Thespian Thrills

Joyce and I were treated to a very different point of view the other day! 

Our son Keaton and his partner Jessica wanted to really surprise us with an unusual Christmas gift, so imagine the incredulous looks we bore when the torn wrapping revealed Harry Potter: The Cursed Child theatre tickets! We've been fans of JK Rowling's genius since we first read the 7 books to our kids during their childhood nightly reading ritual, then revisited the HP magic with the 8 movies produced following the global fever that ensued. Although we've yet to read the actual Cursed Child novel, we'd heard from our daughter that the production was outstanding and we were tickled to be able to see it first hand! The show is wrapping up a long run at the Ed Mirvish Theatre in downtown Toronto and since we're retired, the kids reasoned that a matinee was the correct choice since we could make a day of it in 'The Big Smoke' while avoiding the murky darkness of the back roads home to Wasaga afterward. 

Aren't they thoughtful?

We don't venture into the bowels of the city much these days ... sorry about the image I just prompted ... and the thought of navigating the Toronto crazies to pay a ridiculous sum to park was repulsive enough that the decision was made to use the ol' TTC in its stead. We quickly realized that it's been so long since the Big Smoke entered our psyche that we didn't realize that the TTC now extends north to highway 7, near the IKEA store, avoiding the bulk of the potential traffic woes. 

All it takes is money! Turned out to be the best $28.40 I've ever spent!

Parking in the TTC lot was easy peasey at 10:00 am, and we successfully navigated the PRESTO purchase, found some seats, and settled into the hour or so commute. Our naivety was on full display as we emerged from the concrete cavern of Dundas Station, beset by complete disorientation, an affliction I am unaccustomed to. Thanks to my sheer stubbornness, I convinced Joyce I knew what I was doing, and we walked 10 minutes the complete opposite way before coming to the conclusion that she was correct all along ... something she has enjoyed reminding me off multiple times since ... prompting a a hustled U-turn  thanks to fears of being late for the curtain raising.

We don't like being late. Quite the habit really because we are ALWAYS early ... apparently almost always.

Our quickened pace meant that we hurried past a number of school groups resplendent in HP-appropriate attire lest we find ourselves behind them at the entrance. When we finally arrived at Ed Mirvish Theatre, we quickly realized that Dundas Station is just around the corner. Not wishing to completely come clean, I rationalized that we (a) got to see some of the city again, and (b) weren't going to be sitting waiting for an unreasonable time as the theatre filled prior to the curtain call.

Were we to still feel the angst of Covid, we'd have found ourselves beset by all manner of fears as we sardined ourselves into the entrance way to the theatre's foyer. The space was filled with all things HP as people ordered Butter Beers, secured souvenir paraphernalia, and grabbed traditional theatre fare prior to the curtain rising. I made the rookie mistake of dismissing the ever-so-slight bladder twinge, an oversight that came back with a vengeance by the time intermission hit, some 2 hours later. The line up to the loo was enormous, my insides screaming, and the foyer shoulder to shoulder, but thankfully the queue dissipated quickly and (TMI) I was able to solve my issues just in time. Crazy as it may sound (again, TMI), I challenged on a world record with how long it took to take care of business, much to the chagrin of the other overflowing bladders waiting their turn. HaHaHa!

Should you and your loved ones feel the pang of longing for the theatrical arts, The Cursed Child is a wondrous example of theatre magic, Polyjuice transformations, Dementor attacks, wand battles, and hexed stairways but a few of the delightful slights of hand. Sadly, what was amazing in display, sorely lacked in story, the characters wanting for 'meat' and the plot flittering this way and that like a rookie disapparator. I personally felt for the parents of the many, many youngsters who would spend the trip home answering queries of confusion. 

Having said that, we came away with a very positive warm fuzzy about our experience, certainly NOT disappointed in any way, shape, or fashion. 

The day's end featured Mr Big Spender springing for dinner at the IKEA cafeteria since we wished to make a quick stop for some Swedish specialty items. I have found the the IKEA kitchen rarely disappoints, even when considering its multi-stationed approach to service, the desserts capping off a great day. We even partook of the Lingonberry juice ... how Swedish of us!

Annnnnd, we even made it back to the beach before dark!

Thanks KP + Jess! Thanks a million times over!

It's a dirty job but ...

The weekend past, hundreds of cycling's crazies descended on the Paris, ON area to compete in the 2023 Paris-to-Ancaster (P2A) Gravel event bundled in their high-tech waterproof and thermal duds, bravely facing the cold April rain, eager to traverse the mud-infested race route all in a effort to fuel their relentless passion for the sport. I, being of somewhat lesser levels of commitment, chose not to pay the organizers to slog my way around south-central Ontario so I can only imagine what the conditions were like, but I count a number of racers as good friends whose social media posts gave me a realistic understanding of the day's outcome.

Bewilderment ... Amazement ... Shock ... Respect was my reaction.

It will come as no surprise to those that know me that I proudly proclaim to have been bitten by the cycling bug, my fanaticism prompting rolling eyes and shaking heads as I regale the details of my latest venture into the Great Outdoors. Although some would point fingers at my relatively new passion, I have an assortment of cycling friends who exhibit a fanaticism that leaves me in the same state of slack-jawed incredulity at the proof of their considerable courage.

Or lunacy ... I'm not at all sure which is correct ... no offense intended.

I've shared in past posts that the fine fellow responsible for my segue into the cycling world is a former Barrie North colleague Kevin Simms. 'Simmer' (as he is affectionately known) has embraced the Bike Life for the entirety of his, with a lengthy list of accolades like World and Canadian Championship performances supporting his whole-self commitment to the sport. Even after retirement from education, Simmer still competes at an elite level, regularly standing atop the podium after the race's end, balancing his training with his role as race director for Ignite Cycling, an elite youth cycling team he created to further the sport here in Canada and secure pro-cycling contracts for his young protégées. Heck, he even 'infected' his own children with the bug, his daughter Hannah pictured with him here a podium placer herself, and his son Noah already a seasoned pro rider. 

I'll proudly proclaim that both Simmer and Hannah earned places on the podium at the 2023 P2A, Kevin earning a silver, Hannah a bronze. Thanks to their incredulous level of skill, ridiculous level of fitness, and some good ol' fashioned luck, they literally pulled a 'Survivor' by Outlasting, Outplaying, and Outwitting their contemporaries, their mud-encrusted bodies and bikes a shocking testament to the day's efforts. Kudos to Hannah who flew home from BC to compete in the race since it was the Canadian Gravel Championships.

But they weren't alone in marking the day a success.

A number of my friends from the Simcoe-York Gravel Association (SYGA), a group of fanatics that have welcomed me into their fold, also braved the conditions of the P2A in the name of pure fun, some finishing in a respectable time (Ruth, Duquette, Ralph, Chunky, Chris), others succumbing to the fickle finger of fate with broken bikes thanks to the sheer bedlam caused by the boggy mess of the course. Judging by the photos of mud-caked heads, slogged attire, and filthy bikes being counter-balanced by 1000 watt smiles, I'd wager that most would mark the day as a proud accomplishment.

One of the casualties of the day was my great friend Jay Rothenburg, a former colleague at Barrie North, an Uber talented human who plays several different instruments in multiple bands, head of the Arts department at North, and the personification of the Energizer Bunny when it comes to cycling. Although the details of how are still sketchy, the fact remains that he managed to break the frame of his bike some 25 or so km's from the race's finish, braved the resulting hypothermia while waiting for assistance, yet still felt the day was a rousing success. He didn't have to wait alone, however, since the fine fellow giving the one-finger salute behind Jay is Ron Rehel, another SYGA vet, who lost both front and rear brakes mid-race.

To put things into perspective for all of those non-cycling types, completing the P2A in its 2023 conditions is the superlative management of bike racing while traversing through sand, your tires going in directions counter-productive to balance, while gunk splashes up onto your butt, legs, and face adding kg's of cold wetness to your attire, while peddling as fast as your little legs will allow.

This is called fun ... and it likely is ... call me a chicken sh*t, but not my circus, not my monkeys.

As the saying goes, "It's a BIKE thing. You wouldn't understand!" but I haven't felt the need to test myself like this yet so I really don't understand, BUT certainly respect those who choose to challenge themselves! I bow to the efforts of all my friends who tested their mettle!

Simmer implores me, "Mate! Ya gotta get out there for a race!"

Who knows what the future will bring?

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.