Well, it’s Saturday night and I find myself alone at home with only the radio and a little herd of Mooseheads (a rustic beer brand from New Brunswick) to keep me company. It is time again to ramble about nothing much to no one in particular.
In the on-going roller coaster ride that is our empty nest/adult children at home status, it looks like the last one is getting ready to fly away again. She and her 21 month old toddler are leaving to go occupy a basement suite in Aldergrove, 15 minutes away. This time I’m not excited to see them go. Having a wobbly, babbling little guy at my feet has kind of grown on me. I love all my grandchildren, and they all have totally distinct, interesting personalities, and I think of them and miss them and look forward to spending time with them all. But the one who lived here, Kingston, whose birth I noted in a blog in September 2017, has become my little day to day buddy. I hasten to stress that this doesn’t make him my favourite, but it does make him a part of my daily home life. The last time I got greeted home every day from work by a midget with a big smile was when my son was that age 32 years ago or so. Oh well, they wont be far away and I will still see them often.
The Toronto Raptors are on the brink of winning the NBA championship, and oh lord how I have tried to be excited by it. I am not. I have taken to watching the last five minutes or so of each game to absorb all the crucial, tense moments of the battle. Invariably I find myself switching channels to watch a Simpsons episode from 2008 or Wheel of Fortune. Sure, I go back and forth in case something of competitive interest occurs, but it rarely does. I guess I’m just not a connoisseur of the sport. And this is me watching the final moments of an NBA Finals game. Think back to some mid winter Tuesday with two mediocre teams squaring off, and it’s early on and the score is 8-6, on its way to 100-96, and oh my god I doubt you have enough money in your pocket right now to make me watch. If that game was happening across the street and admission was free, I’d probably shut my curtains.
The Stanley Cup Finals are on now, too, and while I obsess about hockey in general, it is a match up of one team I have zero interest in versus a team I actively dislike. So far the team I don’t give a rip about, St Louis, has a 3-2 series lead and could end it tomorrow. The last game did provide some comedy, as the Blues scored the winning goal after getting away with a blatant un-called trip, and the Boston Bruin’s president Cam Neely had a childish tantrum which the cameras caught and replayed many times. The game was delayed for several minutes while the ice crew used snow shovels to clear the garbage off the ice, thrown by the seething mob. The Boston fans, despite seeing their home teams win championships in every major sport repeatedly over the last decade or so, still manage to be angry with violent tendencies. As the Bostonians file into the arena they are scanned for weapons with a metal detector, but they get around that by bringing in glass marbles to throw if they get provoked. In baseball, the fans have been known to throw batteries at the opposing outfielders. People wearing jerseys or hats from the visiting team are often physically assaulted, and being subjected to verbal assault is guaranteed. Even their former anthem singer Rene Rancourt used to finish his patriotic song with a violent gesture of pulling out the still beating heart of his sporting enemy with an intense, teeth-clenched grimace. YouTube it! Yet, if someone tugs a little at the sweater of one of their heroes, the whole crowd goes into a frenzy of injustice. Tears flow, chants start, marbles fly. I just want it to end in St Louis’ favour – the sooner the better.
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Well the Mooseheads are beckoning, so I’ll quit ranting now. Summer is starting any minute now, so things are looking up. Hockey and basketball are winter distractions and it’s time for them to go away for a while. Time to go outside and eat meat cooked on a fire. Time to strip down and read a book in the shade. Time to watch day slip into starry night with a beer in hand.
