Thank you, Saints...

... for another great season. "Great season?" you ask. "They missed the playoffs after being picked the team to beat in the preseason."

Well, yes, but after starting the season 0 and 4, everyone had given up on them (please refer to earlier post dated Sunday October 7). However, the Saints managed to rebound from that huge hole to still be in contention for a playoff spot on the last weekend of the season. And they did that without Deuce, Reggie, Aaron, Marques and Mike.

Hey you Saints, thanks for all the great exciting action this season, and for keeping us in suspense about the playoffs until the last moment.

HOW COULD THEY?

I am deeply grieving today. We lost a great one, Benazir Bhutto, much too soon before she should have died. How could they just simply kill her? She was special.

I know that I really have no clue about Pakistan politics, but I have admired and have been entranced by Bhutto ever since she became Prime Minister of Pakistan twenty years ago, and actually gave birth while in office. I was saddened when she was forced from office on charges of alleged corruption.

How could she now meet the same fate as her late father, murdered by a citizen of the great state for which Benazir and her father had such great love and vision? It is just not fair. She should have had a chance to contest the current election to see if the majority wanted her back, or if maybe there was a possibility of a workable coalition.

I just cannot believe it. The beautiful, well educated, well spoken and affable Benazir Bhutto is suddenly gone, all because of some coward with a gun. This is indeed a great tragedy.

We will miss you, Benazir.

Duck, Duck?

As all other Anaheim Ducks fans, I am ecstatic that Scott Neidermayer has decided not to retire and will begin his season at the blueline this December.

Could this be the turning point in the Ducks' season and their quest for consecutive Stanley Cups?

Not a bad year

I cannot believe it. Everyone of my teams won this year. THIS YEAR! ALL IN THE SAME YEAR!

Anaheim Ducks, Manchester United Red Devils, Boston Red Sox, Florida Gators NCAA Men's Basketball; and now the Saskatchewan Roughriders! I guess the possible exception is the NFL, but even there, I have been hoping for the Indianapolis Colts to win it all if my numbers 1 and 2, the New Orleans Saints and the Oakland Raiders, didn't.

The Ducks fulfilled my boyhood dream, Manchester had not won since I began following English Premier League football and Boston was also thrilling after many earlier disappointments. I hoped for a repeat for the Gators for a whole season, and I have died with the Colts a few times. And, though I don't follow the CFL very closely, I have cheered for the Roughriders since I was a wee lad. How amazing they came through this year. How amazing everyone did!

One For the Ages

... at least during the NFLiscene epoch.

Miami Dolphins versus Pittsburgh Steelers on Monday Night Football, the last Monday in November. Why bother watching? I still have a hate on for the Steelers for beating out the Raiders and Oilers so often in the mid to late 1970s. And the Dolphins are so awful this year, they are still winless. So, why bother watching?

I like to tune into the beginning of the telecast to catch Hank's song and whatever funny opening features or remarks there are. Well, this one was extraordinary. It was nearly time for the opening kickoff and there were no fans in the seats at Heinz Field in Pittsburgh. I mean, the stands were empty! I have been to Heinz Field and it is a lovely venue, so I knew that it wasn't due to discomfort that the place was deserted.

Because of lightning accompanying the heavy rain, fans were encouraged to take shelter in the concourse. It was announced that the game would be delayed a half hour. In the meantime, groundskeepers attempted to repaint lines that had disappeared when the tarp had been removed from the newly sodded field. I wondered why a painter would suddenly stop painting for a five yard stretch as he went down the sidelines with his machine. When the camera zoomed closer, I could see that the unpainted segment of field was several inches deep of water.

I was taking a slight perverse interest in the game in that the Dolphins were still winless, and I would love to see them match the record of futility of the 1976 expansion Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who went winless their first season. On this night, as I continued to watch the Steelers and Dolphins slug it out in the quagmire, I was amazed that nobody could score, not even a field goal. Half time and three quarter time both came and left with no scoring.

The announcers kept the audience up to date on the most recent games that had been scoreless this late in the game. I was fixated to my tv screen, torn between hoping for a scoreless tie resulting in overtime, with a possible overtime tie final result, and Miami maintaining its perfect winless season.

At last, I had to content myself with the Steelers finishing it off with 17 seconds left, a hard fought 3 to nothing victory. The game didn't break the record for longest scoreless game, and there weren't many brilliant offensive plays, but Miami winlessness continued, and the defensive drama in the rain and mud was certainly one for the ages.

Thank you, Ottawa Renegades

... for disbanding when the Saskatchewan Roughriders were bad enough or lucky enough to choose Kerry Joseph in the dispersal draft. And now we have the Grey Cup.

WELL, RUN!....YOU RUN WHEN YOU'RE PLAYING FOOTBALL!

...That was what my father would yell at me when he and I were trying to chase a farm animal on foot. My father actually loved me very much. And he had it exactly right. I did run when I played football. It's just that when a bull had escaped the friendly confines of the Luther corral system, I wasn't always sure which direction to run to help retrieve the critter.

My father loved football. As far as I know he never played football. At least, not with me. As I played around with my football by myself in our yard, my dad would come home at supper time and park his tractor at the far end of the yard. As he walked past me, I would toss him the ball, and he would deflect it back at me with an awkward two-handed motion. Of course, he had a big grin on his face. However, it was busy season, and he had no time to play catch with me.

One particular autumn we had a lot of hay and straw bales to haul from the fields to the yard for winter. On the Thanksgiving long weekend, my dad was pleased when he and I were able to haul 1000 bales on Saturday and another 1000 on Monday. As it turned out, we were still hauling bales when Grey Cup Saturday rolled around in late November.

We worked like busy beavers that morning and into the afternoon. Then, at game time, Dad and I suddenly stopped hauling bales, and he and I sat in our work clothes in the living room for the next 2.5 hours, watching the CFL championship game. I know that he knew how badly I wanted to watch this game. I know he wanted to see it, too, but he maybe would have skipped watching it if his bale hauling partner had been some hired hand instead of his own boy.

It was pretty obvious: my father loved football and my father loved me. What a great combination.

Way to go, Red Sox!

Thank you for erasing some more of the pain of 1967, 1975, 1986 and 2003. You dudes are truly the best.

Have we learned nothing from Jimmy Fallon?

"What are you kids laughing at? If you say 'Jimmy Fallon', I'll know you're lying." So says Homer Simpson.

But, I am referring to the great movie Fever Pitch ("great" being a relative term), starring Drew Barrymore and Jimmy Fallon. Fallon's character is the most extreme obsessive Boston Red Sox fan who falls for the beautiful professional woman and can't seem to reconcile the two. Anyway, in the penultimate scene in the movie, Fallon is dining in a restaurant with his friends and notices that Johnny Damon and two other Red Sox are also dining there. It is immediately following a humiliating loss to the New York Yankees, leaving the Red Sox in a 3 games to 0 hole in a best of 7 series. The die hard fan suddenly realizes that the Red Sox players themselves are not considering their baseball as life and death like their fans do, and he realizes that there is more to life than a baseball obsession.

Fast forward to October 18, 2007 when poor (well, not really) Manny Ramirez is taken out of context for an utterance similar to the message of the famous scene in Fever Pitch. The players are amazing for being able to deal with the stress and disappointment of their profession, by being able to put everything in perspective. Life will go on if we lose. And by taking that easy going approach, it just might give you an advantage over the other team who may be pressing too hard.

Thank you, media, for once again blowing everything out of proportion.


Oh yeah, another thing: Manny may be slow coming out of the batter's box, but his amazing hitting stats speak for themselves. Maybe Manny isn't Charlie Hustle, but look where he ended up.

Colorado Rockies become the 10th Expansion Team to Reach the World Series

At least, I think I have that right.

New York Mets 1969
Kansas City Royals 1980
Milwaukee Brewers (Seattle Pilots) 1982
San Diego Padres 1984
Toronto Blue Jays 1992
Florida Marlins 1997
Arizona Diamondbacks 2001
Anaheim (Los Angeles)(California) Angels 2002
Houston Astros (Colt 45s) 2005
Colorado Rockies 2007


That only leaves the Texas Rangers (Washington Senators), Washington Nationals (Montreal Expos), Seattle Mariners, Tampa Bay Devil Rays

Of the ten who have made it, six have won the World Series, although Colorado may make it seven this season.

Don't Give Up Hope!

I know, I know, the New Orleans Saints have the absolute worst net points total in the NFL and have not won a game yet. But, they have a game in hand on the rest of the teams in their division. If they win that extra game, then they are only a couple of games out of first place, and there is still lots of season left to play.

I am not sure why everyone is so down on the Saints. I have suffered with them through some pretty miserable seasons before. Sometimes it just takes a little time for them to hit their stride. I missed the game today, but it sounds like they could easily have won it with a few breaks, like if they had made the last minute 50+ yard field goal instead of the other team.

No doubt it will be difficult to win without Deuce who is gone for the season. But I will keep wearing my McAllister jersey with pride and will keep cheering for my team to play well and to win; because they are my team and I love them. I am proud of them and know that they will turn it around sooner or later. For now I will keep the faith.

Hail to the Redskins: # 2 in the US Football Trilogy

After a delightful breakfast at McDonald's early on a Sunday, my friend and I caught the Washington Metro red line, then transferred to the blue line as we headed for FedEx Field. A trans planted Brit talked our ears off and guided us to the stadium, a half hour hike in the searing heat from our Metro stop.

My friend took a run through the tailgating parties while I continued on to our stadium entrance. I was anxious to take in the warm-ups and to see the pre-game presentation to Joe Theismann, a Redskins hero from the 80s, and a college star I had followed in the 70s while he attended Notre Dame University.

Washington Redskins were playing host to the Miami Dolphins that opening Sunday of the NFL season. I know that I looking a little odd wearing my New Orleans Saints' Deuce McAllister jersey that day, in contrast to the sea of bright red Redskins jerseys and the occasional teal of the Dolphins' fans who were present. I was mocked by a few fans because of my choice of attire. However, when I passed by security to enter the Redskins store inside the stadium, the guard looked at me and matter of factly said: "That's the best damn jersey I've seen today."

I was fascinated by the Redskins Wall of Fame located inside the souvenir store. It brought back fond memories of the over the hill gang teams coached by George Allen in the early 70s. I also reminisced of the glory days of the three Super Bowl winners in the 80s and early 90s. This is truly a storied franchise.

I then made my way up to the highest possible level of the stadium, clutching my free USA flag and Redskins history DVD. I passed through a tunnel where a pair of fans were loitering in the shade. I realized later how wise they were. I ascended to my seat as soon as possible, so that I spent more than four hours in the blistering 90 plus degree heat, in direct sunlight. It was worth it to go early to see the warm ups and Joe, but the problem came later when the perspiration saturating and burning my eyes became constant, such that I couldn't really see the game all that well.

Nonetheless, I was taking in my first ever live NFL football game. The marching band playing "Hail to the Redskins", a tradition kept alive since the team's inception in 1932, was marvelous. Then, when the flags and the team came roaring out of their tunnel to the roar of a rousing contemporary song, I was just thrilled. It was truly superb.

I was also thrilled to see some well known stars playing and to get some zoom camera shots of them. My favourite plays of the game, oddly, were the punts. It was hilarious watching the outside tacklers of the punting team being run out of bounds at high speed by their corresponding blockers on the other team, in an attempt to make the speedy tacklers ineligible to be the first player to touch the ball if the punt was fumbled by the punt returner. It was like a game of cat and mouse with two players with track star speed trying to evade one or two fast men on the other team, and often ending up way out of the play.

Watching the fans around brought me great amusement. There were the three 20 year olds directly in front, two guys and a girl. The young woman managed to remove her undergarment from under her jersey without removing her jersey, which she then gave to a male friend to cover his head in the hot sun. They took turns going downstairs to the concourse for food, and in the process two of then missed most of the second quarter. Then, later in the game they had obtained some bottled water from downstairs, as the vendors in the aisles were only selling beer. These three young people then proceeded to pour the $5 a bottle water on their heads and attempt to throw it on each other's groin area.

Another funny fan was a middle aged man who sat about 15 rows directly down from me. Wearing a Redskins worker's hard hat, he rose every time the Redskins scored, turned around to face the rows behind him, extended his arms horizontally with palms up, and just barely lifted all his fingers into the air, repeatedly. He had this blank, but satisfied look on his face, as he seemed to fancy himself leading the crowd in a cheer. As it was, every happy fan at that moment was cheering quite nicely without his supposed leadership. He was just too funny to watch.

The game itself was exciting. Not a high scoring affair, but a hard fought match which the Redskins managed to tie and send into overtime. I couldn't believe it; my first live NFL game and it goes into overtime. Actually, I was kind of dreading the overtime because of my discomfort in the extreme heat. But, the Redskins pulled it out in the end, in exciting fashion to win by three points. It was exciting for my friend and I that the game winning kick was made by a Canadian.

Sitting in the heat for so long was something short of torture for me, but I am glad for the experience. To be lost in a crowd of 90,000 football fans was a great feeling. The home fans love the game and they love their Redskins. It was really neat to be on hand to witness that love affair. My own love affair with the New Orleans Saints and NFL Sunday Ticket in my own living room will have to wait.

Thanks Redskins and Dolphins for the great spectacle, a hard fought game. Good luck to both of you this season.

# 1 in the US Football Trilogy

My friend and I got some notion of the "Friday Night Lights" experience. We attended a local high school football game between Rockville High Rams and the Northwood Gladiators, in Rockville, Maryland. The final score, 21 to zero, appeared lopsided, but the game was actually closer than that, and hard fought.

I was impressed with both football programs. There was plenty of intensity, but it seemed that everyone involved was having fun. I am particularly impressed with the Northwood program.

A mom at the game informed us that Northwood High had closed, but came back into existence four years ago. For this school to put together a competitive team (the half time score was 7-0), is a wonderful accomplishment.

I am looking forward to # 2 in the Trilogy, the NFL game this Sunday.

Missing Arlington National Cemetery

"I am too tired to go; you go without me." So, off went my friend, without me.

The JFK Memorial was alright, but my friend walked and walked much further than that. He managed to see a couple of major funerals with the casket in a carriage drawn by six white horses, with military accompaniment in full regalia.

The first was the commemoration of a mass grave from a US plane that went down in 1942. The second was for Brigadier General Jackson. My friend got fairly close, sitting in a tree at one point, before security asked him to give the families more privacy.

It was an amazing experience for him. I felt a little bad for missing out, but apparently I helped give him the idea to search out the military funerals when I first showed up in DC wanting to visit the cemetery. Probably my staying home to sleep this morning made it possible for him to keep walking all morning and seeing the most amazing funerals he had seen.

An evening at RFK

My flight into Ronald Reagan Airport in Washington, DC whetted my appetite for that evening's activities. On my plane's descent, I had a lovely bird's eye view of RFK Stadium in east DC. My friend and I quickly revamped our plans to attend the Washington Nationals' game that evening against the visiting Florida Marlins. The reason? D-Train.

The Washington area Metro system is outstanding, allowing my friend and I to take the train to RFK, only a few minutes' walk from the Stadium-Armory stop on the Orange Line. The ticket scalpers were out early and some sidewalk vendors offered cheaper souvenirs to early bird fans. There was a buzz of excitement around RFK. The reason? D-Train???

All right, let's get to D-Train. I really wanted to see Dontrelle Willis pitch. He is one of the top young talented pitchers in baseball today. His appearance is almost comical, with his hat cocked a little to his left and with his arms flailing in recoil after the delivery of his pitch. His high leg kick during his windup is reminiscent of some of the old flame throwers like Gibson and Marichal. And D-Train has remained a star since his exciting debut with the Marlins four seasons ago.

He did not disappoint me in this game. He threw heat. He pitched himself into and out of jams. He flailed the air with those long arms as he threw his body off the mound, giving it every effort he had. I was also impressed with Willis' at-bats. With a .235 season average, he is not an easy out at the plate. Each time he batted, he made good contact and showed great speed running to first. He left the game in the mid-eighth with the lead, after throwing over 100 pitches.

Alas for D-Train, the Nats stole the show and the ballgame from Florida in the bottom of the ninth. A timely double that bounced around the left field corner by young Jesus somebody brought in two runs for a walk off win. I had been cheering for D-Train. I had been cheering for Miguel Cabrera of the Marlins when he batted. And I had been cheering for several of the Nationals at various times during the game, especially for first baseman Dmitri Young, who once led the major leagues in home runs (it was only once, for a day or two, when he hit three on opening day, then was passed and never led again).

But this game ended so suddenly and with such excitement, I just cheered and cheered. Our tickets were only 5 bucks. But the experience of seeing D-Train in action, Dmitri at the plate and witnessing a walk off finish made for a very entertaining evening at RFK.

PS: What's with those racing and dancing Presidents?

The final watershed

It was a good thing for the pumpkin custard. My tears had dried by then. Earlier on in the Thai meal across from the GoTrain Station in Oakville, Ontario on Labour Day 2007, I had to shift my thoughts a bit to keep from blubbering all over the fine linen.

This was, after all, the final instalment in taking daddy's little girl to school. And the term "final" has such a finality to it. First, a very brief history.

Instalment one was Labour Day Sunday 1998 when my wife and I dropped off our eldest daughter at a college 4 hours away from our home. I quite literally wept all the way home that day, not really out of sadness, but more out of the realization of the watershed moment, that our family would never be the same from this moment forward.

The second instalment was kind of an odd situation. The respective daughter had not moved away from home (well, not really). Actually, I was saying goodbye to her at her new home, while my wife and I were leaving town for our new home, with our collective prior residence being occupied by tenants. I will always remember the look my daughter gave me just before I closed the car door. During the six hour drive that ensused, whenever I revisualized my daughter's loving gaze, I just cried.

Which brings us to the current daughter leaving home. She actually was on her own last year with daughter #2, but she had come to live with her mother and I this summer to work in the big city. It was tough to say goodbye to her now, but I was so excited for her that she had thrown caution to the wind and moved wholesale to Ontario.

Now that I have left Oakville, I really miss her, but I know I will be back again to see her, and to try some more of that pumpkin custard.

And they thought no one would ever break the 2001 single season record for home runs...

MLB.com wrapup
Bonds' blast lifts Giants
No. 760 delivers win
By Tom Keller / MLB.com

Barry Bonds hit his 760th home run of the year to help the Giants beat the Marlins for the second day in a row. Bengie Molina and Rich Aurilia each drove in a run, while Matt Cain picked up his fifth win of the year.

(Italics added)

A champion in every sense of the word

Duck defender
The StarPhoenix
Published: Thursday, August 09, 2007

Everybody knows Scott Niedermayer is a great hockey player. Turns out he is a true duck defenceman in every sense of the word. In conjunction with People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, the Anaheim captain recently sent letters to Chicago city council members urging them not to repeal the city's ban on foie gras, which is made from the fatted livers of ducks and geese. "As an Anaheim Duck, I hate to see real ducks tortured so that a handful of wealthy chefs can serve their diseased organs," Niedermayer wrote.

© The StarPhoenix (Saskatoon) 2007

756

"We've got everything here that you could want..."

... So said the souvenir vendor at the Seattle Kingdome one long July evening in 1997. As I stood there expectantly with my nine-year old daughter, who was also a keen consumer, I requested to buy a Mariners' pencil.

"I'm sorry, we don't have any pencils." Hmmm. "Well, would you have a Mariners' fridge magnet?" I asked. Looking slightly embarrassed, the vendor replied that they had no fridge magnets either. I glanced over at my daughter who was grinning from ear to ear at the irony of it all.


I was disappointed that evening for another reason. Our vanload of would be baseball fans had taken so long to get going in Maple Ridge, B.C. that morning, and we had stopped for the most leisurely of lunches at Denny's somewhere in northwest Washington, and there was a screwup with our family's reservations at some cheap motel on the south side of Seattle that, by the time we arrived at the ballpark, we had missed Junior's batting practice.

Despite the shortage of pencils and magnets at the souvenir stand, my daughter and I did manage to purchase the first of what would become her daddy's treasured collection of colorful team baseballs and mini-bats, long after she lost interest. Later during the exciting inter-league game between two west coast teams, the same daughter requested a cotton candy from the mobile vendor whose display resembled Sideshow Bob's tonsorial. My wife lamented that I was, in effect, buying the kid whatever she asked for. My response was: "Yeah, but what's your point?"

However, that same child who bought a few items at the ballpark was deeply disturbed later on, at the sight of a homeless person crying as we passed by him, on the way to our van.

Why all this reminiscing about one ball game that happened so many years ago, about which I have forgotten a lot of the details? Well, some other details came back to me on this historic day. On that happy occasion in the Kingdome in 1997, I got to see A-Rod in action, before I realized who A-Rod really was, or who he would become. And, I also got to see Barry Bonds, before I realized what an amazing presence he would become in baseball. On this day 10 years later, both men lit up the sportsworld with their milestone achievements, the youngest to reach 500 home runs, and the second man to hit 755 homers.

Back in 1997, A-Rod was a beautiful (he still is) young shortstop playing in the Pacific Northwest, prior to becoming the famous 252 million dollar man. I don't remember what he did in that game, but I do recall how the Mariners fans just loved him. (Side note: I still regret not purchasing that $34 cardboard standup of A-Rod the last time I was in Times Square)

I remember watching Barry Bonds hit a few balls into the third level of the dome during batting practice. I had never really liked Bonds when he starred with Pittsburgh, mostly because I was not a Pirates fan. I have since grown to appreciate his skills as a San Francisco Giant and shared some disappointment with him as he sat alone and quiet in the dugout following his team's seventh game loss to the Angels in the 2002 World Series. However, on this 1997 day in the Kingdome, I was in total awe of him. (Side note: I have a Barry Bonds bobblehead doll in storage at my sister's apartment in Baltimore, just waiting to come home to Calgary with me next month, along with some assorted Expos memorabilia)

There were six home runs that day, three each. That means that there were three fireworks displays after the Mariners' homers. I think Griffey hit one of them. I also remember watching the Big Unit sitting in the dugout with his long legs crossed. Oh, why did the Expos trade him? But I digress...

Ten years later, on a sensational Saturday in August when Alex Rodriguez hit his 500th home run in the morning and Barry Bonds tied Hank Aaron's all time record in the evening, the words of the souvenir woman were just as apt today, as before the game 10 years ago where we saw A-Rod and Barry on the same field: "We've got everything here that you could want!"

Fred is dead

I can't believe it. How could it happen to one of the twins?

Before the dramatic book sale, I contemplated who would be killed off in the final instalment, as promised by the author. I didn't really think any of the big three would be eliminated. But someone else of note would have to go.

Since I didn't remember the name of the other twin, I guessed "Fred will be killed." My prognostication, partly in jest, was met with scorn from my spouse and daughter.

However, when that same daughter, a big fan of the book and movies, finished the seventh volume last night, she appeared from her ivory tower, looked at me and blurted out "Fred was killed!" She glared at me like I was some kind of seer.

I guess you just have to know what you are talking about. A little bit of luck is also helpful.

Pourquoi les Canards?.... Parce que!

Je ne sais pas. Who really knows how it was that the Anaheim Ducks put it all together this season and captured the Stanley Cup.

Recently, a sports columnist wrote that he hated to admit it, but Brian Burke is the best general manager in the NHL.

Is it a factor that the Ducks have more Canadian players on their roster than any other NHL team?



Maybe having a no nonsense head coach to help the boys focus on hockey in the southern California sun was what was needed.

Perhaps the right combination of veterans and young skaters was the reason for success.

Why the Ducks? Why them and not the San Jose Sharks, the Los Angeles Kings, the California Seals, the Oakland Seals or the California Golden Seals?

You might point to luck, and it is true that some of the games in the final two series could easily have gone the other way with a few opposite bounces of the puck. However, there were probably some instances where the opponents had advantagious bounces also.

Why does a team suddenly rise to the top, when other teams who have been dwelling in mediocrity for decades can never seem to get anywhere? Well, it must be a combination of things that come together at the right time. Whatever the reason, this prairie boy is still ecstatic about the Anaheim "Mighty" Ducks taking home the hardware. Go Ducks!

No more crying on the lawn

Okay, Ken Dryden, I may have been cheering for you at the Liberal party leadership convention, but you ruined my life back in May 1971. It is still a bitter memory today, being reminded that one's favourite team is the only one among 28 that lost a Stanley Cup final series after being ahead 2 games to none at home. The Chicago Black Hawks just couldn't bring it to pass that year. In game 7, while ahead 2 goals to none, my favourite player Bobby Hull, the Golden Jet (father of the Golden Brett) cruised in over the opponents' blue line and let go a terrific slap shot that rang off the cross bar. Had he connected, a three-goal lead likely would have been insurmountable. Alas, the opponents tallied twice to tie the score, then the Pocket Rocket breezed around Pat Stapleton for goal number three, and that was all she wrote.

After the finish of this game, I brutally attacked the foot stool (well, it was one swift kick). Following this outburst, I made my way outdoors to the lawn where I laid down and cried. That's right, I laid down on the lawn and cried. I was sixteen. My disappointment was pronouced following near misses by the Black Hawks almost every year since I was 10. Did I mention that I laid down on the lawn and cried?

I am 52 years old now, and I finally have reason to rejoice and to gloat a little. At last, my favourite NHL team has won it all. Even now I can hardly believe it. The Anaheim Ducks have won the Stanley Cup! During all those years of bearing the taunts of Duck unbelievers, I have cheered for the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim through thick and thin, from their inception in 1993. It was especially sweet to have Teemu come home last year and to share the joy this season. Ducks win!

I have a new lawn now, on a steep hill in Calgary, down which you could easily roll out onto the bumpy street. I have no more need to go cry on the lawn. Did I mention before: "Ducks win!"

Thrill of the Lifetime

We missed going to Peters' Drive-in

I had a most interesting birthday. I can kind of blame myself for that. The others here made the mistake of letting me plan the afternoon of my birthday (they took care of the rest).

With the birthday boy driving (naturally) we headed south on Centre Street from our home in Calgary and stopped at a little dim sum restaurant. We all got out and went inside where I ordered a single order of steamed shrimp dumplings to go. The clerk at the till turned around and grabbed a container and handed it to me. I handed her some change and we left. It took thirty seconds.

We enjoyed devouring the shrimp on the sidewalk, then drove further down Centre to Safeway. Here we purchased a single order of sushi that we also ate on the sidewalk. You probably get the idea where this story is going.

Having opted out of the long lineup at Peters' Drive-in, we worked our way through downtown and onto MacLeod Trail, the main drag south of the river. We enjoyed a single baked potato with cheddar and broccoli at Wendy's, then shared a single cheese and bean quesadilla and pop at Taco Bell.

After turning around and heading north on MacLeod, we stopped for poutine and onion rings at Harvey's. Then, having driven three doors up the street from there, we finished off a couple of salads at Burger King.

We all seemed a bit fatigued by the adventure, so we ended up at Dairy Queen near our home where the birthday boy shared a blizzard with his youngest daughter, while the others enjoyed Buster Bars. Seven restaurants, spending $40 in total.

My girls then prepared a sushi party supper and a couple of our friends came over to celebrate as well. We enjoyed fresh salmon, snapper, tuna, avocado and cucumber in addition to some shrimp and smoked eel and plenty of rice and nori. Later we finished the evening with DQ frozen cake. Absolutely delightful.

Anyway, that was my birthday.

Do you remember...?

... when the Green Bay Packers'

starting offensive backs and

receivers were five guys named

Antonio, Ahman, Bubba, William

and Bill?

On being extremely critical of a footballer's manager's critically wrong non-decision today

I mean, what was he thinking? Your star centre fullback comes away from the endline holding his crotch, wincing with each step and looking to the sideline for direction. And this after missing most of the previous game with a serious groin injury; and this with only a couple of minutes remaining in the first half.

The camera shifts to the famous manager in the stands who, while glancing down to the sideline, suddenly brandishes a closed fist, to signal to carry on the same for the rest of the half. What is this? Has Vince Lombardi risen from the dead to revive the play while hurt philosophy?

No retroactive hindsight here. At the time I kept admonishing the TV screen to take out the injured player. You are going to take him out at the half anyway. If you don't take him out right now, the underdog team might very well get an opportunity to score due to the defender's inability to run (or even walk properly). A goal here might result in a disastrous effect on the entire season since the favoured team is only one win ahead of its nearest rival.

Alas, the telly did not heed my advice, and lo and behold, the other team did score during (appropriately named) injury time, while our wounded star basically stood in the box as a spectator.

This report from manutd.com is puzzling: "That goal on half-time was an absolute killer for us,” Sir Alex told MUTV. “I think if Rio had been fit they wouldn't have got it. But that's the breaks in football and you have to accept these things."

Am I missing something here? The manager wants our fans to accept that the other team wouldn't have scored the tying goal if he had had a fit defender playing? That all the manager had to do was to withhold his closed fist salute at the start of injury time, and make the obvious needed change then, rather than at the half? Am I missing something here?

I found some solace later on, in the fact that our team was able to salvage a draw, which would leave them still one point ahead of the pursuer. But I still cannot understand why such a great manager would make such a bonehead non-decision in this no-brainer context.

As a hopelessly hooked fan, I will still be watching and cheering next week. Sigh.

Admiration for America by a young Canadian boy; untitled poem written circa 1966, age eleven

The British were awaiting at Boston
They were going to Concord to seize the ammunition
And Paul Revere, who was a patriot, helped find out that plot
So he saddled his horse and waited many a night
And watched the church tower for a light

And on April 18th, he saw a light, shining bright; it was midnight
Then he spread the news to
The minutemen who
Shouldered a gun
And the Revolutionary War had begun

Now Revere was a soldier all during that game
And his midnight ride had brought him fame
And this is the end of my story
So I hope that you will see
How Revere helped bring victory
And start a new country




PS: For other possibly even better poetry on this subject, you can google Paul Revere's Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Note: Illustration found at www.paulreverehouse.org/ride

The Phantom Physician

My wife and I have been blessed to find a terrific family physician (yes, two married people still make a family!) upon our move to Calgary. We have placed our collective trust in Dr. Alex. He always takes lots of time to listen to our multi-problems and to offer his wise remedies. As a bonus, he also tells good jokes (and laughs heartily himself).

Dr. Alex is only available at the Asian Medical Centre on 16th Avenue on Wednesday afternoons and Saturday mornings. That has worked fine for us until this week, when I needed to see him on a Monday. The good doctor had told us that he has a separate clinic on the southside and helps out with the busy clinic on the TransCanada twice a week.

I figured that I could contact Dr. Alex at his regular clinic to see if I could get in there on short notice. The problem was, I could not locate him or the other clinic. In the various diretories in which I searched, I could not find the clinic he mentioned in the location he mentioned. I could not even find his name in any of the various directories of Calgary physicians.

Stymied, I telephoned the Asian Medical Centre to get his phone number. However, the receptionist told me that they don't have his phone number either. Fortunately, I was granted an appointment with another doctor at the centre, on short notice.

What do we make of this doctor, the phantom whose name, number and clinic location are apparently unascertainable from Sunday to Tuesday, and Thursday and Friday. I can vouch that he does exist, but maybe on his non-Asian Medical Centre days and nights he moonlights as a caped crusader somewhere in the city, standing for truth and justice in the Calgarian way.

All I can say is: I appreciate Dr. Alex, the best kept secret in Calgary.

Gator Aid

It wasn't just the big men who won it. It was also those "little" guys on the perimeter who continually sank three footers following Buckeye rallies in the second half that, effectively, sunk Ohio State in the NCAA Men's Basketball Championship game Monday night.

In last year's final, I was so impressed with Joakim Noah's dominance on the court, smashing the record for blocks and intimidating the Bruins throughout. I was even more impressed with Noah and his teammates for coming back this year to try to win back to back. They did not disappoint.

But this year, though the big men, Noah and Horford, still dominated on defence (and Horford on offence, in leading the team in points and rebounds), it was those deadly accurate outside shooters, Green, Brewer and Humphrey who seemed to really put Thee Ohio State University away, in collectively sinking 10 three pointers and scoring 43 points. It was just beautiful to behold.

Equally beautiful for me is the lasting image of Noah winding his way up through the crowd after the final whistle to embrace his mother. They hugged and hugged and hugged. What a moment.

Thank you, Noah and the rest of the Gators, for such a great season, and for dominating the Final Four. And thank you, little guys, for your superb aid in bringing the championship back to Florida.

What's My Line?

The prompter was sorely needed. However, despite the two lead characters not knowing a large portion of their lines, the small town Saskatchewan dinner theatre on March 9 was a big hit. With the use of various rural regional references in the dialogue, it was indeed a slice of life.

Although I am greatly biased in my assessment, my son-in-law and my daughter were easily the best performers in the drama, or were at least in the top three. My son-in-law was a striking visual presence, with his acquired black tonsorial and fu manchu. His character portrayal was very pleasing, from his jumping up and down tantrum as the spoiled rich kid character, to accidently knocking himself out, to mistakingly poisoning himself. A delightful performance.

My daughter was said to be out of character. She easily grasped the "clueless" nature of her character, much like the lead in the movie of the same name. It was ditz city on stage as she pranced, jumped and squealed, all with loud enthusiasm. She may have made some parents uncomfortable in the community where she is an elementary school teacher. Don't worry folks; she doesn't act that way most of the time.

I must applaud the community for the very satisfying evening of entertainment. The dinner meal was plentiful and scrumptious, and the "sex in a pan" dessert was wonderful. And the drama, despite some missed lines, was extremely funny. It brought back fond memories of my days in a small community where a bunch of us performed Arsenic and Old Lace, almost twenty years ago.

Attending this drama was a nifty experience, and was easily worth the six hour drive from Calgary.

Bye Bye Bowie

While I was growing up, Bowie Kuhn was the Commissioner of Major League Baseball. For most of that time, I highly admired the man, especially when he vetoed the Oakland A's firesale of three of its stars to the Yankees and Red Sox, because it was "not in the best interests of baseball." However, during my early adulthood onset of cynicism, I shared the critics' distaste for Bowie when he seemingly disappeared from the scene during the early '80s player strike.

For me, a more laughable moment in the Bowie culture was his reaction to Jim Bouton's bestseller Ball Four, wherein Bowie insisted that the incident where inebriated major league ballplayers kissed each other "didn't happen." Ah, the omnipresent, omniscient Bowie.

Nonetheless, Bowie was there. With the exception of the aforesaid baseball strike, he was always there for baseball and for this fan. Love him or not love him, Bowie will be missed.

Cassia's Wedding

Wow, what a beautiful day. No, not the weather. It was a chilly, mostly miserable day, the 4th of March. Wedding guests had encountered blizzard conditions and ice-packed roads in traveling to (or attempting to travel to) the Moose Jaw wedding. No, it was the wedding ceremony, reception and dance that were so beautiful and enjoyable. Why so? Because of the beautiful people involved.

I love my favourite single niece (single until after 4 PM on March 4). She is so vibrant, expressive and full of life. I always feel good about myself, and just feel great in general when she is around. I also share a bond with her, both of us having visited poor countries in Africa in 2006.

My new nephew is beautiful also. He has a great sense of humor and is so loving and supportive to his new bride. I enjoyed his public remarks about why my recent multiple rib fractures had prevented me from being the photographer at the ceremony and reception: "Uncle Marvin had something come up. You can check with him later for the details. It may or may not have had something to do with a toboggan."

The ceremony was lovely. The wedding party all glowed. The large group of pre-school age flower children, Cassia's and Jeremy's nieces and nephews, were crowd pleasers, and most of them made it down the aisle without incident. I was day dreaming somewhat during the worship songs when I noticed the bride with arms extended, singing her heart out. The whole ceremony was moving.

I was also moved to tears several times during the toasts at the reception. Both sets of parents joyfully lamented this watershed family occasion of the marriage of their youngest children. Family members and close friends gave tear-jerking tributes to each other. There was so much love in evidence.

I loved the African motif table centre pieces. Carved wooden giraffes, gazelles, elephants and birds. They were all for sale with the proceeds to go to the Ugandan orphanage where both Cassia and Jeremy worked last autumn.

To replace the practice of tinkling expensive glasses, guests were invited to perform their favourite song to encourage the wedding couple to kiss each other. There was rock and roll with You've Lost That Loving Feeling, nostalgia with Side by Side, a barbershop quartet and a modern rendition of We Are The Barn Crew." But, the most memorable for me was the performance of the William Tell Overture on a young man's cheeks (facial). Intriguing.

It was indeed an interesting and beautiful wedding. Cassia and Jeremy put on an enjoyable show, complete with delicious salads and fantastic desserts. But again, the big draw was the people.

I am so happy for Cassia and Jeremy. They will go far.

Surviving "Suicide Hill"

Who said "Suicide is painless"? Speaking of the hill, that is. The steep slope is just across the Trans Canada from McMahon Stadium.

My cousin told me not to go. After my first successful run down the slope without incident, I refrained from any more descents.

However, with the advent of a roll of duct tape and the re-inflation of our inflatable/deflatable sled, I was game to accompany my sweetheart down the hill. Bad idea.

My famous last words as we took off, "I'm stupid!", served to be prophetic about 5 seconds later. Our sled veered sharply to the left, headed towards not just one, but two ridges. The first ridge was not too eventful, but the second one was much higher, and we were suddenly three feet airborne.

I landed on my side with a sickening thud. Shades of "How the Mighty Have Fallen" (refer to an earlier blog entry, regarding my rapid descent from the back of a camel in Niger, West Africa). But I appeared to be the lucky one.

I glanced over at my wife who was laying motionless on her back a few feet below me on the slope. As I managed to wiggle my injured body closer, I noticed that Connie's face was bloodied and she was not responding to my inquiries about whether she was alright. I was helpless to do anything for her, as my own pain prevented me from getting up. Just then, I was relieved to hear the arrival of help from the top of the hill.

A paramedic trainee and his friend triaged and began focussing on Connie after I assured them that I was okay for now. Connie then regained consciousness and appeared to have movement in all her extremities. Once we regained our total senses (or at least as much sense as I had prior to that last ride, which you might surmise wasn't all that much), our helpers slowly walked us to our car and our friends, Isabella and Jeremy, drove us home.

We continue to mend slowly. Not much you can do for bruised ribs, except for sleeping sitting up on the couch and trying not to sneeze. Connie is fortunate, not only to be alive and intact, but also to be able to recline and sleep. Her hip injury is improving and her facial scrapes make her look tough.

Praise God that Connie and Marvin were not hurt much worse. Despite the pain from the mishap, there is a certain satisfaction we share that we got hurt in the same venture and we both walked away from it. Now we suffer together temporarily, and we can continue to enjoy our future joys and pains together after surviving 28 plus years of marriage.

The obvious question remains: when do we get to go tobogganing on the hill again?



PS: THIS JUST IN: BUSTED

The results from my February 21 x-ray: you guessed it; a couple of fractured ribs. Ouch. Oh well; I am fortunate to have Constance Nightingale living with me.


PSS: THIS JUST IN: SIX PACK

Sextuple ouch. My doctor informed me today, February 24, that I fractured ribs 3 to 8, inclusive. That would be six ribs. He kept congratulating me on doing such a good job. My sweetheart has me on strict immobility now. Sleeping vertically appears to be easier with codeine.

Tribute to Connie, on the occasion of her 50th birthday

What can I say about my lovely wife, my sweetheart? Well, lots. Connie has brought joy to my life ever since the moment we met. It was not love at first sight, but we did have an instant connection through my sister and her uncle and aunt having been schoolmates years earlier at the same college where Connie and I met. Connie and I sat across the dining hall table from each other for an entire week to kick off the school year, and wouldn't you know it, she fell for the guy beside me. However, she later came to her senses with the realization of who Mr. Right really was.

It is neat that Connie and I became friends before we became romantically infatuated with each other. It was the summer after we met that we first exchanged letters, and something just clicked between us. Later on that autumn we had our first date, and I realized then that there was a real magic in the way I felt about this girl.

After working through some hurdles, we became engaged and I really credit God with bringing us together after a period of not seeing each other. When I announced our engagement to my mother, I was told: “Well, Marvin, she really thinks the world of you.” That really sums up Connie's devotion to others.

It was a hoot attending university with my sweetheart. I was so proud of her when she received her first scholarship while I had to be content with ordinary grades. It was also interesting running about campus with this beautiful little woman who looked so young. I remember one of our schoolmates, on my introducing her to Connie, asked if she was my daughter. Through the years of our marriage, I'm sure there have been other times when people wondered a little bit. I have always been okay with that and with Connie outshining me in the classes we took together. In fact, I was fortunate to have her help in my trying to understand the subject matter.

I am grateful for Connie's gift to me of our three precious girls. I appreciate the great job she did in raising these kids while I was so busy with farming and law school. Once I finished my heavy studies, I tried to make up for lost time with my kids by spending every non-working moment with them that I could, but kind of forgot to spend more time with my sweetheart. Despite some problems that resulted, we survived in our marriage and as the kids got older, Connie plunged into her education once again.

I am so proud of her accomplishments in obtaining her education degree and her success in teaching. When her teaching contract ran out, Connie did not dismay, but spent a couple of years finishing her honours in English and nailed down scholarships and funding to pay her own way through her Master's program. Then somehow she talked me into following her to live in a foreign land (sorry, Albertans), and here we are.

When comparing notes on our roles in our respective marriages one time, my brother remarked to me that the women we married would definitely be faithful to these two farmboys. I do appreciate Connie's faithfulness to me. Apart from the occasional Roberto Alomar or Pierce Brosnan lapse, Connie has been a faithful partner and friend. In recent years we went through some troubled waters, but Connie was always faithful and committed enough to me to try to make it work. I love her, admire her and respect her for that.

Now that we are off in La La Land, away from the distractions of kids and kitties, Connie and I have watched our relationship boom again, as each looks out for the other and as we can spend some quality time together. I appreciate all the years that I have been fortunate to spend with Connie. It has been neat to watch her grow and mature as a person. It was an adjustment for her, the eldest of four siblings, to marry the baby of another family, but she has handled it well. It was neat for me, too, how Connie kind of doubled as the little sister that I never had. She also introduced me to a whole new set of younger siblings and terrific parents-in-law that I have been able to enjoy all these years.

What can I say about this amazing person? Connie, I love you and cherish you. You are my best friend. You are always there when I need you. With all my recent disability experiences, you never once suggested that I was lazy or told me to get off my worthless butt (except maybe in jest, or when you thought about the actual net worth of my butt).

You have been a wonderful wife and companion all these years. Thank you for all the socks you have folded, all the delicious meals you have fed me (even some of the interesting earlier ones), for every time when you listened to my problems and concerns and helped me through a situation.

I treasure you. You are so special that, in the words of Billy Talent, “I would have given my life for you.” I will try not to cry, but I want to relate the words of an old song to you:

You are so beautiful... to me
You are so beautiful... to me
Can't you see
You're everything I hoped for
You're everything I need
You are so beautiful... to me

I love you, sweetheart. Thank you for loving me and sharing your life with me.

- Marv

PS: I am looking forward to one day in the future when I can call you "Dr. Connie"

Billy Talent and the beer shower

"You're going to what?"

That's right; to a rock concert, featuring my favourite punk-type Canadien music group, Billy Talent. After all, why wouldn't I go?

I guess I really should blame all this obsession on my youngest daughter. Back in her high school days, when she played soccer and I coached her team, we travelled regularly to the soccer centre on the north side of Saskatoon. Melanie would always welcome the one-on-one time with Dad by inserting her favourite CD into the car player and cranking the volume. As I listened to all this noise, I queried her as to the name of the artist. "Billy Talent", I was told. "Oh", I replied.

Who could have predicted that after the third trip to soccer while listening to the same CD, I was hooked? When Billy Talent was scheduled to perform in Saskatoon thereafter at a small venue, I was determined to go. However, a sudden three-foot snowstorm put a halt to my plans (Actually, I think the weather may have resulted in the cancellation of the concert anyway).

Later in the autumn that same year, Billy Talent was again scheduled to perform in Saskatoon. Alas, I had to be out of town that week, and could not make it. Following that personal disappointment, I never lost my appreciation of their music, and was determined not to miss them again.

And so it was that in October, 2006 I learned that Billy Talent was scheduled to perform in Calgary on January 24, 2007 at the Pengrowth Saddledome. Should I go? How does one actually dither for three months? Finally, I coughed up for a ticket two days before the concert. "You're going to what?"... "Why?"

Granted, the idea of an overweight, balding, middle aged lawyer type dude going to a concert for a current punk group might be hard to fathom, but through the years, quite a number of people have had some trouble trying to understand me. I didn't think it was a good enough reason not to go, just because of what others might think. If you are a fan, go for it, regardless of the age difference.

Wow, what an age difference! Sure there were a few others that were almost as old as me, but they were either working in security or escorting their own children to the concert. Despite my being a couple of generations older than most of the crowd, I didn't receive any negative reactions from others I encountered. In fact, the youthful fans I met were very polite and friendly to me.

Once the concert began, I realized that I should have researched this event more thoroughly. I had no clue who the first warm up band was. I was relieved that a fan next to me knew nothing about them either. Still, I was impressed with the performance of Moneen. Their music was entertaining and the band members played with such enthusiasm. Especially the bass player who never missed a note while repeatedly jerking his head down and up, with his exceedingly long locks flipping down and up in time.

The second group, Anti Flag, were also entertaining. The lead singer sported an interesting tonsorial, partly shaved head and a large long strand from the other side. I liked his message of promoting equality. I am with you there, Pittsburgher. I liked your music too.

Not having researched as to how many warm up bands were to perform, I was expecting my favourites to appear after Anti Flag. However, when the lights came up on the third act, they didn't really look like or sound like Billy Talent. Did I somehow miss the release of a third album? No, I just had not heard of Rise Against. They were also great performers and the audience sang along with their music.

All right, three groups out of the way. When the lights went down again, there was an excited buzz in the audience. Suddenly, we heard a familiar riff and the lead guitarist for Billy Talent appeared in silouette form. That was just too cool. Then the drummer, then the bass player, and finally our lead singer appeared and launched us into an exhiliarating concert. Like the rest of the fans, I stood throughout the concert. I stood there with my hands in my pockets, "singing."

Why the reference to "the beer shower"? No, I did not discover an old bottle of "Body on Tap" shampoo. While I listened through the first three acts, and especially during Rise Against, I felt occasional misty sprays on my head. After my initial reaction of angry disgust, I then realized that this was part of the experience, to be in the line of fire of partially filled plastic cups of beer being hurled through the air.

Also, I noticed a fan to my right in the row behind, who animatedly gyrated, sung and gestured with his right hand through each song of Rise Against. In his left hand he clutched a plastic cup half full of beer, that was soon one-third full, then one-quarter full, but without his taking a drink. My row was the lucky recipient of the occasional splashes of beer.

While Billy Talent performed, I did my best to sing along, mimicking the sounds where ever I could. Now, it wasn't that I wasn't familiar with the music, but I have difficulty figuring out lyrics at the best of times. Nonetheless, I sang on, sometimes reciting gibberish that somewhat resembled the lyrics, and adjusting my voice to falsetto or screeching, as the need arose.

After a few Billy Talent songs, the dude in the row above me presented his hand and we shook hands and underwent some minimal bonding over our love for the group. After another song, he smiled at me and we shook hands again, and he was heard to remark "I like this guy" in reference to the old guy with his hands in his pockets.

Even though I stood out like a sore thumb, it was nice to have made a new friend. However, I seem to have lost track of him ever since he was escorted from the arena during the concert.

The road to the Super Bowl?

After my inglorious head over heels plunge down the steep sand dune, my host "rescued" my reputation by throwing his football to me. I ended up on the flat plain at the bottom of the slope and proceeded to pass the ball to various dune jumpers from our team. For the next 20 minutes I played quarterback and wide receiver, and somehow managed to nail each reception and pass attempt. After awhile, I began making my gradual ascent up the sand mountain.

I kept playing catch with young Mitchell on the way up the slope. Suddenly I noticed a couple of local boys who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere on the slope with us. I motioned to one of them and then threw the ball to him. He had no clue how to catch or throw the football, but he returned it to me. Then I repeated the process with the other Nigerien boy, with the same result. Following this, I crawled over to the boys and demonstrated to them the proper grip for throwing a North American football and let them try it over and over again. Their skills improved the more they attempted throwing and catching.

Later, after we had reached the summit and were about to leave the area, the two boys, one dressed in white, the other in black, resumed playing catch with me. It was neat to see the smiles on their faces, a look of satisfaction of acquiring a skill that these funny North American people kept showing off. I assume that these boys had never seen a football before, and their likelihood of obtaining a football scholarship to the University of Nebraska and eventually making it to the Super Bowl is remote. However, their exposure to a cultural item from the other side of the globe may help them to relate to cross-cultural experiences they may have in the future, even if it is only in their own neighborhood. I know that the experience of sharing my culture with them while witnessing their culture and environment is an experience I will never forget.

"Do you have a girlfriend?... Do you believe in love at first sight?..." (and various other lines used to survive in the Niamey marketplace)

They are almost literally all over you. The incident that spawned the utterances of this blog's title was no exception. A bunch of us were hanging out at the edge of the market street, waiting for our ride. This one particular well dressed merchant had noticed my penchant for purchasing camel leather boxes and so kept pushing a large one with a rounded lid. As I really had no desire to carry this bulky one home with our limited baggage situation, I politely and repeatedly answered him: "Non, merci" (no mercy?) My hostess then helped me by firmly explaining to the salesman that he needed to leave me alone.

Next thing I knew, this fellow had surreptitiously slipped by my hostess, and was resuming his sales pitch with me, in a very quiet whisper. The poor man, I just burst out laughing at him. He didn't seem to mind, as he barely paused for a breath in repeating the sales price to me, over and over and over. Finally, our ride arrived and we began boarding the truck. My friend and I, at the back of the lineup for the truck, had shopped together a bit, and I had explained to him my strategy for dealing with over aggressive merchants. I would start talking rapidly to them in English that they likely could not understand, and could say almost anything to them. That's when I heard my friend make the infamous remarks of our title, with the salesperson responding with the most perplexed look.

While wearing a hat with a Canada flag on its front, I heard "Aw, Canadien" many times in the market. Most of the time I would holler back "Aw, Nigerien." I was usually unafraid to speak back to the pushy merchants. One fellow in particular who relentlessly held three bracelets in my face with the sales pitch "Cinq milles, cinq milles, cinq milles, cinq..." was hard to take. Later when he was banging a drum near my ear and close to the ear of another friend who was much less brassy than me, I implored the salesman to "Get out of his face" and to "Take this drum and shove it." As you can guess, neither line was effective.

Still later, I was waiting at a corner of the market, with several men grabbing my arms, trying to lure me into their respective stores, while I waited for a salesman's "associate" to bring me a green Niger soccer shirt from elsewhere, but which never arrived. Tiring of the constant pressure on my mind, the noise in my ears and literally being pulled in several directions, I then became a pushy tourist and directed the merchants to line up side by side for me to take a picture of them. All at once they let out a collective groan and actually backed off for a few minutes. "Wow, I can't believe that actually worked."

Yet another time, I had followed my host into the market to purchase some fish, only to lose sight of him due to the long line of merchants that developed on his tail. When I turned back to wait for him along the street, some other merchants came after me, offering me tomatoes, oranges and anything else they held in their hands. Once again, I retorted with "Non, merci" and smiled as best that I could. And again, I came up with an idea.

Being a life long French student, I recognized an opportunity to practice. I began pointing to their wares and repeating the French word for each, "toe matt", "air ee coe", "pamp el moose." Each time I looked them in the face, seeking approval for my very basic display of vocabulary. Then I glanced further out into the street where I began commentary on various sights in the traffic speeding by.

I saw a number 22 Dallas Cowboys NFL jersey ride by on a motorbike and I exclaimed: "Aw, c'est le veston d'Emmitt Smith qui a jeue pour les vaches des garcons de Dallas." Of course, this was totally lost on my listener (as it most certainly would be on any native French speaker.) Then, I noticed a passerby wearing the jersey of an Italian football star, Totti, who plays for FC Roma. Excitedly, I began pointing to the number 10 jersey and talking about the Italian star, en francais, how he had scored an overtime goal in the World Cup and then had run around the field holding his thumb in his mouth to celebrate, not only the goal, but also the recent birth of his son.

I was then amazed that my listener, the tomato salesman, actually understood me. Not just my rudimentary French dialogue, but also the content about Totti's exciting goal in the World Cup tournament. The merchant stopped selling me tomatoes and we actually connected for the rest of the time I stood with him at the edge of the market. We were from vastly different cultures, but we realized that we still shared an awareness for and knowledge of personalities and events outside our respective spheres of influence. For a few minutes, it was no longer the battle of Nigerien merchant versus Canadien tourist under the hot sun. Instead, it was a couple of guys sharing their love for football on a street corner in Niamey.

I think of this incident often, and I think of my new Muslim friend in Calgary that I met at a Christmas party for my wife's English faculty and students last December. I really connected with my new friend in Calgary that late Saturday evening, over ginger ales and party food. I am planning to spend an evening with him and our wives, and to share more about each other's respective faiths and religious practices.

So often, caucasian North Americans seem to isolate people of the Islamic faith as "them and us" and to keep noncaucasian people at arm's length, without realizing that they are regular people, too . The people our team met in Niger are beautiful people, are extremely friendly and were appreciative of any friendliness that we showed to them. I am now embarrassed to remember occasions when some local Nigerien people would come to greet our team, and our first reaction was to stand at a distance and take pictures of them, before we realized that we needed to get closer and greet them, too. It is so important for us North Americans to venture out of our comfort zone occasionally and discover that it is really not that scary to get to know people who are different from us.

For all you Christian readers out there, have you hugged your Muslim friend today?

At the Musee de Niger

"Who are all these guys sticking these leather boxes in my face?" While many of our group surveyed and handled the display of fabric on a sidewalk in the Musee, I stood to the side, feeling very uncomfortable. I had paid 1,000 CFA to be admitted into the Musee to see some of Niger's exotic animals, only to be surrounded and hounded by numerous salesmen. Fortunately, it was Mike to the rescue.

Mike and I managed to sneak away, and wandered off to see the beloved hippos, the funny monkeys, some impressive lions and the unusual uranium museum. All very interesting. We also saw the remnants of probably the only tree in the Sahara, that some British adventurer had managed to drive over and kill. This was all fascinating, and such a welcome relief from the box merchants.

I then accompanied my host into a shaded restaurant area where we enjoyed some soft drinks. However, one of the sales dudes hovered near the exit, waiting for my departure. Previously, I had hopelessly undernegotiated with him the price of one of the larger boxes, leaving our potential transaction hanging. When the moment seemed right, he pounced into my personal space and sold me the box at the price I had offered. I was happy with my great deal.

Later at our compound, I began admiring my purchase while comparing it with another box I had procured earlier in the day for the same price. Somehow, the box from the Musee was smaller than the one I had bought previously. "Wait a minute... it's smaller... I just hate being taken." So much for a great deal.

Just another day at the Musee de Niger.

Mr. Popularity

Everywhere I go publicly in Niger, a throng of people follows me in the street. I venture into the marketplace and instantly several men surround me. People are ecstatic to greet me and to shake my hand. It is so wonderful to be popular

What a difference in Canada where you are largely ignored. It is just not the same walking down the street back home. The anonymity is a constant reminder that North American people generally do not consider you to be noteworthy.

I was amazed at the reception I received in the market pictured here. As you can see, I really stood out in a crowd. The most poignant moment for me in this obscure rural market was when a group of children stood outside my truck door as I got into the vehicle to leave. I rolled down the window and extended my hand. The children then clamoured to shake my hand and I shook as many of theirs as I could as the truck pulled away.

Although I felt a bit like a politician must feel, my heart ached for these poor children in Niger, who longed for anything new, including being able to see and to touch a non-descript middle aged white guy.

How the mighty have fallen ...

... well, at least how the overweight and out of shape fell, this morning.

Our team was all excited about journeying out into the country to for camel riding, courtesy of a Toureg family. The Toureg are a nomadic people who graze their livestock north of Madaoua for about eight months of the year. During the winter, they migrate south to the fields just outside of Madaoua, where local farmers pay the nomads to set up temporary residence on their fields, to provide instant fertilizer for four months.

This morning our host's Toureg friends saddled a pair of camels for us to ride. When others in the group hesitated to step forward to ride, the team's former "cowboy" offered to go first. Jettisoning his sandles, and climbing up on the saddle, with the camel sitting on the ground, he braced himself for the camel to rise.

In a couple of moments, the recent Calgarian suddenly found himself landing on his back on the ground with a sickening thud. As his teammates shuddered at the thought that this dude had really hurt himself, he rose up suddenly to try again. However, the saddle that was designed for Nigeriens much slimmer and lighter than he, had cracked under his weight (part of the reason he was thrown off when the camel thrust its weight forward).

This unexpected excitement aside, eight other team members successfully mounted and rode the dromedaries. It was thrilling for them to ride and for the rest of us to watch their faces. We are grateful to our Toureg friends for allowing us this experience and for their friendliness in letting us see a little bit of their culture.

Get henna

On our day of respite, our female team members are favored with a relaxing morning of receiving intricate henna designs on their feet, ankles and hands, courtesy of some local artists. While the careful designing goes on, a friend of our hosts prepares a feast of rice and vegetables, a traditional dish most of us eat with our hands. It is delightful and delicious. Once the women are finished, our team's young man receives his henna designs on each shoulder. Careful, a young man sporting henna is announcing his intention to get married!