Number Two
Page 22
“Apologies for our obnoxiousness but we are genuinely thrilled for all your success. Love the fact that you’re doing a Corner Gas film . . . And would genuinely love to be associated with it in any way possible.”
Brent wrote back a few hours later: “We’d love to have you guys! Not sure doing what, but SOMETHING dammit! I’ve already had a chat with production about it. Talk next week.”
I figured this meant we would inevitably get our wish and be extras in the background of a scene. I couldn’t wait. But Brent surprised me with something better. A week later an email arrived in my inbox, saying: “I have written you each a line in the movie.”
This was followed by an email from the film’s executive producer, Virginia Thompson: “We are thrilled to have you in the movie. We will fly you up on Sunday, June 29th, and film your scene on Monday, June 30th, then fly you back to L.A. on Tuesday, July 1st.”
Back to L.A. on Canada Day—how appropriate.
And so on Sunday, June 29th, I dragged myself out of bed at 4:30 a.m. and drove to LAX to catch a flight to Minneapolis. There we connected on a flight to Regina, and after a few twists and turns that included running into Wawota, Saskatchewan native and Washington Capitals forward Brooks Laich—which resulted in us nearly missing our connecting flight—we eventually made it to a rainy, soggy Regina where we were supposed to be Brent’s guests at the Saskatchewan Roughriders CFL home opener against Hamilton.
The rain was Biblically bad that day, literally flooding the streets of the city, and like the pampered Hollywood denizens we are, the team quickly moved the cast of the movie—including me and Dan and our former TSN cohort Darren Dutchyshen, who was also in the film—into the Pilsner Place, an enclosed bar and viewing area where we stayed warm and dry while the poor diehards got soaked in the stands outside. Sports Illustrated senior football writer Peter King was at the game as part of a week-long series he was writing about the Canadian Football League, and I felt bad that he wasn’t getting the “proper” Roughriders game experience. Later, King told our mutual friend Peter Schrager that he received multiple tweets the following day from Roughrider fans apologizing for the bad weather that had occurred—so Canadian to apologize for bad weather they had absolutely no control over.
The next day my uncle Kim—my dad’s brother—and my cousin Morgan picked me up at the Hotel Saskatchewan at 8:00 a.m. I was still a little groggy from the night before—am I ever not groggy from the night before? (Groggy from the Night Before was an alternate title for this book.) We had ventured out to popular Regina pub O’Hanlon’s, and one of our old friends from the Kraft Celebration Tour, Tracy Westgard, had shown up to pour the tequila. Nonetheless, we braved the soggy weather for the drive northeast to Balcarres to visit my grandfather, now ninety-one years old and living in a seniors’ home. Past Balgonie, where we had stopped at the bar; past Fort Qu’Appelle, where we used to get Kentucky Fried Chicken; past the Mission Ridge Winter Park on Katepwa Lake, where Olympic bronze medallist Mark McMorris and his brother Craig first learned to snowboard on one of the smallest “ski hills” imaginable; past power line after power line and soggy field after soggy field; past old combines lined up in a row like sculptures; and past brand-new metal grain elevators that didn’t have half the personality of the old, worn-down, sun-damaged wooden ones, until finally we reached the outskirts of Balcarres. It was here that my parents had grown up and my great grandfather, Gaston Onrait, had arrived from France over one hundred years before to claim his plot of land like every other immigrant who dreamed of the vast space and opportunities this young country offered. Gaston and his young bride, Emerence, weren’t the world’s greatest farmers, but they raised nine children on that farm and made a life for themselves in their new country. For years, Balcarres was a thriving prairie town with a booming agriculture industry and a bustling main street—it even had a movie theatre. Now it resembles the fictional town that Brent created in Corner Gas. Most of the stores on Main Street have closed up, and although there’s still a hospital, still a drugstore, and still a school, frankly the only thing keeping the school open is the neighbouring First Nations reserves.
We drove past the Balcarres Hotel and Bar. In recent years I had spent many a night there while visiting Grandpa, and now the current owners had put it up for sale, asking an astonishing $300,000 for the place. “I wouldn’t give them $300,” said my uncle, who had also grown up in this town and had since moved on to a life in the city.
We pulled up to the Balcarres Integrated Care Centre, nestled in between the school and the hospital, and just down the street from the home of Ervin Baber, a man who’d been hugely influential on my father, as he had owned the local drugstore in town, employed him as a teenager, and even loaned him some money so he could attend pharmacy school. We got out of the car and walked past the rain-soaked ditch along the gravel road, making our way up the walkway to the front door. In the entranceway four seniors gathered, chatting and killing time until lunch, while the building’s resident dog lounged at their feet. They all stared at me like I was a ghost, a feeling I was used to from delivering prescriptions to the Athabasca Seniors Homes during my teenage years in high school. Every person who entered was someone to break the monotony of living there, and they never got used to seeing my face—they would always stare.
Down the hallway we walked, after saying hello to Ayda, my grandfather’s most recent girlfriend. After my grandmother passed in 1986, he quickly took up with Tish “the Dish” Garden, and she became for all intents and purposes a surrogate grandmother to us until her death in 2012. Now Ayda was in the picture. We found Grandpa’s room and my uncle and cousin opened the door. I was last to enter, and upon my arrival my grandfather said the words I had heard him say so many times when I surprised him with visits over the years.
“Oh, for God’s sake, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” with a grin the size of Saskatchewan itself.
The weather outside wasn’t even that cold, but Grandpa had a heater blasting and the whole room felt like a steam bath. The television set was cranked to a level that would have made most people’s ears bleed. He had been watching Live with Kelly and Michael, and my uncle later explained that usually when he and Ayda watched television together the sound was cranked to unbelievable volumes because neither of them could hear a thing. Ayda later joined us in the room, and I caught Grandpa up on the reason I had come to Saskatchewan in the first place. He was a fan of Corner Gas, and I really hoped he would be able to see the movie on television that fall.
He talked for a while about the building’s caretaker, Jimmy Pigeon, who fixed things around the facility but had somehow become a bee in his bonnet. Grandpa was in decent health and of sharp mind, but he could barely walk anymore, and he couldn’t lift his arms much higher than to turn up the volume on the remote—the result of years spent sanding down the exteriors of cars in his autobody shop. I joked that my Chinese wife and I were going to buy the old café on Main Street that had now been shut down for two years and launch a Chinese food restaurant there, but he informed me that two Chinese families had already moved to town and done the same thing in other buildings. That town may not have had much, but at least it had a couple of different Cantonese takeout options.
After about an hour we had to leave as I was due on set to film my one-line part in the movie with Dan and Darren. Grandpa reached for his walker, pulled himself up, and began the slow plod for the front door to see us out. He used a rolling walker now and basically leaned on it, his legs and hips were just not going to cut it anymore. But he still seemed healthy and happy for a guy who had outlived all of those nine other brothers and sisters to be ninety-one. I noticed his shirt was untucked and hanging out the back of his jeans, which were probably now three sizes too big for him, as he was about as skinny as I was at fourteen. As he reached the doorway to his room, Ayda saw the shirt and quickly tucked it into the back of his pants in an exceptionally sweet moment that nearly made me well up on the spot.
We bid him goodbye, and as we walked out the front entrance I heard him say to the other guys in the doorway with a laugh: “There goes my little grandson.”
Acknowledgements
Even though the entire book is dedicated to her, no acknowledgements would be complete without mentioning my beautiful wife, Chobi, who endured many afternoons of my wandering off to the Refinery Coffee House in Santa Monica and missing out on quality time together. To make matters worse, much of the last stages of book writing happened while she was pregnant with our first child. Once again she made the sacrifices necessary for me to be able to work on my “art.” (I put that last sentence in so that she could laugh at it over and over.) She also took the time to read the book before it was published and, despite finding it a bit “crass,” offered many wonderful suggestions for making it better. I can’t even begin to express the love I have for this woman. She truly makes life worth living. Every day with her gets better and better.
Another heartfelt thank you goes out to my editor and good friend, Doug Richmond, who worked tirelessly on this book and took the time to meet up with me on early mornings when he was probably hungover from the night before because he is a wild man about town. Doug put so much effort into this book, and I truly believe it’s better than the last one in large part because of all the work Doug put into it. Thanks, buddy, and let’s grab a few pints at Ronnie’s soon.
Also huge thanks to everyone at HarperCollins who worked tirelessly to get this epic to print: Patricia MacDonald, Erin Parker, Greg Tabor, Kelly Hope, Jason Pratt and ketchup chip enthusiast Kelsey Marshall. You guys are amazing and I look forward to working with you on the third book, about my wife and I having American-born children so we can’t get kicked out of the States. Tentative title: Anchorbaby.
My literary agent, Carly Watters, is the number one reason I can now say I have two published books on bookshelves across North America. She was the one who spearheaded Anchorboy, and she was the one who encouraged me to get to work right away on a second book even if I was somewhat unsure about my ability to get the work done. Carly never stopped believing that I could finish another one, and along the way she offered wonderful advice and encouragement about the text. She’s not just an agent but a great friend in my life.
Thanks to my best friend, Peter Sayn-Wittgenstein, for reading an early draft of this book and offering some great advice.
I can’t say enough how lucky I am to have such close friends from my days growing up and living in the Canadian prairies and living and working across Canada and now the United States. You have not only helped to provide content for me to write about, you have always been there for me when I needed you. Work colleagues from Saskatoon to Winnipeg to Toronto to Los Angeles form my social circle and provide me with so much joy on a day-to-day basis throughout my career. Except Producer Tim. He’s a real dick. Just kidding, Producer Tim! You’re the best.
Special thanks to my mother and father, who probably have mixed feelings about at least 42 percent of the content in this book. They have never been less than exceptional about pushing me to try to step outside my comfort zone and do work like this that doesn’t fall under my “regular work.” My dad always wanted me to write books, but he was probably not counting on being such a prominently featured subject in them. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for not only raising me but also being good sports and not demanding royalties. Lots of love to my mother-in-law, Patty, and brother-and sister-in-law, Todd and Natalya. Special thanks to my sister, Erin, and her family: my brother-in-law Trevor, nephews Noah and Keaton, and niece Brooklyn, who threw me a pretty awesome Little Mermaid–themed birthday party last year. None of you kids will be able to read this book until you are twenty-five or so.
My good friend and broadcast colleague Dan O’Toole continues to be an endless source of entertainment each and every night on the set of Fox Sports Live and when he’s trying to figure out how to avoid spending money on a cell phone. Thanks for taking care of all the logistics of our newly launched website, JayandDan.com, while I was busy putting the finishing touches on this future Giller Prize winner.
Huge thanks to my bosses at Fox Sports including Eric Shanks, John Entz, Jacob Ullman, David Nathanson, Michael Hughes, Jamie Horowitz, and everyone who works tirelessly with us every day to put together what I happen to think is a pretty watchable hour of television. No small feat in this day and age. Here’s hoping for many more wonderful years together enjoying Boston Market catering.
Big thanks to Peter Schrager, my friend and colleague at Fox Sports, for writing a foreword for this book that was downright hilarious. If you get a chance, you should check out some of the books that Pete has written: Out of the Blue with Victor Cruz and Strength of a Champion with O.J. Brigance. The guy can really write!
Thanks to my grandpa for showing me how to be a real man despite my not quite achieving that goal.
Finally, thanks to everyone in Canada who keeps asking us to come back. We will, someday.
About the Author
JAY ONRAIT is a Canadian television personality, author, and sports anchor. Born in Calgary and raised in Athabasca, Alberta, Jay’s big break came when he landed a job co-hosting TSN’s SportsCentre alongside Dan O’Toole. In 2013, Jay and Dan joined the launch of the new Fox Sports 1 network as hosts of their flagship show, Fox Sports Live. Somewhere along the way, Jay found time to write the bestselling memoir Anchorboy and co-create the wildly successful Jay and Dan Podcast. Jay lives with his wife and daughter in Los Angeles.
WEB:JAYONRAIT.COM
TWITTER:@JAYONRAIT
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Credits
FRONT COVER PHOTO: JAY’S MOM
FRONT INSET PHOTO: KATHRYN HOLLINRAKE
Copyright
NUMBER TWO: More Short Tales from a Very Tall Man
Copyright © 2015 by Jay Onrait.
All rights reserved under all applicable International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Collins, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition: September 2015 ISBN: 9781443434966
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