It's just plain sad!

My mom is a news aficionado, and as such, she has CNN on a lot. This past week, the bulk of the air time was dedicated to the Tyre Nichols beating and subsequent murder, with the quantity of announcements about the release of the police body cam footage bordering on the ridiculous. Officials were obviously wary of the potential riotous reaction the Memphis community might have with the video's release, and the three of us shared plenty of conjecture about what the video would reveal. I will say that the media-infused lead-up to the actual release of the video was ludicrous, almost like they were trying to incite a strong reaction.

The release of the hour long shocking footage happened Friday night. The Memphis Police chief reportedly waited for the prime moment to release it, in an effort to mitigate consequences of a negative reaction.

To say that we were impacted by the images flashing before us would be a gross understatement, as we stared incredulously at the TV screen as the scenario played out, our brains blazing with questions of why ... how ... what ... who. 

Why in the Lord's name did this play out the way it did?
How in the world could a group of police officers act in this manner?
What was going through Tyre's mind? The officer's mind? The EMT's minds?
Who was ultimately responsible for this?

Probably the number one discussion item was why would the Memphis Police choose to release the obviously edited footage? What did they hope this would accomplish? Did the general public need to witness this egregious transgression of police brutality? The disgusting, horrific misuse of power on full display would surely result in reaction from the community. If we were Tyre's parents, how would we be affected by the whole sordid affair available to billions following the footage's upload to the Internet? Surely they pleaded that it not be released ... once it hits the Internet, it'll be there forever, haunting them like a Poltergeist. I can never put myself in their shoes, but I am completely in the camp that it would change me forever.

It is my understanding that this particular group of officers were a part of some "elite" group called Scorpion, the name standing for "Street Crimes Operation to Restore Peace In Our Neighbourhoods", a 50-person unit with the mission of bringing down crime levels in particular areas. How ironic is it that that this very unit demonstrated the complete antithesis of their mandate? As the days following the video's release play out, it will be of keen interest that the actual reason Tyre Nichols was initially pulled over for comes to light. IMHO, he attempts to cooperate with the officers in the beginning, remaining calm, asking for clarification, but at some point he runs from his captors in what I can only imagine is honest fear for his safety. The beating that he receives for this is mindbogglingly disturbing.

In the most remote sense, I can understand that this squad of officers has been significantly impacted by the individuals they deal with on a daily basis, the only reason I can fathom for the magnitude of their vindictiveness, boorish attitudes, and repulsive language. I cannot for the life of me understand the mindset of the EMT's that arrive on the scene, standing idle as Tyre is in obvious distress, waiting what appeared to be 15 minutes before physically offering aid, a full 20 minutes before he was loaded into an ambulance bound for a hospital. While the authorities have charged 5 officers ... so far at least ... with 2nd degree murder after summarily firing them for their direct involvement, I personally feel that the EMT's behaviour is worthy of legal repercussions too. I believe they have been fired, but IMHO that's not enough.

I was very interested in one of the CNN experts whose voice-over during the muted footage from the streetlight pole clearly outlined one massive issue that requires attention ... the lack of supervisory official for this supposedly "crack" squad. Obviously, additional charges need to be filed all the way up the chain in an effort to ensure the root of the situation is pulled. I'm not at all sure that the Memphis Police's decision to permanently disband the Scorpion unit will be the sole solution.

In the end, none of this can give Tyre Nicholls is life back.

It's a sad day for the human race, folks. 

Sad that the whole affair occurred. 

Sad that a young man paid the ultimate price. 

Sad they felt compelled to broadcast this calamity.

It's just plain sad.

Hidden Appalachian gems

I don't know how many of you have made the long trek from Canada down the series of interstates to the sunny south of the USA, but in the event that you haven't, you've missed seeing firsthand some of the most stunningly beautiful vistas this side of our Canadian Rockies. My mom, and by default we, choose to make the drive by going on along Lake Erie on I90 to I79, I77, I26, and I95 before descending the length of Florida on I75. A small part of that drive includes vistas that feature some pretty amazing feats of engineering when I77 takes you through West Virginia and into Virginia using first the East River Mountain tunnel (ERMT) then the Big Walker Mountain tunnel (BWMT).

With apologies to my FB/IG friends who live on either the left or right coast of Canada and are used to stunning vistas, a great many Canadians are not regularly faced with the incredulous engineering required to tunnel a highway through a mountain or two, all in an effort to make travel between places easier, safer, and less time consuming. Both the East River and Big Walker Mountains are formidable portions of the Appalachian range that would require heroic nerves of steel to use the skinny dirt roads bereft of today's safety precautions like guard rails and lights. Matters would be even worse in colder wintery conditions.

As we travelled through the ERMT, my mother and I discussed first the epic engineering efforts that would be extended in the construction of the tunnel, then logically followed with concern for the health of the people who would have been employed to dig their way through. My mother was the one who suggested that I do a little digging for a post about the history surrounding the ERMT and BWMT.

There's surprisingly little available, but here's some of it:

The East River Mountain tunnel is 1650m (5412 ft or about 1 mile), requiring the vehicle and occupants using the 55 mph speed limit to stay subterranean for a discomforting length of time, all the while being bathed in the staccato bursts of the ceiling's lights, a potential epileptic hazard, so I am told. Prior to building the tunnel, travellers wishing to cross the state line had to navigate the narrow, twisting, guardrail-less route of US 52 up and over the mountain (now designated as SR 598 and WV 598). The journey would have been arduous, and the road was occasionally closed completely due to treacherous conditions like fog or snow, when present (Source), in addition to being very narrow and difficult to pass on. With the mountain topping a formidable elevation of more than 914m (3,000 feet), the decision to go through, rather than over or around was the logical choice.

Construction began on August 12, 1969, and after five years, it was opened to the public at a ribbon-cutting ceremony on December 20, 1974. Costing a then mind-blowing sum of $40 million (equivalent to $173 million in 2021), it was the most expensive construction project undertaken by the West Virginia Division of Highways at the time. With the northern end of the tunnel in West Virginia and the southern end in Virginia, both states shared the cost of the project. Interesting factoid: The state line falls almost exactly across the midpoint of the tunnel with 51% of the tunnel is in West Virginia, the remaining 49% is on the Virginia side.

The work was difficult, the TNT explosions were loud, and the mud was deep. Caves underneath the mountain created sinkholes and sunk part of the tunnel two feet requiring concrete be hauled in to correct the problem. More than 944m (30,000 ft) of lumber was also hauled in to support the tunnel. While construction of the tunnel provided many jobs, it also required working in very muddy working conditions that were difficult and time-consuming. Workers received weekly wages ranging from three to four hundred dollars, which was based on a forty hour work week. (Source)

Like its bigger brother, construction of the 1289m (4229 ft) Big Walker Tunnel and adjacent roadways took five years. It was opened in 1972 at the cost of $50 million (equivalent to $249 million in 2021). It made history at that time as the most expensive single project undertaken on a Virginia interstate system. Closures for repairs in the tunnels are in 15-minute intervals to perform maintenance, air quality testing, as well as fire and safety upgrades to the ventilation system. Some drivers may confess to fears about breathing in car emissions, but automatic sensing analyzes the amount of carbon monoxide and adjusts the ventilation system, plus generator back up for power in case of a failure. Traffic lights can slow or stop the traffic in case of accidents, and fire extinguishers and telephones are available at regular intervals along the route. (Source)

I spent what I consider to be a significant amount of time looking for information of the construction conditions of both tunnels and any resulting casualties, but while there's information on a variety of WV tunnels, none directly attributed to either the ERMT or BWMT. Having said that, one can only imagine the horrific conditions of burrowing, blasting, and supporting the resultant hole, likely leading to a wide assortment of acute and chronic ailments besetting the workers. Definitely NOT a job that appeals to me!

Blog research and post challenge accepted and conquered ... sort of!

Curiously "Murican!

It goes without saying that things in Canada are a mite different than in the US, and if I'm honest, most of the time I really like the way things pan out in Canada. Our latest venture into the US of A came around because my brothers and I have asked our octogenarian mother to accept assistance getting down to her condo in Naples FLA, and since I am the only one of the 4 of us that is retired, it makes perfect sense for me to step forward. 

I know, I know, wow Steve, tough job having to go to Florida in mid January! Listen, I completely get it, a readily agree that it is not in the least an imposition. Having said that, there are things that happen in the US that make me perplexed.

Since Naples is 2500+ km away ...
Since my brothers and I feel that we should be helping our mom make that trip ...
Since our mother empathically prefers to drive, for a host of valid reasons ...

My darling wife and I loaded snacks, clothes, and bikes into the RAV and tag-teamed with my mom to drive the long-ass haul to FLA. We pointed generally south, crossed through 1 province + 7 states, and arrived at her condo in a little over 39 hours. We left the "Beach" at 4:30 am on Jan 21st, rendezvoused with mom in Barrie,  "pitched our tent" in Moorseville NC (more on that soon), set out again at 5:00 am Jan 22, navigated some of the most ridiculous rain storms these old eyes have seen, and pulled into our reserved parking spots at 7:40 pm bleary eyed and weary.

I don't recount all of that in a bid for sympathy ... just an FYI to appreciate the parameters.

Travelling on the Saturday was more or less a breeze since we were the only car at the Lewiston border crossing when we arrived at 7ish, stopped in Erie PA for a late breakie at Cracker Barrell(!!), and only stopped to fill the tank before arriving in Moorseville NC by 7ish that night. Sticking with the fare of the day, we fancied ourselves some classic Americana, especially since we had only really eaten way back north in Erie PA and found an IHOP for dinner. 

Curiously 'Murican #1:

The IHOP appeared busy when we were seated by our waitress, and it quickly became apparent that this young lady was not only hustling, but was extremely competent, polite, and a "REAL Trooper" as the saying goes. Our very quick discussions with her revealed that she was on a full day "double" because her co-worker had a death in the family. She had hit the gym at 5:00 am, worked her scheduled 8:00-2:00 shift, grabbed a quick break and was now closing the day working 2:30 to close. She was an absolute bee hive of energy as she single-handedly managed what I counted as 14 tables, besides ours, during the time we were there. We have no complaints about service or sustenance, but what manager allows his/her restaurant to befall said circumstances without stepping in to assist? 

From what we could see, there was no management presence.

Curiously 'Murican #2:

I had booked our hotel rooms using up my AirMiles. I chose the Days Inn in Moorseville partially because Joyce and I had used Days Inn many times in the past and had positive experiences, and partially because the online reviews were generally positive. When we opened the door to my mom's room, it was readily apparent that some fibbing had taken place somewhere along the way. While not quite a seedy dive, it was worthy of only the desperate traveller. Our room was not really any better, much to our chagrin. Had we not been completely tuckered out from the long day, we may have raised a stink, but begrudgingly resigned ourselves to the reality that it was only a place to sleep. From the noisy highway, to the smells of charcoal BBQ's going deep into the night, to the toilet that ran incessantly without direct intervention down the back, to the double room having one threadbare towel, let's just call a spade a spade ... this was a dive and DEF NOT worth the AirMiles spent.

Listen, this was not a case of my standards being too high, trust me!

Curiously 'Murican #3:

Sunday morning we set out at 5:00 am again, partly to make the most of the daylight driving hours, partly to rid ourselves of Moorseville. With it being OMG o'clock, nothing except Chez Ronaldo was available to fill our need for morning cuppa, so we purchased some coffees and got on the interstate. Try to imagine if you can, the sheer thrill of finding our java to being only slightly warmer than that of ice coffee. That's something that one can shrug off after a good night's rest in one's own bed, but to lump that on top of a night at the Heartbreak Hotel and a driving rain storm?

Let's just agree that things could have been better!

After 6 hours of rain worthy of Ark building, we out distanced the storm and were only left with the trip from Jacksonville to Naples. What, you might ask? They're both in Florida ... what's your damage? After prying a white-knuckled grip off the steering wheel, we were faced with the 5 hours still left to make the southern traverse down the length of the state. Steeling our resolve, we have at it, and as the light slowly sank past the horizon, we knew there were very few KM's ahead ...

Then ...

Curiously 'Murican #4:

The black Nissan was screaming southward, changing lanes like a madman, pulled out into the outer lane but misjudged the spacing. It hit the left-hand barrier, causing it to spin like a child's top, before its tires finally found some grip, catapulting it directly sideways across all 3 lanes. Joyce was leading our little convoy, realized that an impending collision loomed, screamed a string of expletives, and manipulated the RAV like Goggles Pisano, managing to narrowly avoid the careening missile as it found the right shoulder and disappeared down the embankment. My mother and I were thankfully lagging slightly behind at the time, so while we had a front row view, we were in no danger of joining the party.

When we finally got a hold of Joyce on the cell, she was understandably shaken and upset. Between the 3 of us, we've been travelling North America's roads for a combined 160+ years, and we've never been that close to an untimely end as this happenstance. 

Wait, it's not over ...

Curiously 'Murican #5:

Finally arriving at our exit in Naples, I led us down the off-ramp and came to a stop at the lights beside a Sprinter van that, as it would turn out, was coming from the Fort Myers airport. As we both slowly turned right with the light changing to green, the backdoors of the Sprinter flew open, spilling a host of suitcases across the road behind me but directly in the path of Joyce. Still stressed from her previous NASCAR event, she avoided the clothing landmines with skill befit of the most seasoned rally race driver, and upon pulling into the condo parking lot, Joyce's face broke into a gloriously wide smile, thankful that the escapades were finally over.

Before the doubt enters your thoughts, YES, it was all worth it. 

Southwest Florida is a gorgeous place and we love escaping winter's grip here for an extended period of time. While I acknowledge that these things might just as easily occur in Canada, we've never personally experienced them there. 

'Nuff said, for me at least. As I said, curiously 'Murican!

To be or not to be

I saw this graphic on social media and it really struck me as profound. 

Should you not recognize the name Kurt Vonnegut, he is "one of the most influential American writers and novelists of the 20th century. Vonnegut is best known for writing Slaughterhouse-Five (1969), Cat's Cradle (1963), and Breakfast of Champions (1973). His works are a blend of science, satire and black comedy." (source) My 20 year old self would have thought your head made of swiss cheese if you suggested you just do something for fun.

I have been involved in athletics all of my life, even going back to my earliest memories, and I have revelled in the competition that ensued. To that end, I embraced our credo at Barrie Central RFC of Go Hard or Go Home as an mindset that has always resonated with me, much the the embarrassment of my parents. You see, I was prone to bleats of vulgarity if things didn't go as planned when I was a wee lad, a by-product of yearning to be the best. Although my outbursts became internal over the years, they resonated through my skull throughout the high school and university years, but occasionally boiled over the lip when I was coaching ... I'm a talker-type coach meaning I'm rarely quiet during the action ... when the frustration levels from execution challenges with my players reached critical mass.

Being so actively involved in a variety of competitions and the training required to excel, I didn't seek as many creative experiences, partially because I was so busy, but partially because I didn't place them high on the totem pole of value. Sure, I tried music endeavours like piano and guitar, and despite my half-hearted attempts, still strum the Ol' 6-string once in a blue moon, but the echos of that credo steered me away from devoting the necessary time to fall in love with them. 

If I'm honest, I wish I had encountered Vonnegut's words earlier in my life. I've always held tremendous respect for those that ensued a life in the Arts. 

I love to sing, and although I am not very talented, it wasn't until my much laters years that I overcame my stage fears, joining in the Barrie Central Teacher's Assembly shenanigans like barbershop quartet or teacher band. Truth be told, my children would have preferred I didn't conquer those trepidations as they sat squeamishly in the audience when the D.O.D. cackled his way through some amateur efforts. 

Similarly, I stare in awe at those that are talented with brush or pencil as they make the transition from mind to paper/canvass look almost magical. 

I have an old friend that I first met in Gr 8, Bruce Chalmers, whom I marvelled for his talent, and he segued that into a pretty nifty career as a graphic artist (Bruce's instagram). You might even recognize some of his work as the designer of the fantastical beer can artwork for Barrie's Flying Monkeys Brewery.

I have also had the privilege of teaching a boat load of young folk who, quite frankly, should have been in a reversed role with me, their talent readily evident back then. One such young man that immediately comes to mind is Wade Turner (Wade's Instagram), a graduate of Sheridan's animation program and professional artist. 

Thanks to technology, the Arts have expanded to include easier access for the artistically challenged like myself. For those that know me, you'll already be aware that I love to get behind the lens of a good camera, especially if it involves some sort of competition, a habit likely stemming as much from my Go Hard of Go Home days than some artistic flair that finally percolated to the surface. Obviously, the muse has hit me with this whole Blog thing, and I'd wager it's no surprise writing is a newly held passion. Don't let me snow you, I'm still more competitive than most, much to chagrin of my darling wife who looks at me with incredulity as I "kill" myself (her words) spinning way on my indoor trainer all winter. However, being just good enough to really enjoy those artistic pursuits, and gathering value by simply doing them, is perfectly fine at this time in my life.

Back to Vonnegut's words, I'll leave it up to you as to whether it makes me a more interesting person.

Hops and Marty (edit)

EDIT: The campaign was a success! Hops and Marty were inducted into the Barrie Sports Hall of Fame as a part of the class of 2023!

It has come to my attention that two of my favourite humans are the subject of a campaign to earn entry into the Barrie Hall of Fame, an honour that is quite frankly well over due. I have been blessed by the gift of friendship with Paul "Hops" Hopper (left in photo) and Martin "Marty" McCrone (right in photo) for decades, relationships that have morphed and developed throughout our teens, young family lives, and retirements. One rarely meets persons who combine so many exceptional character traits inside a single entity, but for the thousands who have first hand experience, these two fine gentlemen have lived up to the hype, making the world around them brighter, happier, and funner ... I know it's not a word, but I'm using it!

When describing Hops and Marty, it's easy to list the superlatives, accolades, and meritorious accomplishments attributed to their tireless efforts in Simcoe County, but while the unaccustomed may think they're the stuff of Urban Legend, the stark truth is they have earned their "Larger than Life" descriptors. The rare combination of polished people skills, heightened positivism, epic altruism, and thorough competency has attracted smiles, laughter, and appreciation from youth and parents like the irresistible tug of the most powerful electro-magnets. From their over-achieving athletic accomplishments, to their unrivalled educational leadership and guidance, to their tireless celebrations of youth, Marty and Hops have set the bar ridiculously high.

Like so many basketball aficionados, the journey began with a passionate development of skill and aptitude plied enthusiastically during the "athletic years". A young Marty McCrone enjoyed considerable success as a small forward at the secondary and post-secondary levels, and even turned naysayers into fans by returning to the university league in his mid 30's while studying for his Masters of Education. Paul Hopper is slightly younger, but mirrored that secondary and post-secondary success as an elite shooting guard before sharing his athletic twilight with Marty in the Simcoe County Mens' League. Prototypes for star-turned-teacher superheroes, the long-time friends joined forces in both the classroom and extracurriculars, developing renowned basketball programs at multiple high schools in the area. It was this early partnership that gave birth to the phenomenon that became Thunderhoops, a summer basketball shooting camp with a reputation for both entertainment and enlightenment known nation-wide for its success. One would be hard-pressed to find a neighbourhood in Simcoe County without a Thunderhoops grad living in it.

Despite all of their accomplishments, the sparkle that fills people's eyes when they recount their experiences with this Dynamic Duo is the proof in the pudding. There are literally thousands of Hops or Marty stories, everyone re-told with enthusiasm, exhilaration, and excitement, usually percolated with belly laughs and thigh slaps. A common thread throughout all of the stories is their propensity for "squeezing the marrow" out of life, to coin the late Robin Williams. As Barrie icons, Marty and Hops are instantly recognizable by young and old, and throughout their lives, Hops and Marty have been the consummate examples of a Life Lived Well. The highest possible praise to be offered in their favour is the lure of their effervescent personalities is as powerful as the Pied Piper's song. 

Considering the wide-spread profound effect this pair has had on the city of Barrie and surrounding communities, it seems to this old mind that the decision is as simple as 1+1. 

They are first-ballot in IMHO. 

Marty and Paul, thank you for making my world a better place to be.

Need some advice?

Let's set the record straight ...

I am in no way, shape, or form a farmer ...

Period ...

Full Stop ...

Never have been ... 

Never dreamed to be ... 

Not even for a moment. 

Having said that, I have some friends that are (or were) farmers and I have TREMENDOUS respect for them and the role they fill in our society. One of the many admirable traits farmers possess is the ability to speak truth in an endearing, insightful manner, likely because they have dealt with more than their fair share of excrement. 

Shameless confession: 

If we all lived a life shaped by even half of these little nuggets, this old planet would be both in a darned finer way and a much happier place to be. 

Just sayin'!

The following were obtained from a variety of internet sources, and I fall on my sword that I do not have the sources. My apologies if that ruffles some feathers.

If you can, imagine a calm, poised, weather beaten, tanned, hat and coverall wearing elderly person leaning against a fence or tree while you read these:

Farm Life ...

Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.
Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong.
If you don't take the time to do it right, you'll find the time to do it twice.

When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.

If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.

Always drink upstream from the herd.

A bumble bee is considerably faster than a John Deere tractor.

Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.

Everyday Life ...

If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of some influence, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around.

Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back in.

Good judgment comes from experience, and most of that comes from bad judgment.

Keep skunks, bankers, and politicians at a distance.
Don't corner something that is meaner than you.
Every path has a few puddles.
Don't be banging your shin on a stool that's not in the way.

Sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got.

The biggest troublemaker you’ll ever have to deal with watches you from the mirror every mornin’.

Between You and Me Life ...

Words that soak into your ears are whispered, not yelled.
The best sermons are lived, not preached.
It don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.
You cannot unsay a cruel word.
Borrowing trouble from the future doesn't deplete the supply.
Most of the stuff people worry about ain’t never gonna happen anyway.

Most times, it just gets down to common sense.

Silence is sometimes the best answer.
Don‘t interfere with somethin’ that ain’t botherin' you none.
Don’t judge folks by their relatives.

How To Live Your Life ...

Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Leave the rest to your God.

Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you’ll enjoy it a second time.

Just like Lucy of Peanuts fame, I'm full of opinions, thoughts and advice ... just ask me! ... but these are pure gold, if I'm honest.

The Gift of Life

Joyce and I recently did a thing.

I tell you that NOT because we're looking for your praise.
Or, NOT because we're all that and a bag of Doritos.
Just sayin' because we feel good about it and wanted you to know.

In Blog posts of late, I've let it slip that my brother is dealing with some health issues, are Uber stoked to report that he appears to have them in his rearview mirror, but for the sake of clarity, know that the road to this point was fraught with rocks, ruts, and sinkholes.

One of the things that was required to traverse the path past these obstacles were a few blood transfusions, partly due to low RBC/WBC issues but also some electrolyte issues, most thanks to the villainous treatments he endured in the pursuit of beating his affliction. Joyce, God bless her, felt strongly that we should help his plight ... and the plight of thousands ... by donating blood, and in a very small way do our part in making the necessities required to recover readily available, recognizing of course that our little bit is only a start. We've agreed that we'll keep this up as long as we're able.

I used to donate somewhat regularly a few short years ago, then the pandemic hit, retirement happened, moving communities occurred ... twice ... so donating was pushed to the back burner. Shame on me for letting that happen, but it was sadly very easy to do thanks to the inconvenience involved in the process of locating a donation center in the local area, scheduling an appointment, prepping the body for the inevitable volume loss, and enduring the actual process. 

Still, shame on me. It is after all, the Gift of Life.

I don't have any issues with needles or medical procedures, but the whole donation process is out of the norm, and as such, a little intimidating. That feeling was augmented when one of the "Gifters" ahead of me had an adverse reaction that resulted in needing extra attention. If you've not yet chosen to donate, know that the staff and facilities in Barrie's donation centre are top notch, doing everything humanly possible to make the entire affair stress free and painless. Even with a background that includes regular exposure to medical procedures and information, the gurgly-stomach, clammy-skinned response of anxiety still appears.

My beautiful bestie has self-diagnosed "White Coat Syndrome", a gift she shared with our daughter, and this was her first time donating.

If you've never heard of this, in its essence it's a irrational fear of doctors, nurses, and medical procedures. I only use the word irrational because they both know it's going to happen, don't wish it to happen, are powerless to keep it from happening, and are victimized by the fallout of it happening. In Joyce's case, it manifests in higher than normal blood pressure and a case of the cold sweats. In our daughter's case, it's the same plus the unpleasant ramifications of shock-like symptoms afterward.

Now, before you get all concerned about it, Joyce passed the test with flying colours! 

Yes, still afflicted by the BP issues, but the clamminess was basically non-existent, and she sailed through the process like a trooper. Even better, she informed me with huge smile wrinkles around her eyes ... she was wearing a mask, after all ... that she was forced to have a bag of life-giving salty potato chips as recovery. Donning my own mischievous grin, I replied that she has just cause to make a two-fer, but she politely declined, the welfare of others forefront in her mind. Always thinking of others, that one.

As a side note, my poison was pretzels, but I topped it off with a granola bar, just in case I felt peeked.

The Canadian Blood Services say that they are in dire need of donations, especially specific blood types like B- and O+, according to the literature on the snack table. If you've fallen out of the habit like me, or you wish to start something new like Joyce, we both highly encourage visiting the Barrie office on Bayview, right across the street from Innisdale SS, or look up the nearest donation centre in your part of the world. 

As the slogan goes, "It's IN you to GIVE!"

Armchair QB

I feel qualified to entertain some powerful opinions about football, the America style to my European friends. I played throughout my teens in high school and into my university years, was passionate about performing at a high level, and was fortunate enough share in some pretty amazing successes, if I do say so myself. While today's football is akin to a modern Gladiator spectacle with all of its brutality, violence, and testosterone-infused intensity, the fact remains, those that love it, LOVE IT, especially here in North America. The epitome of American football is the NFL, an opinion shared by the multitude, and supported by the billions of dollars generated by its existence. 

This past Monday, the spectre of reality hit when Buffalo Bills safety Damar Hamlin, 24, suffered a cardiac arrest after making a tackle during that night's game against the Cincinnati Bengals. He is currently sedated and in critical condition (source). Hamlin was attended to immediately by medical staff, with players from both teams surrounding him, many of them visibly emotional. After Hamlin was taken to the hospital, officials spoke with coaches from both teams. The decision was then made to suspend play, with players and coaches exiting the field to the locker room, before the game was ultimately postponed. With all of its glitz and glamorization, the NFL strives to give the fans the impression that its players are a breed of warriors that are super-human, not bound by the laws of nature like you and I. 

Sadly, the truth is so far from that, and Damar's affliction is the proof in the pudding.

The football I recall was both amazing and exhilarating. My team mates and I strove to be in the best possible level of conditioning we could manage, but pales in comparison to the levels that today's NFL athletes exhibit, a fact that flies in the face of what happened to Hamlin after what seemed like a perfectly innocuous play. The news reports after the fact have included expert opinions from cardiologists claiming that Commotio Cordis was the cause, though that remains to be confirmed, where a precise set of conditions unfold that cause ventricular fibrillations that significantly impair cardiac function. Although exceedingly rare, this condition has afflicted more people than I would have guessed, the Hamlin injury raising long forgotten memories in a few people that I know personally ... I see you Jeff!

My long-time friends will recall that I represented Barrie Central Collegiate in a number of sporting activities, but thanks to the leadership, guidance and support of Dave Garland and Bruce Clark, I chose to give football a try at the post-secondary level. Those same long-time friends will also recall that my father, Terry Porter, became a member of the Queen's University Football Hall of Fame when it was established in 1986, so the choices of which university program I could tryout for were best summed up by my D.O.D. (Dear Old Dad) when he informed me with a mischievous grin, "You can go anywhere you want, but I'm only paying for Queen's." The jokes on him though ... after a childhood of indoctrination thanks to many Queen's FB reunions, I didn't ever consider going anywhere else, and in retrospect, it was one of the best decisions I ever made. Youthful exuberance in full play, the notion that I could experience a life-threatening condition as the result of what I was coached to do was the furthest thing from my mind, and hindsight perfectly focussed, is leaving me deeply contemplative, despite the statistics that bely the chances. 

Should I support my future grandchildren from participating in football, rugby, hockey or any other collision sport, considering the dangers that are so blatantly evident? Prior to Monday, the answer would have been 100% YES, but I have to admit that the percentage has slid backwards a shade. My son Keaton realized his rugby dream of wearing the Maple Leaf, only to be forced into retirement thanks to injury, a set of circumstances that could possibly prompt a deep discussion when he advises his own children's pursuit of excellence. To be honest, the positives FAR exceed the negatives, but it does bear pause for concern.

My heart goes out to Hamlin and his family as they navigate this terrible situation, and I pray that he not only puts the repercussions of it behind him, but realizes his life's NFL dream again sometime in the future. As comrades in arms, the rank and file of football generations send positive healing vibes that the situation has a happy ending, but like so many tragedies, there's always a silver lining ... as of my last search, Hamlin's charity Toy Drive's GoFundMe campaign has reached over $4 million, and will profoundly impact the families that will receive support.

Stay safe out there folks!