The Canadian Sportsman
Archive for March, 2010
March 04, 2010
It was a odd place to find nirvana.
Inside a former hot dog stand, nearly forgotten at the top of the clubhouse at Yonkers Raceway, ultimate glory arrived just before 6 p.m. on a gray Sunday on the last day of February.
If you’re Canadian, you’ll likely always remember where you were when Sidney Crosby slipped a shot past Ryan Miller in overtime and Canada defeated the United States for the Olympic gold medal in hockey.
In the long, cinderblock space behind the boarded up concession stand, I was in hostile territory, watching the game with Yonkers publicity man Frank Drucker and photographer extraordinaire and fellow Canadian Claus Andersen. Drucker is the tenant of this unpretentious “office” with a decor best described as nouveau clutter with a dash of postwar snack bar.
Still, what Drucker’s office was lacking in ambiance was made up by his laid-back welcomeness and dry wisecracking. The fact he still had a couple of beers left over from a track promotion cooling in a small bar fridge didn’t hurt. So what if it was Budweiser American Ale? Drucker’s forgiven. When the beer proceeded to flow, on opening, like freshly popped champagne, Drucker merely shrugged as a fair quantity of brew spilled on what passed for a carpet.
This was, after all, one of the few parts of Yonkers that has seen better days — the massive slot machine hall rambling over two floors downstairs excluded, of course.
Andersen and I were in town for the Dan Patch Awards honouring the best in U.S. harness racing and Drucker was nothing if not a gracious host and loser in this cross-border hockey rivalry. When the two Canadians sporting red ties erupted at Crosby’s winner, Drucker merely smiled, winked and cocked his beer toward us in tribute.
I was only three when Canada defeated the Soviets in the 1972 Summit Series, so I have no recollection of that seminal moment in Canadianess. But I can recall in high-definition detail where I was when Ben Johnson won the gold medal in the 100m on Sept. 24, 1988 at the Seoul Olympics. I was traveling with the University of Windsor’s football team on the road at York University in Toronto. The team had gathered in a number of rooms in the hotel to watch the 100 metres and the building practically shook with the roar after Johnson sprinted to glory. For the record, Andersen was mere steps away from Johnson, photographing the event. Back in Toronto, as commentators gushed over repeated replays and live video of Johnson jogging around the stadium clutching a Canadian flag, someone in our hotel room studied Johnson’s yellow eyes and remarked, “Wouldn’t it funny if he tested positive for steroids?”
Of course, it wasn’t funny when three days later Johnson did test positive, but I’ll never forget it just the same.
I can only imagine Crosby’s goal, likewise, will be forever etched in my long-term memory as much for the time and place as for the glory itself.
In the golden days, Yonkers was packed to the rafters every weekend with 30,000 willing patrons and consistently drew 20,000 for weekday cards. Those crowds are gone now, of course, but Yonkers’ historical relevance remains. The ghosts of racing greats — both equine and human — hang thick in the air. Watching a major moment in Canadian identity unfold in a former harness racing and sporting mecca, beer in hand, certainly had its poetry.
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March 04, 2010
Well, I tried to fill out my Dream Stable form last week and it was a big pain in the you-know-what.
It was a helluva lot easier back when they ran the full sales results in The Sportsman and then they were all in one place and I didn’t have to get on the computer and try to find everything.
You see I’m still getting the hang of this computer stuff. Just because I write a blog, everyone thinks I’m Willy Gates now. But I still get all muddled up. I click on the wrong thing and that takes me to somewhere I don’t want to go and then I have to wait until the next time my tree-hugging son Robbie stops by so he can fix everything.
This whole thing is sort of Robbie’s fault in the first place. He’s the one who thought his old man should ‘broaden his horizons’ and get on the Internet. He set me up with one of those Hotmailer email accounts and the only good that’s come from it is that I found out I’m related to the King of Siam, who has left me a substantial inheritance.
One time Robbie wasn’t around and so I called the number for ‘technical support.’ Technically, I didn’t feel very supported by the smart-aleck kid who picked up the phone. He told me that a five-year-old could fix my problem and that I just needed to ‘reboot the CPU.’
The what now? I didn’t boot anything in the first place so why should I reboot it? And what in the name of Christmas is a CPU?
So I told this little wiseacre that I was about to reboot him in the britches if he didn’t start using The King’s English. Luckily, Bernie grabbed the phone and stopped me before I tore a strip off his know-it-all manager, too.
How am I supposed to complete my Dream Stable form or forward my banking information to my new Siamese friend if I’ve got a wonky CPU?
I hate computers.
Having now reached the 2010 Dream Stable entry deadline, The Sportsman must again tip its hat to all the hardcore players that come out of the woodwork every year at this time to take part in our little contest.
It is with continued astonishment that we receive the daily crush of tattered Dream Stable envelopes and entry forms, many appearing as though they rode the rails or traveled by pony express through harsh climates to reach us.
We receive entries that have been circled, then re-circled, scratched out, whited-out, ripped up, spilled on, dried out and somehow stuffed in an envelope and forwarded for registration into the contest.
One entry featured the Dream Stable daily double with the paper arriving marked with both a coffee stain and a cigarette burn hole, clearly a sign that the entrant put not only blood, sweat and tears, but also caffeine and nicotine into his or her selections.
Lucky for these contestants, there are no style points awarded so rest assured the only thing that matters is how much money your six two-year-olds and four three-year-olds earn on the track this year. Informally, however, we reserve the right to mock entrants for their deplorable penmanship, arithmetic errors and the ruinous state of many an entry form.
In all seriousness, in one repurposed Dream Stable envelope we received a child’s invitation to a sleepover, wrapped, inexplicably, in a ponytail elastic. A classic case of envelope-switcheroo or a sign that we are one step away from having someone’s thumb sent to us as intimidation?
Either way, it’s all in good fun.
Let the game begin.
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