any hints of sexual activity upon my person during the two minute long morning urination but instead I posed a question with my eyes. Did we consummate the evening? How did it all work? Was I any good? Are you on birth control?
“You wanna know if we did something now, don’t you? Well it wouldn’t be fair to tell you at this point… Why don’t you put on some clothes and we can get breakfast.”
We talked about many different things and I realized that she was really a nice person who was funny and quite easy to talk to. I suspected her size was an impediment to finding any sort of quality male and to me that was sad. Toula was funny and intelligent and had her act together. The only thing she lacked was a physique that would draw men to her. We ate breakfast and I was returned to the place I had parked my car the night before. I hugged Toula and told her I had a great night. She didn’t ask for my number or to see me again. She roared off in her Pontiac and I never saw her again… Until.
After coaching a game one night, I left the locker room after the game and walked through the lobby where the parents were waiting for their boys to shower and go home. I rarely stopped to talk to the parents because accessibility breeds unnecessary problems. I really don’t care to hear what parents think and if you listen to one, others soon chime in.
One of the mothers of one of my players who was really quite attractive, stopped me to introduce me to her sister. I was surprised and stunned to the point of not being able to speak.
“My sister Toula wanted to meet you…”
I shook Toula’s hand. She winked and told me that it was very nice to have met me. All I could say was it was very nice to have met her too.
One game on last night and it was a beauty in Detroit. An overtime win for Detroit over Phoenix that could have gone either way like last year’s playoffs. Lidstrom has nine straight games of at least a point. That sort of effort is what Detroit will need if they want to reclaim the cup. That and Howard will have to come up big at key times. Six goals against will not cut it.
For me, I would much rather play pick up/shinny/rat hockey than play on a team. More often than not, a team will have over ten guys and at thirteen to fifteen guys, it is more sitting than playing. The hurry-up-I- wanna-get-home attitude of many referees who refuse to blow icing or let just about anything short of decapitation take place so that they don’t have to blow their whistle, puts me more on edge than I need be. Be all that as it may, invitations come up periodically to fill in for absent paid players and I usually answer the call.
A team of police officers needed a fill in one night and so I opted to grab my gear and head over to the local rink after all the youth teams had skated, some time before midnight on a week night. I can’t tell you if we won or lost. Most games are pretty unremarkable for the most part unless one scores a hat trick, gets hurt or has a good fight. None of the above occurred for me.
The cops held court at a particular bar after games and so I accompanied them for the proverbial “one”. I surmised that men primarily join teams more for the fraternity than for calorie burning. Buckets of beer flowed for over an hour. The average was about a six pack per player. At 150 calories per bottle, that is about 900 calories of liquid and that does not include the nachos with cheese, chili and sour cream. I had a good time listening to tales of drunk driving, stopping strippers from a local strip club, wife beaters, bank robbers, speeders, thieves and so on. These men day in and day out see the worst of the worst among us. I mixed glasses of Merlot with Sangria so that each was not too bitter or too sweet. After about an hour, one of each drink arrived at the table compliments of a smiling woman with a pool cue in her hand. She smiled at me and lifted her eyebrows. The cops all kidded me and I rolled with it. Had the woman been beautiful, there would have been no kidding but I was being pursued by a woman twice my size. I politely raised both glasses to her from across the room as a gesture of gratitude. After almost two hours of the lively art of conversation, I decided it was time to leave before I couldn’t leave as I was nearly drunk at that point. I may have been already drunk come to think of it.
As I walked towards my car, a black Trans-Am circa 1984, rumbled towards me. The tinted window dropped and inside was my plus sized suitor. She asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I giggled at the invitation. More often than not, it is a man who sends a drink across a bar to a female that has caught his eye and times the departure of the female so that he can offer a ride or a phone number. It was a week day and I was due at work in less than six hours but decided that going for a ride was going to be worth it. There was a better than even chance that I was going to be calling in sick.
We drove to another bar in a blue collar area of the city to have another drink or maybe two or three. We played pool against a couple of men who were dead serious about their pool playing. My date single handedly destroyed them without any help from me. At stake was a round of drinks and we won. On top of the several drinks that I had downed with the cops and several more at the second bar, I had downed well over two thousand calories of liquid and found that when I turned my head, my vision had a two second delay. What I learned and retained about the woman prior to incoherence was that her name was Toula and that she was Greek, never married and in her thirties. She played competitive pool regularly and had a nephew of high school age that played ice hockey. What Toula learned about me was that I played ice hockey, coached ice hockey, owned a few ice hockey pro shops and played music
Upon reaching my car, I had to divulge to Toula that I was unable to drive home. Being a good Greek girl who was not married, Toula lived at home with her parents so going to her house was out of the question. I told Toula that we should just go to my apartment. Toula scanned my apartment to try and gather what I was about by studying my belongings. She saw the poster of Marlon Brando from the 1950’s on a motorcycle, books about philosophy, every book written by Kurt Vonnegut and anthologies by H.L. Mencken, my couch, television and full sized acoustic bass in the dining room all by itself on a stand. There stood my giant violin alone. I do recall Toula asking me to play it. I not only played it, I sang. I did this for probably a few minutes and then I don’t remember anything else.
I woke up some hours later and the sun felt as if it had been up for a good part of the day. I had a good headache going and was dehydrated. I didn’t move at first because it hurt my eyes to blink. I used my peripheral vision to see if I had in fact brought back home the woman who had purchased me a drink. She was lying on her side, facing me with the palm of her hand supporting her head.
“Good morning, sleepy head…”
I had no choice but to acknowledge her presence. I was missing my shirt and could feel cool sheets against my legs but wasn’t sure if I was wearing anything at all. I reached down by hand to confirm that I had at least underwear on and I did. I must have had a confused look on my face about a few things from the night before and so Toula filled in the blanks.
“Um let’s see… You played the bass for me after you took off your shirt and pants. I told you that you looked like Mogli from the Jungle Book and you sang, “I wanna be like you” until I helped you into bed,” said Toula.
I could have excused myself and went to the washroom to examine myself for any hints of sexual activity upon my person during the two minute long morning urination but instead I posed a question with my eyes. Did we consummate the evening? How did it all work? Was I any good? Are you on birth control?
“You wanna know if we did something now, don’t you? Well it wouldn’t be fair to tell you at this point… Why don’t you put on some clothes and we can get breakfast.”
We talked about many different things and I realized that she was really a nice person who was funny and quite easy to talk to. I suspected her size was an impediment to finding any sort of quality male and to me that was sad. Toula was funny and intelligent and had her act together. The only thing she lacked was a physique that would draw men to her. We ate breakfast and I was returned to the place I had parked my car the night before. I hugged Toula and told her I had a great night. She didn’t ask for my number or to see me again. She roared off in her Pontiac and I never saw her again… Until.
After coaching a game one night, I left the locker room after the game and walked through the lobby where the parents were waiting for their boys to shower and go home. I rarely stopped to talk to the parents because accessibility breeds unnecessary problems. I really don’t care to hear what parents think and if you listen to one, others soon chime in.
One of the mothers of one of my players who was really quite attractive, stopped me to introduce me to her sister. I was surprised and stunned to the point of not being able to speak.
“My sister Toula wanted to meet you…”
I shook Toula’s hand. She winked and told me that it was very nice to have met me. All I could say was it was very nice to have met her too.
One game on last night and it was a beauty in Detroit. An overtime win for Detroit over Phoenix that could have gone either way like last year’s playoffs. Lidstrom has nine straight games of at least a point. That sort of effort is what Detroit will need if they want to reclaim the cup. That and Howard will have to come up big at key times. Six goals against will not cut it.
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