Bob Dylan: The times they are a changin'

For the sake of background clarity, I coached other people's kids for 34 years. 

In 30 of those 34 years, it was an unstated expectation by Joe Public and the admin of the school that I should include coaching to my duties as a contracted teacher, and if I'm honest, I really didn't need the silent "push" to step into the role. I've written on this subject in the past, but in case you're new to this Blog, or you didn't read some of those earlier posts, the main thrust behind my passion to coach was directly linked to the actions of coaches (teachers + community types) I had growing up because activities like sports were a HUGE part of why I had a positive school experience. In its truest essence, I felt honour-bound to "pay it forward" so that those I could potentially influence had the same positive opportunities as I enjoyed. At the risk of coming across arrogant, looking at my coaching resume, I humbly offer that I was Uber successful in that choice. 

You're a Doubting Thomas? Send me a private message (sporter@scdsb.on.ca) and I'll send you the list.

I was helping out a friend recently because he needed a supply replacement, and since he was at Barrie North I chose to say, "Sure, I can do that" when he reached to me with the query. Since ol' BNC was my old stomping grounds, and it was spring, that meant that there was a high probability that there'd be a rugby practice on the field after school hours. 

If this situation presented itself in my past, I'd be all over it "like white on rice"...
"like a fat kid on a Twinkie" ...
"like a dog on a bone" ...
"like government money on a bad idea" ...
But I realized on the stroll out to the field that something was amiss. I was eager to go, but I wanted just to observe and not get involved.

I've been retired for 3 years now. It dawned on me that my coaching passion pilot light has gone out.

Truth be told, being 3 years out, it would have been weird if I dove in, or more appropriately, was welcomed to dive in because, while some of the players recognize me as the old North guy on the sidelines with the camera, I have not built the trusting respectful coach-player relationship with them, so it would have all the trappings of an awkward interaction.

I had become the old fart who's REP carried weight, but was akin to a paratrooper, just dropping in out of the sky, more or less unannounced.

Well, without spoiling the plot, I watched, made some mental notes, and avoided looking the part of some unscrupulous lurker. I wasn't 100% successful in carrying out the task because I felt compelled to pull some of the Gr 12's who knew me aside for a tip here, or a subtle change there, but those mental notes were carefully stored away for quick retrieval when the actual coaches and I could share a quiet conversation and an adult beverage. The two fine gentlemen leading the charge are younger versions of the same guy I was, and while they gushed great respect my way, it was their turn as to lead the troops, and I shouldn't do anything to jeopardize that.

I still love being at high school games, ESPECIALLY my passions like rugby or basketball, but these days the focus has altered. I enjoy the spectacle rather than the X's + O's, and I dearly love capturing the moment with my trusty Nikon since it brings the players such joy to have some quality (again, humble opinion) action shots for their 'gram' or 'snap'. The huge smiles and excited guffaws that erupt from them as they scan the shots on the LCD charge my batteries to full power for a sustained period.

Am I sad that the flame is faltering?

The quick answer is NO, if I'm honest. The long answer contains some caveats tied to confidence in my abilities ... confidence, not arrogance ... to add value to the challenge and potentially to skew the outcome. Some soul searching on the drive home to 'The Beach' brought to light the truth. I was ready to leave coaching and become a fan
... life on the other side of the pitch / court / field
... life on the other side of the whistle

Oh, 🎶the times they are a changin'🎶

WTH just happened?

What. The. Hell?

As an ex-power athlete, I've always been fascinated by other's feats of strength, be it in training for activities like football or rugby, or in activities where the focus is strength itself. Over the years I've watched in awe as humans have accomplished bewildering feats during competitions like the World's Strongest Man with the likes of Thor Bjornson, Eddie Hall, or Brian Shaw casting voluminous shadows as their 400+ pound frames lift, pull, or cary loads that shouldn't be possible.

Like all competitions, especially world championships, the faces and names change.

The 2023 WSM competition featured some new personalities, not the least of which was a good ol' Canuk, Michell Hooper, a Barrie-ite to boot! At 6'4" (193 cm) and 320 lb (145 kg), he's not in the same stratosphere as Thor (6'9" 460 lb), Hall (6'3" 380 lb), or Shaw (6'8" 440 lb), but that didn't stop him from winning the 2023 WSM crown ... convincingly so! CLICK

The neatest factoid of all, at least to me anyway, is that Mitchell is the son of a good friend of mine from my Queen's days, Todd Hooper. Hoop and I were in PHE '86 together, shared numerous bevies, shenanigans, and a passion for basketball. As a pivotal member of the Gaels varsity basketball during our years in Kingston, he was a force to contend with at 6'5" 260 lbs ... not his boy's size, but when he set a pick it rattled bones! If he got position on you, it was simply over.

After graduation, we parted ways as we both chased our post-school dreams.

It was a wonderful surprise that a few years later, we bumped into each other in Barrie where he had relocated and established a landscaping business. During our reacquaintance, I met a young Mitchell, who at 9 years old (as I remember), definitely hinting at inheriting some of dad's massiveness. As the years passed, I was privileged to watch Mitch grow and develop into quite the specimen as he made his mark in basketball and football, passions that eventually landed him a spot on the Guelph Gryphons' football squad. 

Things got busy, my children chasing their own athletic dreams, and I redirected my attention, losing track of Mitch. I still ran into Todd from time to time, and social media allowed us both the opportunity to keep in touch, when a few years ago it came to light that Mitch was in Australia and dabbling in power lifting. Apparently he was doing Master's of Exercise Science and had rekindled a love for lifting. Being of quality Hooper stock, he set the Aussie dead lift record to boot!

Here's a link to Mitch's web site, if interested. CLICK

The story comes full circle thanks to a text from my boy Keaton. He stumbled across a YouTube video outlining Mitchell's grandiose accomplishment, so I immediately pulled up some of the clips. Wow! Impressive doesn't even scrape the surface, for a host of reasons! Not only did he win 7 of the 10 events, but his lead going into the Atlas Stones was comfortable enough that he knew ahead of time that all he had to do was lift the 5 stones into place ... hmmmm, yeah, simply lift the round balls of granite ranging from 100 kg (220 lb) to 160 kg (352) from the ground to a pedestal 4 ft tall. Simple?

Not sure how awesome this is? CLICK

All that is left is the slow Wiser's clap of respect! We're all Uber proud of you Mitch!

Mr McCrone, you have my respect!

On August 23rd, 2021, I wrote a Blog ... "The Big C"

While writing a Blog post is not earth-shattering news, in this particular instance I went to great lengths to introduce you to a friend of mine named Marty McCrone who, through a stroke of sheer courage, shared with all of those connected to him on social media the treatments, trials, and tribulations that resulted from being inflicted with squamous cell and prostate cancer. 

Yep, you read that right, Marty is a two-time beater of cancer.

As part of the therapy that helped him escape "Middle Earth", as he describes it so eloquently, Marty put pen to paper, first in preparation for presentations aimed to help others afflicted, and then to share thoughts with friends. His writing style, tremendous sense of humour, positive outlook and willingness to bare all resulted in a tsunami of positive, appreciative feedback from those who were privileged to read his work, prompting the eventual decision to tick off a Bucket List item by publishing what amounts to his memoirs. Marty's "Sweating the Small Stuff and Loving it" takes the reader on an emotional rollercoaster from boisterous belly laughs to tear-streaked cheeks as he recounts how he personally dealt with the often horrific results cancer treatment brings. The book was created to continue Marty's quest to assist others as they navigate their own journey through Middle Earth, a quest that has truly been life long, dating back to well before that fateful day in January of 2000. 

As a coach, a teacher, a father, a spouse, and a GREAT friend, Marty has sought to help others for the entirety of his life. It really is no surprise that even after all of his treatment repercussions, some of which profoundly impacted his everyday life, Marty is primarily focused on how he can make the road through cancer less bumpy for others. His book is available on Amazon (link above), which in itself takes most of the hurdles out of the way since it will be delivered straight to your door. If you have your own stories, or have someone you love who has theirs, I wager that you'll find comfort in the words that Marty shares as he reacts to his journey in his typical McCrone way.

Long time friends will already be aware with how cancer has touched my own life. 

My father succumbed to his affliction after multiple secondaries made further treatment useless, and even after an autopsy, the primary site was never found, making the whole thing even more frustrating for me and my family. 

My brother Rob looks to be well on the road to recovery after enduring massive complications to his cancer treatments, something we all thank the powers that be for. He still has a long journey out of Marty's Middle Earth, but every day things look better.

Even now, I have one of my team mates from Queen's that is currently waging a valiant effort against a stage 4 glioblastoma while documenting the whole thing on social media. His hashtag of choice is #getbusyliving.

I have good friends and colleagues who have lost their lives in their prime as a result of cancer, the subject of some writings in the past. 

I'm losing friends and I'm sad 

The Big C 

Mindset: It's not a battle 

It seems like there isn't a week that goes by that doesn't bring news of someone's life being irrevocably altered at the hands of cancer. 

Getting back to Marty ...

I wholeheartedly recommend this book. I read it in less than 36 hours, partly because of its high interest, partly because of Marty's style, but mostly because it captivates you with a vice-like grip.

Trust me on this one!

Je m'appelle Monsieur P

Just a short one today ...

All Y'all know that I am supply teaching here and there, mostly at Elmvale and North because they're the ones I choose to fill in for. Both of the ladies in the admin team that are in charge of supply bookings have me on speed dial ... or more appropriately, speed text. When I went into the supply web site and filled in all the details of what I am qualified to cover and what I'm willing to cover ... NOT the same thing! ... I actively chose to click on a variety of subjects because I truly feel that any teacher worth anything can make a wide assortment of supply jobs work. Having said that, the best part of supply teaching is that you don't have to say yes if you don't wish to!

The Old Spice Whistle went off yesterday, and a quick peek revealed a message from Elmvale. When I had a chance to read it after class (I was a supply English teacher), it was a quick request if I'd be willing to cover a French absence. Well, I don't mind telling you that my old Gr 9 French teacher "Wild" Bill Simmons (RIP) would be turning backflips at the thought that little Stevie Porter was heading the quest to stamp out ignorance in a French class. My recollection of French covers ordering a pint 'n a pound (chicken wings) HaHaHa! I even had to use Google Translator to make sure I could spell Monsieur correctly. The only full sentence of French I can confidently repeat is from an old ditty called Lady Marmalade that was making the rounds during my high school years, "Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?" C'mon, at least admit that you just found yourself humming it as you read that last sentence. Be honest!

I pecked out a reply that I'd be happy to help, but if they could find a warm body that also spoke French, I wouldn't be offended. 

If you know anything about education these days, you're likely grinning right now.

Quel surprise! They couldn't find anyone so here I sit at Elmvale DHS covering Gr 9 and 10 French. The bonus of the day was that the teacher I'm covering was into the school in the early morn (she's at the SCDSB office today for PD) so I could seek some clarification of the day's plans. As the periods played out, wee scraps of recollection percolated to the surface, making me slightly more useful than a chocolate tea pot, but the kids humoured me despite my misgivings.

As the day's end was signalled by the bell, I'd have to admit that it was a positive experience. I really shouldn't be surprised after all, the students at EDHS are a nice group and the teacher I was filling in for had left some interesting activities that captured their attention for a sustained length. I've accepted placings at EDHS often enough now that some kids recognize my grizzled old face, and in a number of cases, seem genuinely happy to see me again. 

Now if that doesn't charge the batteries up, I'm not sure what will.

Dusty memories

I've been blessed with a charmed life, that much I'll admit, thanks largely to some key decisions made at various times in my past. One of those decisions was to chase the dream of teaching as a career, and as an addition to the classroom adventures once the contract was signed was the "pay it forward" mentality of coaching as many teams as I could handle. I had thoroughly enjoyed athletics throughout elementary, secondary, and post secondary, had enjoyed some tremendous experiences, and felt strongly about assisting youngsters under my influence in making their own memories. While none of this is news to anyone that has known me as more than a passing acquaintance, I'd still like to take a few minutes to rehash some dusty old recollections that percolated to the surface of my consciousness thanks to a recent refereeing assignment.

I "went back to the scene of the crime" as the saying goes. 

I have made it known on this Blog how much I am loving the return to basketball officiating, and while it's the older folks that really grant me the most enjoyment, I still cherish working with the "Grass Roots" level because you simply don't get the same fulsome exuberance with the high school and above athletes. Maybe I should clarify that I don't see the same levels any way, so when I recently was assigned a mini-tournament for Jr girls elementary school at Portage View PS, I was giddy as a groom on his wedding night since I hadn't been back to PVPS since teaching there in the early 90's. I have some gold-plated memories from my time there, both in the classroom and in the gymnasium.

First, A little history lesson, to set the stage, as the saying goes.

I spent the first 8 years of my teaching career in the elementary panel because I really thought that was were my heart lay. I was hired by the SCDSB for a primary classroom at Maple Grove PS and was only there for a year before being declared redundant and getting transferred to Portage View, a scenario typical for young teachers in those years. After 3 pretty awesome years at PVPS, I was tossed back into the transfer vortex again, and after being tentatively placed (on paper) in 19 different schools, I physically landed back at MGPS. I really don't know the actual reasons, but every year I spent in the elementary panel I was assigned older aged classrooms thanks to administrators who championed a "we need a strong male influence" party line for justification. I could see the proverbial "writing on the wall" that my career would be in grade 7/8 and made the decision to jump to the secondary panel in 1998, another pivotal decision in my career.

Back to PVPS.

When I arrived at Portage View in fall of 1992, the incumbent Intermediate boy's basketball coach was a tremendously popular and beloved fellow named Andrew Lindsay. For reasons I never really learned, he eagerly stepped aside and passed the baton to me. It quickly became apparent at the initial few practices that he had groomed a special group of young boys for greatness, and as the wins mounted and playoffs arrived, I really thought we could make deep run. The team was led by Joe Santoro, a gifted 6 foot gem of a human with PG skills, but included a wide assortment of great athletes who had a thirst of competition. If I'm honest, the successes were more from the players than they were from coaching, but even stallions are useless if they aren't hitched to the same cart. After a win for the ages over Prince of Wales in the area tournament, a game that still stings in the hearts of POW players (*scroll down to the bottom for more info), my PVPS Panthers entered the Simcoe County Championships with a buzz about their potential success.

Nothing goes according to plan, though, and one of my best athletes decided that sleeping in on a Saturday was more important than supporting his mates. 

Some choice words from his buddies, and an offered ride from his coach, and he changed his mind.

In the end, we played some gosh-darned great basketball, and spurred by Joe's legendary performances, we cruised through the tournament, winning the banner in convincing fashion, a banner that I was very pleased to see again when I entered the PVPS gym for my refereeing assignment. When I first spied it hanging high in the rafters, a flood of dusty old memories flashed through my frontal lobe, making me look the part of Jack Nicholson in The Shining, likely making some of the parents in attendance a little nervous about the demonic grin on their ref's face. I don't mind telling you that the accomplishment holds high esteem in my list of proud moments.

The Jr girls, Lord love them, were a bundle of frenetic energy, mixed with raw emotion, wrapped up in blanket of exuberance, resulting in tsunami-like waves of shrill screams that assaulted the eardrums like some crazed Kumi-Daiko (Japanese drummer). While the energy was high, the execution was less so, the ball bouncing unpossessed nearly as often as being dribbled, making for a Keystone Cops like comedy as times. Having said that, the genuine grins of enjoyment are permanently etched in the spectators' Hippocampus, and anyone who says differently is the personification of Dickins' Scrooge.

The coup de grace was the huge grin of a former student and player, Justin Dyck, from those PVPS/BCC days taking time out of his day to shake my hand, offer kind words, and formally introduce me to his daughter who had participated in the tourney with PVPS. You could see the sparkle in his eyes as he conjured up some of those same memories I had, augmented by the fact that his daughter was attending his alma mater and making memories of her own.

Too bad she'll never have a chance to experience ol' BCC ... sorry, couldn't resist.

It was truly a wonderful afternoon.

Special Note: The 1993 Area Championship:

For those that aren't aware, Prince of Wales PS used to be situated right beside Barrie Central CI (NOT so much anymore ... sigh) so athletes from POW and PV eventually fed into BCC, despite competing against each other throughout their elementary years. When PV and POW earned their way into the area championship, the lineups featured athletes who would dominate the lineup for my BCC Sr Boys' team that captured Bronze at OFSAA in 1999 (see photo). The championship game was a hotly contested affair that see sawed back and forth with my PV Panthers winning by the narrowest of margins, but was not without its controversy when some of the best players from POW fouled out near the end of the game. 

With so many of those athletes becoming dear friends after our battles together representing Central, they've spared no opportunity to take a shot at ol' coach about the horseshoe firmly wedged between by butt cheeks. I of course simply smile, nod, and shrug. Some times it's better to be lucky than good.