Made From Rubber

Courtesy Pixabay

I'm sure a lot of us men admire a certain amount of physical flexibility in a woman, but sometime we see something that just scares us.

I don't remember how I got in on this because I didn't know the guy who rented the boat very well. A group of us young adults at a church convention went water skiing in the Sacramento River in Sacramento, California. No the water wasn't very clean back then either. The other two guys convinced one of the young ladies to come and one of the girls I was hanging out with came as well.

We had a blast. With me on the end of the rope the guys ran the boat all over the place trying to get me to wipe out. They came close. One sequence over some wakes from another boat had me doing weird things with the rope to try to keep it from going slack or jerk me off balance. All the while those two guys were in the boat just laughing their heads off. When my turn came to an end they told me how impressed with my skill they were.

Once all of us guys had our turns, we tried to convince the ladies to give it a try. The girl they brought with wouldn't have anything to do with it, but Debbie was ready to go. Never water skied in her life and we were having a tough time getting her started. I ended up in the water floating with my life vest on trying to get her into the proper starting position. When ready the guys would hit the throttle and she'd wipe out before ever getting out of the water. I'd swim a few hundred feet to catch up and we'd try it all over again. She was determined so this went on for quite awhile before she finally gave up. I admired her effort but one of the failures had all of us guys wincing.

Her ski points were sticking out of the water in front of her perfectly positioned and the guys opened the throttle. One ski went right and the other went left. She went full splits and beyond. Jean Claude Van Damme eat your heart out. I swear those ski points were still sticking straight up when they were almost all the way behind her. I'm sure her feet twisted in the bindings so it probably wasn't as bad as it looked. It looked like her legs screwed all the way around in their sockets. The guys in the boat all wore an expression that I'm sure reflected my own: If-that-was-me-I'd-never-walk-again.

We never said anything to her and if she reads this, it'll be the first she knows of it. Yes, she's still a friend of mine on Facebook so she just might. I stank like the Sacramento River for days (that stuff doesn't just wash off) but it was a lot of fun and a great memory.

That Had to Hurt

Not Manu but you get the idea. Courtesy Pixabay

I love basketball and frequently read the latest from the NBA. Manu Ginobili of the San Antonio Spurs is out for a month with a testicular injury requiring surgery. Poor man. What amazes me is that they spelled this out without blinking. I watched a clip where an NHL player caught a slapshot in the groin and he left the game with “a lower body injury”. Sports journalism seems to have changed. They seem to be willing to call it what it is now.

In honour of Manu and because some people really seem to find this kind of sports injury funny (just watch America's Home Videos a couple of times), I will recount a few of my sporting unfortunate moments. If you're a guy and this has never happened to you, you've never lived.

First one I'll tell comes from water skiing at SEP (church summer camp). I'd already succeeded in achieving second class skier status and was trying for first class. One of the things I had to do for that was drop a ski and slalom across both wakes. I managed to dump the ski and while I awkwardly tried to get my skiless foot into the rear toe loop on the other ski, I crossed my first wake. Pelican lake was a little choppy and I couldn't pull myself back across. I hit the water fully extended. I didn't know that it was possible to square yourself on a wave. The angle and position have to be just about perfect. Thankfully the life vest allowed me to float in the fetal position. The boat whipped around to pick me up.

“Why didn't you make the signal that you're alright?” came the admonishment.

“Because, I'm not okay,” I replied through clenched teeth.

“What happened?”

“I got hit right where it counts.”

The old journalism was still in effect back then. The guy in the boat understood and thought it was funny and asked, “In the face?” The young lady just didn't get it. They hauled me out of the water. By that time I was just fine. One of those just-smile-and-it'll-go-away kind of incidents.

The next incident occurred in a college basketball game. Carlos on the other team ran a lot of track. He had beautiful high knee action form. Well I'm pretty fearless about taking charges and in the heat of battle I saw someone coming with the ball and I set to take the charge. Then I recognized him, I saw the knees, my life flashed before my eyes, my mind thought, “this is really gonna hurt” and then impact. Carlos lost the ball and nothing was called. I got up and tried to run with the break before doubling up. My best friend saw the whole thing and almost lost the ball from laughter. I smiled and this one went away too.

Finally playing a church softball tournament and I'm on first. The opposing team hits a potential inning ending double play my way. Just before scooping the ball up it hits a pebble in the infield hops over my glove and hits me square in the crotch. I fold up on the ball and can't make the play.

We ended up losing that game and it really all came down to that stupid embarrassing play. My two younger brothers were on the opposing team and have no real sympathy for me at all.

So Manu were with you. I watched the tape. It didn't look that bad from there, but if you weren't alright minutes later and need surgery we feel for you. Get well soon.

I Can't Help It. I'm a Dad

When I was a teenager/young man, I had more mothers than I could count. Something about me brought out mothering instincts all around me. I could not walking into church with my collar messed up. I would get part way into the building and one of the ladies would stop me and straighten it up. Thankfully in the days of leisure suits, I didn't have a tie to straighten out as well. Pointless sneaking past my biological mother because someone else was always there.

Well now the shoe is on the other foot. I recall working in a call centre and getting a call from one of the regular perverts (ladies hated him with a passion). He rarely talked to male agents but he was in a chatty mood. He went on how great it must be for me to work with all those young sexy women. I refrained from telling him what I thought of him (I could get fired for that). It all got me thinking though. I did have a lot of sexy young co-workers – all about the same age as my own kids. As I got to know them in the work environment, that's how I interacted with them as well. They needn\'t fear the lecherous leer from me. I offer something far more insidious. I give sage advice, they didn't ask for, tell stories of days gone by and tell clean jokes from a couple generations back (one of the guys where I work now calls my humour “dad jokes”).

In truth, I can't help it. I am a dad after all. I'm too old to be a big brother, too broke to be a rich uncle and too young to be a grandfather to them (which would probably be worse). While I try to keep myself in check, if I accidentally act like a parent, I'm sorry that's the best I've got.

The Ankle of Pain

Courtesy Pixabay

It was a heroic rush down the basketball court after making a steal. We were losing and I was brought in off the bench to replace one of the starters. I don't remember who. At any rate this was a chance to get two points back. I had two guys to beat and both of them were off balance. The first one bought a head fake at half court (like I was really going to shoot it from there) and my momentum was going to get me past the second, except opponent number one landed on my foot as I streaked past him. My ankle didn't roll, it dislocated and popped back. I hit the floor. I jumped back up but couldn't even take a step. I hopped off to the locker room where the junior coach helped me get my shoe and sock off. Evidently they didn't know what I'd done because that's not what you're supposed to do with that kind of injury. We watched my ankle inflate right there. By the time we got ice on it, it had ballooned. That injury pretty much finished the season for me. Doctor said I should be able to start playing again a week later but I couldn't push off with it for the next six weeks.

The following season we were playing against a group of alumni stars to give us some strong competition. I fired off a hook shot over Paul Treitz and landed on the side of his leg. Same ankle rolled and I rode the side of that leg all the way to the floor. Bad sprain, torn ligaments, bone chips and of course a great deal of pain. Incidentally “Tripes” starred several years earlier taking the league scoring championship over Jay Triano of Welland High former coach of the Toronto Raptors and current coach of the Canadian national team.

My best friend took me to the hospital for x-rays. In the waiting room I dropped something on the floor and managed to tip my wheelchair up on the foot rest. Some other emergency victim rescued me, while I was trying to figure out how to get out of that without getting another injury.

I suffered two minor sprains of that same ankle in college. Once on the basketball court again and the other time running across campus just before a costume ball. People thought I was limping at the dance as part of my costume.

After college, I slipped in the muck on a landscaping job site. That was a nasty sprain almost as bad as the initial injury. The company I worked for did bring me to the hospital but badly bungled everything from there. I never worked for them again.

Finally when I thought the curse had ended, I was playing Frisbee with my kids in the yard. One of the boys let fly with an errant throw across the township drain, which ran through the middle of our property and I leaped gracefully after it. On landing my foot skidded on some slick dirt and the ankle rolled where the mud ended. This time the bone cracked and I ended up with a walking cast.

Hopefully, writing this chronicle doesn't jinx me and I'll never injure it again.

Overcoming Shyness: One Faltering Step

Courtesy Pixabay

I did not get a great mark in my college history class my freshman year. It had a little to do with my study habits, it had more to do with my lack of participation in the classroom. I knew that a portion of our mark came from our participation and if I got better than a goose egg on mine the instructor was being generous. So many opportunities to look stupid.

My senior year I took two history classes, Ancient Israel with Dr. Paige and Church History with Mr. Kelly. I determined to participate in the first and did a lot of reading before the semester for the second. Talking in front of the class was the big challenge.

Out of the gate, I was looking for the right question and I thought I'd found the perfect safe one when Dr. Paige asked the class, “What time does evening start?” I think he was genuinely surprised to see my hand shoot straight up and of course he selected me to answer.

“Six o'clock!”

“Right and what happens at six o'clock?” Now I was on the spot. This wasn't in our assigned reading and I knew that seeing it in TV Guide wasn't the answer he was looking for.

So I replied, “I don't know. Suppertime?”

The look on his face said it all. He was thinking he shouldn't have asked me because he knew I'd say something stupid like that. He finished with a somewhat exasperated, “No! Sunset!”

In my defense, I'm Canadian. How often does sunset actually happen anywhere near six o'clock? Where I grew up during the summer, it went down after nine o'clock and in the dead of winter it was close to four. I know it all averages out to about six o'clock (discounting daylight savings time) but I can't see how that would have been automatically impressed on my mind.

I did survive that incident and forged on ahead. Dr. Paige and I developed a treasured professor/student relationship. He liked teaching and liked his students. I know he was proud of my efforts and quickly picked up on where I could make a valuable verbal contribution to the class. We had several memorable conversations outside of the classroom as well. He appreciated my sense of humour, which sometimes got me into trouble. He loved the kiddie sandbox shovel I sent to one of his archeology students.

Years after college I was saddened at the news his passing from cancer. The world lost a very kind man and gifted teacher.

A New Project

Painting Francine Heykoop - Family Cycling St. Polycarpe, QC

Spent a considerable amount of time the last couple days building an artist's blog for my wife Francine. She has created quite a number of paintings and drawings and they are, in my not necessarily expert opinion, really good. Her work has been featured on Fine Arts America for years now, to date she has received quite a lot of positive attention, but has never made a dime for her efforts. This website is my contribution to trying to turn that around. I believe her work is worthy.

At this point, all that has been created is an under construction post and I've taken the time to divide her work into logical galleries. All five galleries are live, although at this point there are no links back to her Fine Arts America account from the gallery images, where they can be purchased. Each gallery still needs a description. Just means, I still have a lot of work to do. Those gallery pages are set up as links right under the blog title.

Ultimately the site will be set up so that my wife can take about her art and art in general and promote it. Links will be available leading straight to the products on her Fine Arts America account or her Zazzle account where anyone interested can enjoy her work by purchasing products featuring it.

If you're interested in having a look just click on the highlighted words Francine's Brushes & Pencils for her blog or Francine at Fine Arts America if you're interested in seeing the types of products that are available featuring her artwork. Visitors are always welcome.

Basketball Typecasting

Courtesy Pixabay

Where my first year of basketball was inspirational, the second year was a dud. Several of my teammates walked away from the game after that season. We were blessed with probably the lousiest coach I ever had. He couldn't play himself, he didn't know anything about the game and I'm not even sure he liked the sport. I'm not sure why he volunteered for the job. It made for some really poor performances and made a group of decently skilled players look bad.

I'm not sure what book he got his strategy and basketball knowledge from but we got to be his guinea pigs. Lumpy, Henry and I were labeled centres and were told we were rivals for the same position. I think that was the coach's first big mistake.

We kicked off the season with a surprise 50 – 35 exhibition victory against the senior girls team. The older girls usually won this school tradition. We overcame questionable strategy and three players came to the fore. My best friend Chuck and I dominated while we were on the court and Lumpy looked really good with the second unit. When the dust settled anybody with any basketball smarts would have known that our team had four logical starters. Chuck at point guard, Pete at the other guard position, Lumpy at either centre or power forward and me at centre or power forward. That of course was not how our coach saw it.

Lumpy and I played all of two offensive series together during that entire season. The coach put us on the floor together accidentally and quickly took me out as soon as he realized his mistake. The team we were playing were grateful because the two of us together were unstoppable. How could a coach not figure that out?

The following year we got ourselves a new novice basketball coach for the school's junior team. Lumpy and I got to compete with Lumpy's older and bigger brother Jay. Henry was tired of riding the pine and dropped out of the picture. This season we got to play with a seniority element added as well. “The Farmer” was the team's started power forward, six foot three and totally inexperienced but older. He was a riot in the locker room but not much of a player. I don't know how Lumpy felt about it, but I was quietly annoyed because both Lumpy and me would have been far better in that place.That wasn't the only issue with the team but I'll leave those stories for another time.

Finally in our third year “Torpedo Head” came to our rescue. This coach was another novice, a funny looking geography (or history) teacher. He didn't look like our saviour at the start. He liked basketball though and could think for himself. Laying out his grand strategy at our initial practices raised a lot of eyebrows. Big Jay had moved on to the senior team and Lumpy and I were joined by a younger player Pegels. We still would compete for the same position. Same old with a weird offensive scheme.

That weird offensive scheme lasted one whole quarter into our first game of the season. We were down 27 – 12. Torpedo Head knew his scheme was a flop and then did something that was either a stroke of genius or desperation. He put Pegels in at centre, me in at power forward and Lumpy in at small forward, playing all three centres together. Chuck and Pete anchored the back court. For the opposing team Pegels and I looked confusingly alike. Same size and build, same colour hair, same colour eyes, only I'm right-handed and Pegels is a southpaw. Mix up who you're guarding and you'll cough up an easy bucket. Lumpy was just too strong for his opponent. That big first quarter lead slowly dwindled as the five of us got used to playing together. Pegels missed a free throw after time expired and we lost the game 73 – 72. By the end of the season, instead of being the lousy team we were predicted to be, we matched the school's best junior team record in history.

Good coaching makes that much difference.