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December 11, 2009

Dust off the ceramic Christmas tree; it's going to be a Mervy Christmas

By Merv Oswalt

Dust off the ceramic Christmas tree; it's going to be a Mervy Christmas

  

You may be surprised to hear that I actually like this time of year. I know I don’t come off as real jolly or especially tolerant of other people’s happiness, but there is something about the Christmas season that, for whatever reason, I don’t hate.
 
Sure, I hate busy stores and cashiers trying to get me to donate an extra dollar to some kind of charity every time I buy something. Why in the name of Christmas would I be shopping at the Dollar Store if I had extra dollars to throw around?
 
And, I hate how the radio has stopped playing all the Christmas standards, like Andy Williams or Burl Ives in favour of some rattle-and-bang crap that now passes for holiday music. I heard a Celine Dion version of Feliz Navidad the other day. It made my ears bleed. Why do we need a French-Canadian woman singing a dreadful song made famous by a Spanish-speaking man? Where’s Bing Crosby and White Christmas? Is there something wrong with that little gem?
 
And, I hate the bad weather and the shoveling and the fact that if you forget yourself and accidentally wish someone a ‘Merry Christmas’ instead of something more ‘appropriate’ like ‘Happy Holidays’ you are treated like a three-legged yearling.
 
Well, I’ve been saying ‘Merry Christmas’ for the last 65 years and I’m not going to stop saying it just because other people want me to. The same goes for sneezing and coughing. I’ve been covering my mouth with my hand for the last 65 years and now, because of the pig flu, I’m supposed to be sneezing on top of my arm or something. Damned if I can remember to sneeze into my damn arm. And besides, I can’t seem to get my handkerchief out of my pocket and draped over my arm in time, any way. It’s a mess and my wife Bernie doesn’t appreciate the extra laundry.
 
But I will give Christmas this… it brings my kids, Robbie and Beckie, home for a few days. Even though Beckie will probably give me something useless like an MQ3 player and tree-hugging Robbie will try to convince me to get rid of my old Grand Marquis because its emissions are hazardous to the environment, it’s nice having them around.
 
And once Bernie dusts off the ceramic Christmas tree and starts baking her famous marshmallow squares, it’s impossible not to get into the spirit.
 
On Christmas Eve, my yuppie next-door neighbour Christopher will invite us all over for gluten-free shortbread and soymilk eggnog and I won’t even complain about it.
 
Imagine that, it’s a Christmas miracle.
 
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November 13, 2009

Dagnabit, if you win a big race, show up in the winner’s circle

By Merv Oswalt

Dagnabit, if you win a big race, show up in the winner’s circle

I hate it when all of these hot shot trainers and owners can’t be bothered to grace us with their presence in the winner’s circle after winning a big race. On some nights, we’ve got more people out there presenting trophies than we’ve got collecting them. What in tarnation?

It’s a slap in the face to all of us old-timers who used to race for a box of crackers and a stick of gum when we see no one showing up, much less showing up excitedly, to claim their prize. Today, the worst horse, in the worst race on the card has likely made more money than us grinders ever got from a good, honest horse back in the day. So do me a favour and don’t act like you’re too good for it.

I know these guys and gals, with 80-horse stables spread out over two countries, racing at umpteen different places can’t be everywhere. But someone should surely be there when there’s big money on the line.

Sure, it’s your party and you can cry if you want to. But I don’t think there are a lot of Sweet 16 parties where the guest of honour sits upstairs in her bedroom and asks the guests to just leave the gifts on the doorstep.

Put a smile on your face, show a little respect and get out there to claim your trophy. Your reward will be the $100,000 cheque they are going to cut you for winning the damn thing.

Believe me, I like staying in the comfort of my own living room, soaking my feet in Epsom salt and watching the races on my TV just like the next guy. But there’s no one standing out in the cold waiting to congratulate me on my greatness, either. If there was, I’d be there with bells on wearing a freakin’ top hat and monocle.

I recently saw in The Sportsman that someone made a smart-aleck comment about Angie Stiller hoisting a Grassroots trophy over her head like it was the Stanley Cup. Don’t listen to them, Ms. Stiller. That’s what I want to see — a little appreciation that these things are nothing to sniff at. Winning is a good thing and having a good horse is a privilege. I’m glad someone realizes it.

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October 23, 2009

Phone-talking-speedster tailors and that deathtrap highway

By Merv Oswalt

Phone-talking-speedster tailors and that deathtrap highway

 

 

You might be surprised to find out that I live in a small town. I like it that way, not having to be in a big hurry all the time. I didn't work my whole life so that I have to rush around now that I'm retired.
 
I've never lived in a place where there was public transit and I don't intend to. I do my own thing on my own schedule and my 1987 Mercury Grand Marquis still purrs like a kitten. I like my highways with two lanes and my speed limit at 80 and that's why I hate it when racing switches back to the big city at Woodbine Racetrack from the relative tranquility of Mohawk.
 
If I want to see my favourite horses race in person in the fall and winter at Woodbine, I have to take that deathtrap highway to get there.
 
Now I was born during WWII so I was too young to fight overseas. I managed to avoid polio in my youth. I was lucky enough to marry a good woman and have kids that didn't turn out to be doped-up, vote-wasting hippies. So why would I want to risk it all by taking the 401 to get to Woodbine in Toronto?
 
I love watching the races live, but not if it means I have to share the road with crazy people in their sports cars, talking on their cordless phones and cutting in and out around me like a bunch of drunken tailors. [Yes, Bernie, I meant 'tailors' not 'sailors'. Your job is to type, not to edit.]
 
Sorry about that. My wife, who helps me on the computer, didn't think that I knew the difference between a 'tailor', whose job is to sew and scissors menswear, and a 'sailor', a person who navigates waterborne vessels. Don't worry, that's all cleared up now.
 
Anyway, I'll be taking my chances this weekend, because I never miss the Breeders Crown when it's up here in Canada.
 
Maybe you'll see me there, if the phone-talking-speedster-tailors don't get me first.
 
 

 

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