by James Duthie
But my guess had been right. A boy it was, and thus boys it would surely be.
Except 18 months later, back in the hospital for the arrival of winger number two, something odd happened. There was no penis.
That's weird, I thought. I'd never seen a guy without one. (And this was years before Lady Gaga.)
I had a baby daughter.
And two years later, we got a little crazy, and out popped another one.
Final score in our house: 3-2 Girls. A shocker. I think I heard Al Michaels in the delivery room screaming, “Do you believe in miracles?!? Yes!!!”
Suddenly, my whole world turned pink. I was sucked into a vortex of My Little Pony, Dora, American Girl dolls, and endless dance classes and recitals. It was foreign, it was frightening, it was. . .
. . . heaven.
Daughters turn men to mush. Instant oatmeal. Sure, we pretend we're Mel Gibson in Braveheart in our Sunday beer leagues. Then we start bawling the first time they bring us a hand-drawn card with a heart on it.
My two little girls are the most gorgeous, precious living entities in the history of the universe. Yes, I know. Every bragging father makes that claim. But I'm the one that's right.
Darian, the oldest, is a blond and beautiful, sings like an angel, and makes friends faster than Facebook. Her little sister Gracie is a feisty brunette with Bette Davis eyes and a sense of humor worthy of her own sitcom.
I fell so madly in love with them that the whole “I want sports kids” thing didn't matter anymore. OK, maybe it still mattered a bit.
Neither showed much interest in playing sports early on. Their brother Jared plays rep hockey, so they got dragged to the rink four times a week, and weren't too interested in going back to skate them selves.
So we turned to soccer.
Watching them play was a major adjustment for me. When my boy gets hurt, I just dust him off and send him back out there, as my Dad did to me. Like John Mayer sings, “Boys you can break, you find out how much they can take.” (Please don't tell my friends I quoted a John Mayer song.)
But my girls, I just wanted to protect. One little raspberry on their knee and I wanted to wrap them in blankets and feed them ice cream. If they got kicked in the shin by somebody's little Emma or Victoria, I waited in the parking lot for that kid and took her Freezie. (Not really, but I thought about it.)
And there were other challenges. Darian's first season (she was five), she ran harder than anyone, up and down the field. One minor problem: she refused to go anywhere near the ball.
“Go get it!” I'd yell. The look I'd get back was a distinct, “Why?” That stupid round thing was just getting in the way of her wind sprints.
Soon she grew tired of the running and began to negotiate her playing time down.
This is an actual exchange (I typed in my blackberry as soon as it happened, thinking I would read it to her someday after she won back-to-back NCAA soccer titles):
Coach: “Darian, I need you back out there, just for five minutes!”
Darian: “How about one minute?”
Coach (bewildered and desperate): “Umm. . . three minutes?”
Darian (slowly getting up off the grass): “I'll go for two. Dad, time it.”
No, I didn't weep. (Until later, when I was alone.)
But she kept playing, and now loves it, putting on her uniform five hours before the game, and begging not to come off. “Please coach, five more minutes!”
During Game Seven of the 2009 Stanley Cup final in Detroit, I got a call from her: “Dad, I scored my first goal tonight!” I immediately resented the Red Wings for losing Game 6, and making me miss that moment. I sulked for the rest of the night, and was quietly pleased when the Penguins won. “See what you get for messing with my family, Osgoode?”
Gracie, my littlest, was a different animal (emphasis on the animal part). Last year was her first in soccer. She was a foot shorter and 10 pounds lighter than any other girl on the field. But if you took the ball off her, you were going down.
One evening, as we drove home from a game, she sipped from her juice-box, and said, matter-of-factly, “Dad, I made three girls cry tonight.”
“Yes, you did honey. Yes you did.”
I think I teared up again. I've rarely been prouder.
• • •
Postscript: Darian is 8, now. Gracie is 6. Besides dance, they are in soccer, yoga, skating, swimming. I actually said to my wife the other day, “We really have got to cut down on these sports.” I'm still trying to figure out if that's progress or sacrilege.
Chapter 57
What They Really Mean
October 2002
We are being Nuked. In the papers, at the podiums, in the post-game scrums, poor helpless sports fans are being bombarded by Nukes.
Brief pause for definition: Nuke—a noun derived from the character Nuke Laloosh, Tim Robbins' strong-armed, dim-witted pitcher in the movie Bull Durham.
Crash Davis (played by legendary Sioux Indian actor “Dances with Wolves”) taught Nuke all the lame clichés he'd need to make it through interviews in The Show. Today, they call that “Media Training.” Athletes are being taught how to avoid answering questions before they're even drafted, which turns their entire careers into one long series of repetitious, often fictitious, clichés. Nukes are everywhere, and there's no shelter for the helpless fan.
Cue the loud infomercial announcer: “That's why you need the new NUKE-ENGLISH DICTIONARY! A complete translation guide for jocktalk! Keep it by your side when watching SportsCenter or reading the morning paper! You'll finally understand what your heroes are really saying! Just $19.95 (plus postage and handling)! Here's a sample!”
PRE-GAME:
“We can't take this team too lightly.”
(TRANSLATION: “They're 2-34. Our mascot might get a triple-double!”)
“We're peaking at the right time.”
(“Most of the guys are right at the end of a steroid cycle.”)
“I play every game like it's my last.”
(“It's my last game. I'm about to be indicted on a felony.”)
“There's no I in Team.”
(“But there's one in ‘Incentive Clause,’ so I ain't passing to anybody.”)
“I don't read the papers.”
(“I don't know how to read.”)
POST-GAME:
“It was a total team effort.”
(“It was basically all me.”)
“We just didn't have it tonight.”
(“We were out clubbing 'til 6 a.m., and man were we hung over.”)
“I love coaching this team. These guys played their hearts out for me, and they have nothing to be ashamed of. We'll get 'em next year!”
(“I'm soooo fired.”)
FREE-AGENCY:
“It's not about the money.”
(“Did you see all those zeros?! Woo-Hoo! I'm Bill Gates, baby!”)
“I wanted to play here because this is a beautiful city and a great (INSERT SPORT HERE) town.”
(“Did you see all those zeros?! Woo-Hoo!”)
“It's about taking care of my family.”
(“I have 12 different kids from nine different mothers, and two more paternity suits pending, so I really need the money.”)
LEGAL TROUBLE:
“I didn't do it.”
(“I paid someone else to do it.”)
“It was just a misunderstanding.”
(“Someone misunderstood me, so I slugged 'em.”)
“That bag of drugs you found in my car isn't mine. . . Ah, it's my cousin Lenny's.”
(“Oh crap. I don't even have a cousin named Lenny.”)
RETIREMENT:
“I want to spend more time with my family.”
(“I want to play 36 holes a day, and get my handicap under 5.”)
“You're the best fans in the world! Thanks for your support!”
(“You're the best groupies in the world! Thanks for your discretion!”)
“I'm leaving
under my own terms.”
(“My agent called everybody and even the Thrashers won't sign my washed-up sorry ass.”)
• • •
Postscript: I just watched Bull Durham the other day on TBS. It holds up amazingly well after all these years. So does my Nuke-English Dictionary, now available online in 27 different jock-cliché languages.
Chapter 58
Ottawa's Fatal Flaw
April 2008
In the wake of Ottawa's early exit from the playoffs, just about everybody has been blamed. They blamed the coach/GM. They blamed the forwards. They blamed the guy who installed that mural, outside Pittsburgh's locker room, of the Senators beating the Penguins last year (never a good idea to give Sid extra motivation). They blamed the lame actor who portrayed a gladiator in the pre-game (I've seen better acting in my Best of Dolph Lundgren DVD). And of course, they blamed the goalie.
No, Martin Gerber didn't cost the Senators the series against Pittsburgh. Not even close. Ray Emery didn't cost them the final last year against Anaheim, either. Goaltenders have never been the only reason Ottawa has lost. But here's the rub: they've never been the only reason Ottawa has won, either.
Oh sure, there are some regular season games you could dig up where one of them stood on his head, but almost every NHL goalie gets freakishly hot on occasion. Brian Boucher once had five shutouts in a row. Nuff said.
To make a team truly great, you need a goalie who will single-handedly steal you a game once-in-a-while in the playoffs. Someone to inspire, instead of deflate. Someone to make that ridiculous somersaulting, momentum-turning, spill-your-beer-on-your-lap, series-saving stop. (Then not let in a softie three minutes later.)
Emery and Gerber are what every Senators goalie in the modern history of this franchise has been: average, decent, pedestrian. And if you are a fan of this team, those are swear words, every one.
Say what you want about trade deadline failures, defensive lapses and Heatley and Spezza's face-on-the-milk carton performances. The tragic flaw of this franchise is, and always has been, the absence of a Cup-calibre goalie.
If the window has closed on this “core,” if this is somehow the end of a decade-long run of parade-possible teams who just couldn't finish, that would be the epitaph: OTTAWA SENATORS 1997–2008. GOOD TEAM. NEEDED A GOALIE.
The last tender I recall stealing games at clutch times was Ron Tugnutt, the first year they made the playoffs. And I had to think about it for a while. When the best money-goalie your memory can come up with is a journeyman who was roughly the size of Prince, you have issues.
Sure, Patrick Lalime was far better than the giggle-lines most writers and broadcasters use him for (I plead guilty). His career playoff goals-against (1.77) is still among the best in NHL history. But all those horrific goals at the worst of times have forever branded him as Ottawa's Bill Buckner.
The saddest short story ever written for Sens fans can be found on page 179 of the team media guide. It's the list labelled “All-Time Roster: Goaltenders/Gardiens de But” (or as my buddy Brad translates it: butt-gardeners). WARNING: if you're a weeper, grab a tissue. Or a towel.
It reads: Mike Bales, Tom Barrasso (10 years too late), Don Beaupre, Daniel Berthiaume, Craig Billington, Emery, Mike Fountain, Gerber, Dominik Hasek (wonky groin edition), Jani Hurme, Mark LaForest, Simon Lajeunesse, Lalime, Darrin Madeley, Mike Morri son, Martin Prusek, Damian Rhodes, Peter Sidorkiewicz, Tugnutt, Steve Weeks.
Yowsa. For full effect, the reading of that list really should be accompanied by a bugler playing “Taps”.
The Senators have long been praised for their solid drafting. But amidst all the good forward and defensive finds, not a single keeper who's been a. . . well. . . keeper. You'd think in 15 seasons, they might have stumbled onto one masked stud. Even by mistake. Nope.
And consider the ones who have slipped away. Let's play every Senator fan's (and scout's) least-favourite game show: WHO YOU COULDA HAD!
In 1994, your Ottawa Senators selected goalie Bryan Masotta 81st overall. OK, Bob, tell them “Who You Coulda Had!”
Deep-voiced Announcer Guy: “You coulda had. . . Marty Turco, 43 spots later! But wait, it gets better! Your Senators also chose Frederic Cassivi in the 9th round, just before Tim Thomas, Tomas Vokoun and Evgeni Nabokov!”
Ouch. All-righty, round two. In 1999, you selected the legendary Simon Lajeunesse in the second round, 48th overall. Bob?
“You coulda had. . . Ryan Miller. . . 90 picks later!”
And now the brainteasing bonus round. In 1998, you drafted Mathieu Chouinard. After failing to sign him, you drafted him again in 2000, 45th overall! Bob?
“Yes, James, for a guy you drafted twice and who never played a single game for you, you coulda had. . . 155 spots later. . . Henrik Lundquist! Sorry, you lose. Again! Next time on WHO YOU COULDA HAD, we revisit 1993, the year the Senators drafted can't-miss goalie-prospect, Toby Kvalevog! Goodnight, everybody!”
By the way, about that Mathieu Chouinard-Double-Doh! It's officially number two on the all-time Ottawa sports draft follies, just behind the Rough Riders drafting the dead guy.
Of course, it's not just the draft. There have been franchise goalies available through trades and free agency, but Ottawa has always struck out.
John Muckler kicked tires on Roberto Luongo just before he was dealt to the Canucks. Mike Keenan, then the Panthers GM, says they talked about a deal (Emery, Antoine Vermette, a defenceman and a draft pick was one possibility), but he could never get Muckler to get serious.
“I told John make me a firm offer,” Keenan says. “But he never did.” So Keenan traded Luongo to the Canucks.
So here we are. A full decade as a contender, and the Senators still search for that one goalie they can pencil in for the next six seasons. The guy who would make the D play with confidence and creativity, instead of sheer terror. The guy who would help the scorers relax because they know they don't need four or five to win every night.
I know. There is only a handful of those around. But the one black mark on this franchise remains its failure to find one.
• • •
Postscript: Add Pascal Leclaire and Brian Elliot to the list of Ottawa goalies who didn't work out. Leclaire couldn't stay healthy, and Elliott was wildly inconsistent before being traded to Colorado for Craig Anderson in 2011. Anderson was subsequently signed to a four-year contract. Best of luck, Andy. (On the plus side for you, expectations are somewhat tempered by now).
Chapter 59
Jungle Love
September 2005
It seemed like a relatively innocent, dare I say romantic, inquiry.
My wife was approaching a landmark birthday (revealing the actual number would likely lead to beheading, or something worse, like say, having to watch Gray's Anatomy with her). So, in a weak moment a couple of months back, I offered the following:
“If I could give you anything in the world for your birthday, what would you want?”
She came up with several ideas, which were rejected due to infeasibility. No, honey, rounds of golf cannot be universally reduced to six holes. No, the NFL will not fold, leaving Sunday afternoons exclusively for fashion and home design shows. No, Expedia.ca does not offer “Sponge Bathing David Beckham” tours.
But after a couple of days of quiet pondering, she had her answer:
“I want us to go on a vegetarian yoga retreat in the jungle of Costa Rica.”
Uh. . . Que?
The “vegetarian” and “yoga retreat” parts didn't really surprise me. That's just how she rolls. Even the “Costa Rica” idea barely twitched an eyebrow. I'll take a tropical beach any way. It was those other two words she kind of casually chucked in there: “JUNGLE” and “US.”
Look, I do all-inclusive beach resorts with cute little umbrella drinks and hot salsa teachers named Juanita. I don't do jungle. I don't really do yoga either, though I occasionally stretch before beer league touch football games, if that counts for anything.
“Oo
oh, that sounds amazing, baby. But maybe you want to do this one with the girls. . . you know. . . chick-bonding. . . Ya-Ya Sisterhood. . . that kinda deal.”
“No. I want to do this together.”
Long silence.
“Now, by jungle, you mean a couple of palm trees, a coconut and maybe one of those cute little lizards on our balcony, right?”
“No. I mean jungle. As in a hut on a mountain in the middle of the rain forest.”
Longer silence.
“TV?”
“No.”
“Pool?”
“No.”
“Gym?”
“No. But four hours of yoga a day. Beginning at 7:00 each morning. In the jungle.”
Extremely long silence intended. But instead I believe a tiny terrified school-girlish shriek slipped out. It resembled the yelp of a chihuahua when you step on its paw.
“Umm. You know I saw these diamond earrings at Tiffany's.”
“Too late. I already booked it.”
Oh.
So here I am, two weeks before hockey season, cramped in the back of a minivan filled with eight vegetarian female yogis intently discussing their respective “energies” and “auras,” bouncing along something that vaguely resembles a road, five hours from San Jose, Costa Rica, and climbing into nowhere.
Finally, just as I figure we can't possibly go any further, we switch to a hardcore four-wheeler that crawls the last couple of miles up the mountain to our “nature reserve”—a name, by the way, with which I wholeheartedly concur. RESERVED FOR NATURE. HUMANS STAY OUT!