The Canadian Sportsman
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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December 03, 2009
He figured he would be mocked when he picked me up wearing a faded green t-shirt with The Clash splattered across it.
He was right.
The mission of the day was two-fold: cover the Ontario Sires Stakes (OSS) Super Finals at Woodbine for The Sportsman and become a footnote in rock ‘n roll history.
Sportsman editor Dave Briggs has been dabbling with the bass guitar for a year or two now. Like the responsible adult that he is, he didn’t run out and get the fanciest guitar he could find before he’d ever played a note lest he be akin to the guy with the $3,000 golf clubs who can’t drive the ball past the ladies’ tee.
Instead, his wife Laura got him a ‘starter’ bass. He plugged away, took some lessons, made sure he was interested enough to stick with it, taught himself a surprisingly extensive repertoire in a short time and finally decided that it was time to upgrade his equipment.
The plan was that we’d travel together to the races on Nov. 14. A few days before, he floated the idea of making a stop at Steve’s Music on Queen Street before hitting the racetrack.
“Whatever, Guitar Hero,” I said, unable to let the 40-year-old, father of three enjoy his hobby without being subjected to endless ridicule. I’m just not built that way. Did I mention that our friend and harness writer extraordinaire recently began a weekly three-man jam session with two buddies — a chemistry professor and a meteorologist — from his high school days? Sounds like the most boring episode of Behind The Music ever, doesn’t it?
And so we piled into his very un-rockstar red mini-van and careened down the 401 en route to musical nirvana, hell bent on enhancing his sound.
When we arrived at Steve’s, I was surprised to find the place absolutely packed with people — and all different kinds of people at that. I have to admit, I was thinking Dave was going to stick out among what I assumed would be throngs of tatted up, rocker dudes. Those guys were there, of course, but so were a fair number of Asian grandmas, 12-year-old girls, guys that looked like accountants, and what seemed to be dozens of ordinary-looking teens all there to check out the rows and rows of guitars. And play them.
Dave wasn’t there to browse. He’d already picked out ‘the one’ — a Hofner CT Violin Bass a.k.a. the ‘Beatles Bass’ earning its nickname because it was the guitar Paul McCartney played on most of the band’s early recordings.
I thought his decisiveness was going to rob me of the one thing that I was hoping to see at the music store — a re-creation of the famous scene from the movie Wayne’s World, where every loser in the music store tests the merchandise by playing Led Zeppelin’s Stairway To Heaven.
Although he was sold before we even got through the door, Dave was convinced by one of the salesmen to plug in for a few seconds and take the Hofner for a test drive. I’m told he played a little of Green Day’s American Idiot but I couldn’t make it out over the din of, yes, other dudes trying to play Stairway a few meters away.
“Oh yeah, we could keep this place open 24-7 no problem,” said a worker, growing agitated at closing time as he unsuccessfully tried to direct the rockers and wannabes out the door.
After a long wait at the checkout counter, we left the musical mad house with the goods. As we made our way back to the rockmobile with Dave carrying his spiffy new guitar case through the crowded downtown streets, I offered him a brief reprieve from jokes and sarcasm.
“Wow, you weren’t even close to being the biggest dork in there,” I said, with true sincerity.
“Rock on,” he said.
October 01, 2009
It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Okay, that might be overselling it just a bit. However, when it comes to the relative conditions of cleanliness and overall disgustingness there is a lot of variation in public restrooms.
That fact was recently underscored during The Sportsman’s annual pilgrimage to the Little Brown Jug in Delaware, OH.
Nature called somewhere in Michigan, just before we hit the Ohio border.
While my co-workers headed for the gas station men’s room, I found the ladies’ room in lockdown mode. I patiently waited, assuming the unit was already occupied. When no one emerged after several minutes, I inquired with the gas station attendant as to whether or not a key was necessary to gain access to the restroom.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but some sort of animal got loose in there last night and made one heck of a mess,” said the young man.
“It’s pretty disgusting. You might be better off just using the men’s.”
It’s amazing to me how much information we just take at face value. Without further hesitation I turned around and made use of the men’s room, which was no prize either, and made it all the way back to the car before my mind started to wander…
What kind of animal? A chipmunk? A badger? A wolverine? Or was the attendant speaking figuratively about the ‘animal’ and really meant that it was just a gross woman with poor aim?
What do you mean ‘got loose in there’? Did the kindly badger wait patiently for the automatic sliding door at the front of the gas station to open, then bomb it straight to the back of the convenience store — bypassing aisles of cupcakes and pepperettes — just so he could use the facilities?
Did he close and lock the bathroom door behind him? Why did he pick the ladies’ room? Was it a badgerette?
How long was he in there for? Is he still in there? What was preventing them from cleaning it up and re-opening the bathroom? Was there more to the story? Had they sealed off the crime scene waiting for the badger-bathroom CSI unit to arrive?
Sadly, these questions went unanswered as we crossed the state line into Ohio. If the bathrooms of rural Michigan left us with more questions than answers, then we found restroom nirvana at the Little Brown Jug.
Of course, the Delaware County Fairgrounds has its share of what will now be referred to as ‘badger-ized’ bathrooms, but the toilet Taj Mahal can be found next to the hospitality tent atop the hill at the track’s first turn.
From the outside, it looked like just a fancy outhouse trailer. Inside, it was opulent, looking like the cabin of a cruise ship, with faux black marble sinks and counters, wood trim, slatted doors with brass fixtures and thick paper towels. It was like Fantasy Island in there.
And, it was spotlessly clean.
This, too, made many, many questions come to mind, but I thought better of mouthing off about the magical appearance of the world’s greatest public water closet — the badger could be listening.
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