I was playing in a soccer game against the Laurentian Voyageurs and I had just finished telling that particular opposing defender that he was in fact not going to university, but attending a high school. So as an epic case of dangle-itis (a deking frenzy) struck me à la Cristiano Ronaldo, he decided to fly into my ankle like a shot down Spitfire. I didn’t deserve it at all – I was just being an asshole like any other athlete I’ve ever known or competed with or against. Talking trash is just a  part of the game; nothing personal, just another dehumanizing tool necessary in psychologically beating your opponent. I never said it was nice.

What can I say, not every athlete is like me. Some are honourable. But me, I’m team Materazzi.

Soon after, I was lying on one of those boring blue mats you see in gym corners – the kind people sweat on then fake sanitize with spray bottles filled with water and blue food colouring. Some athletic therapist poked and prodded my leg as I squirmed in agony. She had that “oh-you’re-pretty-fucked” look on her face. She was also interested in the calcified lumps running up and down my legs, which were – as I explained – historical records of my often-punished talent for dangling frustrated opponents. This time, one of those mouth-breathers really got me. I can only imagine it was a thank you for me being better than him, or just a patented move of the pack of talentless quagmires that is the Laurentian Voyageurs varsity men’s soccer team.

The verdict (which I didn’t know at the time): I broke my ankle – chipped a finger-sized splinter off the bastard, in fact. It was pretty obvious just by looking at it that something unholy had possessed my ankle, as a water bubble suddenly sprouted out of nowhere at the top of it.

“You better get your fucking ass back out there, McCooch,” spat my searingly infuriated and overgrown Scottish badger of a coach. He never once pronounced my name right in the three years I knew him; instead he Scottish-ized it. Then again, he was also the type of guy who still used phrases like “coloured boy” for African-Americans.

We were playing a man down for ten minutes, waiting to see if I would be resurrected and cometh once again upon the holy Laurentian Soccer Field. If I had anything to do with it, which I didn’t, my answer would have been “fuck right off coach.” But as I said, he was a Scottish badger: rarely seen in Canada and always to be feared everywhere. He had essentially issued me the “shit-or-get-off-the-pot” ultimatum – the most feared by any athlete in a team environment. If you don’t play, or do not continue do so at a high level, somebody is going to take your spot right from under your nose. A game off is an opportunity for an underling to snatch what he thinks is rightfully his. And you hate him for it. And he hates you for it. That’s why I have a laugh anytime a professional athlete talks about “the guys” or the artificial camaraderie I consider a plague on a largely adversarial locker room subculture that persists in most sports.

That’s generally why you’re a weak and inferior athlete if you allow things like broken bones or concussions to hamper your play. Because the biggest and baddest motherfucker on the team, the guy everyone wants to be, will play missing half a leg and some fingers to be the best. In my experiences, that guy is also psychotic. But everyone else is cannon fodder.

“I can’t do it,” I said, and my decision was final.

He walked away to the bench without even looking at me, barked another name in Scottish and I never played again for the rest of the season. By the Laws of Manliness I am one of the dreaded “pussies.” But I’ve broken way too many bones and had way too many concussions to adhere to some over-enthused Rudy code of ethics or to give a shit. Glory is a temporary jolt of testosterone, adrenaline, and endorphins running through your veins, eager for a way out.

I still run into old teammates who start recalling the glory years and, not all, but some, talk about the permanent damage they’ve sustained to their bodies because of their athletic careers. Back issues, ankle operations, knees, the works. My nose is visibly crooked, like a Swiss ski slope, and on a cold damp day when the rain seeps into my shoes I feel the brittle demands of my old coach, right in my ankle.

That being said, it could just be a bad case of dangle-itis.

The post Dangles and death threats appeared first on The McGill Daily.

As the resident “bro” of the Douchebaga Canadensis species, I flee to the legendary realm of the ODR (outdoor rink) when winter strikes to both prove my manliness and to partake in the time-honoured ritual of overcompensating for my lack of actual real world success by being moderately better than you at hockey.

It’s that cracked and splintering public ice, those shitty plywood boards, and the nets that look like they’re made out of depleted uranium from the former Soviet Union that really bring a jingoistic smile to my face. What, you ask, could possibly disrupt this uniquely Canadian and blissful reverie? Another rival fauna, most likely an offshoot of the common Asshole, not yet defined by any sociological research. However, to prevent against their invasion of the rink and in honour of the golden season of pond hockey, I’ve compiled a list of things any potential participant should be aware of, as to avoid the scornful wrath of the faithful knights of sacred hockey tradition. Punishment may involve your shirt being lifted over your head (known colloquially as “jerseying”) in order to inhibit you from manipulating your own limbs, whilst a barrage of punches find their way to your ribs and/or “gibs” (jaw) region.

1. No slapshots allowed

Especially your sad impression of one. I know you grew up watching Brett Hull smash some lumber cheddar and you think, “Wow I should totally disregard the safety of others and try that out.” It’s really not cool at all – it’s is a shitty, selfish thing to do. I’ve seen countless a-peasant who skate like the Tin Man (in other words really terribly) wind up and unleash an abhorrent version of a slap shot, which hits the unsuspecting, unprotected shin of an opponent. You should know that this is practically considered a war crime in most provinces of Canada. Keep the puck no more than an inch above the ice, you reckless donkey.

2. Don’t wear NHL Jerseys.

This rule can be overlooked if you’re under the age of fourteen. After that, your dreams should be sufficiently crushed.

Come on, we’re all past impersonating our favourite players and skating around the ice with our arms in the air pretending that we just won the Stanley Cup. By now, if you haven’t realized that you’re more likely to work for Staples or the federal government and not the Colorado Avalanche, you have no hope of ever entering reality. Wearing an NHL jersey to the rink says, “Obsessive fan with no life,” more than having three fantasy teams and the third shitty alternate jersey of the Ottawa Senators. Avoid at all costs. Also, you may unknowingly attract the violent attentions of another clown crazier than you, who really hates your team and will thus act as irrationally as his number 87 Crosby jersey. Beware.

3. Proving you should’ve “made it”

I know you think that you got cut by the Nepean Raiders House League A team back in ’96 because the coaches didn’t understand your creative genius and it put a real crutch on your bid to become a Hall of Famer, but nobody at Parc Lafontaine gives a shit. Stop stick handling like a lunatic, never passing the puck, and screaming at me to “back-check.” I’m likely hungover and therefore twice as likely to do something violently irrational to your ankles, à la Bobby Clarke in ’72. Honestly, relax a bit. Anyway, I’m fittingly going to refer to this creature as “hotshot” from now on.

4. Stop the political bullshit

This is ODR hockey, not fucking Parliament.

Maybe it’s just because it’s Montreal, but I cannot tell you how many anglophone versus francophone grudge matches I’ve seen out at the rink. Why? Let it go. I really don’t care if you grew up in “Leafs Nation” or love the Habs – you’re being ridiculous. Aren’t we past ’95? I know I don’t care anymore, and I didn’t then; I was something like five years old and thought the whole fiasco was a boring A&E show my parents wouldn’t shut up about. For the most part, when I hit the ODR I’m just trying to skate around and convince myself I’ve worked off the last week of debauchery. Cultural conflict is definitely last on my to-do list when gliding around the ice nonsensically. So please, this is Canada: we all love each other and unitedly hate hotshots. Remember, they’re the real enemy.

5. Let the kid play

When you were a kid, don’t you remember how fun it was to dream? How impressed you were with all the older players at the rink? How you somehow skated and deked them all out? Probably because you were incredible. Not! You weren’t at all. For all intents and purposes you probably sucked (and still do), but it felt good at the time when everyone indulged your naivety. So please, hotshot, don’t barge along and steal the puck when some kid who can barely skate gets the black biscuit and launches himself headlong on a Bobby Orr rush. Humour the kid – let him score and give him some of the hope that adulthood will inevitably deprive him of. If you break this rule you’ve essentially declared to the world “I’m an Asshole: avoid me like the plague.” You literally had to contribute ten seconds to the happiness of a child and you failed miserably. You’re the worst.

The post Sacred rules of the outdoor rink appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I had enough; I could taste the air now.

“You smell like a fucking fungus tree – and I’m not even sure that’s a real tree.”

“You smell like a virgin.”

“You smell like Tony Danza’s ass.”

“Who’s the boss?”

“Definitely not you, you Neanderthal.”

“Who has six snipes in six? Eh? By the way I slept with your mom, she says hi…”

He had a point. While I scored maybe once all season, he was somewhat of a semi-prolific striker and was lighting it up. What was the key to his success? Was it a rugged playing style that involved the unapologetic maiming of opposing defenders? An uncanny ability to invert insults that had a knack for poisoning your thoughts? A strong right-footed shot? His pre-game fights at bars? No, sir. There was an ancient ritual he invoked for his own success. Like the great Spartans before him and the countless other warrior poets who have trod the land of sport, he had another ally altogether: superstition. It makes perfect sense, because the athlete, if my knowledge serves me right, is very much like Tom Cruise: a profoundly superstitious creature also deathly afraid of doctors. Andrew was no different.

“Oh yeah? What’s the secret to your success, Ronaldo?” My guess was milkshakes made of Jean-Claude Van Damme’s body odour harvested from the original set of Bloodsport.

“After I snipe I don’t change a thing.”

“What? You can’t be serious?” It was all making sense.

“Not even the gitch [underwear].” I gagged tremendously.

“You mean to tell me you stop washing your uniform after you score for the rest of the season?” This was an appalling discovery for a part-time germaphobe such as myself.

“Does it even remotely bother you that you might be inadvertently growing anthrax?”

“I don’t give a shit. Six snipes,” he repeated calmly.

This isn’t anything new – there are countless oddities in the sports world that mimic a similar script. I’ve heard of players needing to throw up before every game, putting on the left side of their equipment first, avoiding the colour yellow at all costs, and eating a blade of grass before taking the field. It’s a game of chance that athletes respect, as if some omnipotent being is waiting for them to step out of line and unleash something biblical. And if you do adhere to the holy rules, you will be victorious. But really it all seems to come down to preparation. Are you focused? What is it that you need to do to go to a primal place where you can rise above your adversary?

Anyway, I’m not one for dramatics. I think the answer is pretty simple: smelling like a bucket of wet garlic.

The post Superstitious for success appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I had enough; I could taste the air now.

“You smell like a fucking fungus tree – and I’m not even sure that’s a real tree.”

“You smell like a virgin.”

“You smell like Tony Danza’s ass.”

“Who’s the boss?”

“Definitely not you, you Neanderthal.”

“Who has six snipes in six? Eh? By the way I slept with your mom, she says hi…”

He had a point. While I scored maybe once all season, he was somewhat of a semi-prolific striker and was lighting it up. What was the key to his success? Was it a rugged playing style that involved the unapologetic maiming of opposing defenders? An uncanny ability to invert insults that had a knack for poisoning your thoughts? A strong right-footed shot? His pre-game fights at bars? No, sir. There was an ancient ritual he invoked for his own success. Like the great Spartans before him and the countless other warrior poets who have trod the land of sport, he had another ally altogether: superstition. It makes perfect sense, because the athlete, if my knowledge serves me right, is very much like Tom Cruise: a profoundly superstitious creature also deathly afraid of doctors. Andrew was no different.

“Oh yeah? What’s the secret to your success, Ronaldo?” My guess was milkshakes made of Jean-Claude Van Damme’s body odour harvested from the original set of Bloodsport.

“After I snipe I don’t change a thing.”

“What? You can’t be serious?” It was all making sense.

“Not even the gitch [underwear].” I gagged tremendously.

“You mean to tell me you stop washing your uniform after you score for the rest of the season?” This was an appalling discovery for a part-time germaphobe such as myself.

“Does it even remotely bother you that you might be inadvertently growing anthrax?”

“I don’t give a shit. Six snipes,” he repeated calmly.

This isn’t anything new – there are countless oddities in the sports world that mimic a similar script. I’ve heard of players needing to throw up before every game, putting on the left side of their equipment first, avoiding the colour yellow at all costs, and eating a blade of grass before taking the field. It’s a game of chance that athletes respect, as if some omnipotent being is waiting for them to step out of line and unleash something biblical. And if you do adhere to the holy rules, you will be victorious. But really it all seems to come down to preparation. Are you focused? What is it that you need to do to go to a primal place where you can rise above your adversary?
Anyway, I’m not one for dramatics. I think the answer is pretty simple: smelling like a bucket of wet garlic.

The post Superstitious for success appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Trust me when I say that there wasn’t anything sadistic about the whole thing. I wish I could recount to you a story a la Arnie in Predator or tell you how I capped Bambi’s mom and I didn’t even flinch, but either one of these stories would be a lie. No deer were harmed in the making of this article and it was rather one of the more peaceful experiences of my life that I can think of. Yes, I had to smear myself with deer urine and apply my torso with scent killer; and yes, if any of my other fellow hipsters had seen me in hunting attire that cold October morning, I may not ever find myself on St. Denis again without some seriously ironic stare-downs. But for me, this was the risk that needed to be taken in order to reconnect with my hometown.

Driving along the deserted country road I noticed the late autumn fields had been harvested and a glaze of frost tinted the ground. A place where I had once noticed a lush forest over a rolling hill, now had housing developments and an ever-creeping barrage of construction crews closing in on the remaining forest. The scene reminded me what it would be like if Wil-E-Coyote had ever caught Road Runner for dinner.

“I think I’ve been gone a year maybe and there are already new ’burbs. I mean, what the fuck man?”

“Good for us though,” said Mathieu, my cousin and partner in crime for this little operation. “It was all the deer-land in there. Can tell by the buck marks on trees. Everybody thought they’d be scared off near LaRose where we’re going. Then again maybe not.”

“Maybe not?”

“Not a lot of deer this year. These houses you know… It’s been throwing everything off.”

In hunting deer you need to rise early in the morning before they wake (normally around 4 a.m.), to place yourself between them and their habitual highways that lead to grazing lands in hopes of a somewhat ambushed attack along these corridors. Key to all this is a whole lot of waiting. And we did just this, parking the car and inserting ourselves a half-kilometre from where they probably nested. The woods are so abandoned that early in the morning, you feel like an explorer. Wilting frames of pines, cedars, ash, and black spruce are all yours if you walk underneath them.

My cousin and I, entirely scentless and completely undetected, slipped through the dead leaves and an increasingly autumnal forest until we found our position at a hunter’s hide. It’s a strange feeling to be perfectly blended into the terrain; noticeably more of an organic feature than usual. Most animals distinguish us by smell alone. Stripped of our fragrance by human cleverness, and given the right amount of stillness, we could be no different from a dead log. As we approached the hide, we were careful to be silent and sat slowly into a position we needed to maintain for upward of two hours. As any hunter knows, a slip of the hand can startle the prey. Mathieu was calm, scouring the cracks in between twigs and the slowly whimpering trees, already hunting the land, his cross-bow tightly squeezed in between his arms. He is a big man, my cousin, with a strong jaw-line and a steely pair of eyes engineered finely into his skull. I was not so calm. Picture the skinny wannabe-artiste in a camouflaged chair not really sure what to do. My breath is slowly entering the atmosphere, and I’m trying desperately to keep my neck screwed concretely into a single position while my bladder leaks driblets of piss. And believe me it’s easy to startle, every cracking leaf sets your heart racing, and in all the silence even a squirrel can seem like a buck trampling through his kingdom ready for a duel.

After an hour Mathieu patted through his chest pocket and whispered, “smoke break.” I couldn’t have been happier to hear that and I wasn’t going to argue whether or not it would keep the deer away – he was far more the expert. Might I add that Mathieu isn’t a knuckle-dragger or a redneck either – he did an English literature degree writing an honours thesis paper on Gertrude Stein. Looking at him, the primal hunter holding the fate of an animal with his trigger finger, juxtaposed by, say, Stein’s Three Lives, is quite the contrast indeed. My point being that not all hunters are bloodthirsty hicks some are admittedly, but not the majority. Some, apparently, can be feminist literary-critics. It’s an eclectic group. It’s an oversimplification to label the sport of hunting savage and uncivilized. Not every time a hunter hunts is an animal killed. In fact it rarely ever happens once for most hunters in a season. Not only that, tag limits are regulated by governmental geologists who maintain and record data on the health of deer herds in the area, and by correlating these statistics with hunting limits, deer populations can flourish. Because let’s be honest, like any circle of life you need a predator – and we’re just that. And how about the suburbs? Don’t let them off the hook that easily. Nobody is throwing red paint on any minivans or Timbits hockey players as far as I know. So think about it, one murderous shot of a crane can do more to the death of a deer than Jim-Bob from Lanark County.

Just then, as we had fresh delicious cigarettes ready to fire up in our mouths, three wolves came so near I can’t imagine I’ll ever see anything this impressive again. I’m told this sort are “brush wolves,” a mixing of coyote-wolf that risks the utter extinction of the pure wolf. But who am I to be picky about what kind of wolves I get to see? Apparently this variety of bad-ass dog have the loner stylings of a coyote, conflicting with the pack mentality of other wolves, equaling the potential end of wolf-packs. Whatever they were I can tell you the result is a beautiful creature mysteriously lost in it’s own design. They sniffed about, not noticing our scent, walking closer to the hide at an unnatural distance without there being black bars and an admission fee. Not being able to resist my curiosity any longer I moved my gaze for a stronger look. But the creaking of my neck gave me away and the jig was up. They ran away without a second thought. I’m not sure where they went, but they were probably brothers or cousins together on the hunt, searching for the same thing we were.

The post Deer factor appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Trust me when I say that there wasn’t anything sadistic about the whole thing. I wish I could recount to you a story a la Arnie in Predator or tell you how I capped Bambi’s mom and I didn’t even flinch, but either one of these stories would be a lie. No deer were harmed in the making of this article and it was rather one of the more peaceful experiences of my life that I can think of. Yes, I had to smear myself with deer urine and apply my torso with scent killer; and yes, if any of my other fellow hipsters had seen me in hunting attire that cold October morning, I may not ever find myself on St. Denis again without some seriously ironic stare-downs. But for me, this was the risk that needed to be taken in order to reconnect with my hometown.

Driving along the deserted country road I noticed the late autumn fields had been harvested and a glaze of frost tinted the ground. A place where I had once noticed a lush forest over a rolling hill, now had housing developments and an ever-creeping barrage of construction crews closing in on the remaining forest. The scene reminded me what it would be like if Wil-E-Coyote had ever caught Road Runner for dinner.

“I think I’ve been gone a year maybe and there are already new ’burbs. I mean, what the fuck man?”

“Good for us though,” said Mathieu, my cousin and partner in crime for this little operation. “It was all the deer-land in there. Can tell by the buck marks on trees. Everybody thought they’d be scared off near LaRose where we’re going. Then again maybe not.”

“Maybe not?”

“Not a lot of deer this year. These houses you know… It’s been throwing everything off.”

In hunting deer you need to rise early in the morning before they wake (normally around 4 a.m.), to place yourself between them and their habitual highways that lead to grazing lands in hopes of a somewhat ambushed attack along these corridors. Key to all this is a whole lot of waiting. And we did just this, parking the car and inserting ourselves a half-kilometre from where they probably nested. The woods are so abandoned that early in the morning, you feel like an explorer. Wilting frames of pines, cedars, ash, and black spruce are all yours if you walk underneath them.

My cousin and I, entirely scentless and completely undetected, slipped through the dead leaves and an increasingly autumnal forest until we found our position at a hunter’s hide. It’s a strange feeling to be perfectly blended into the terrain; noticeably more of an organic feature than usual. Most animals distinguish us by smell alone. Stripped of our fragrance by human cleverness, and given the right amount of stillness, we could be no different from a dead log. As we approached the hide, we were careful to be silent and sat slowly into a position we needed to maintain for upward of two hours. As any hunter knows, a slip of the hand can startle the prey. Mathieu was calm, scouring the cracks in between twigs and the slowly whimpering trees, already hunting the land, his cross-bow tightly squeezed in between his arms. He is a big man, my cousin, with a strong jaw-line and a steely pair of eyes engineered finely into his skull. I was not so calm. Picture the skinny wannabe-artiste in a camouflaged chair not really sure what to do. My breath is slowly entering the atmosphere, and I’m trying desperately to keep my neck screwed concretely into a single position while my bladder leaks driblets of piss. And believe me it’s easy to startle, every cracking leaf sets your heart racing, and in all the silence even a squirrel can seem like a buck trampling through his kingdom ready for a duel.

After an hour Mathieu patted through his chest pocket and whispered, “smoke break.” I couldn’t have been happier to hear that and I wasn’t going to argue whether or not it would keep the deer away – he was far more the expert. Might I add that Mathieu isn’t a knuckle-dragger or a redneck either – he did an English literature degree writing an honours thesis paper on Gertrude Stein. Looking at him, the primal hunter holding the fate of an animal with his trigger finger, juxtaposed by, say, Stein’s Three Lives, is quite the contrast indeed. My point being that not all hunters are bloodthirsty hicks some are admittedly, but not the majority. Some, apparently, can be feminist literary-critics. It’s an eclectic group. It’s an oversimplification to label the sport of hunting savage and uncivilized. Not every time a hunter hunts is an animal killed. In fact it rarely ever happens once for most hunters in a season. Not only that, tag limits are regulated by governmental geologists who maintain and record data on the health of deer herds in the area, and by correlating these statistics with hunting limits, deer populations can flourish. Because let’s be honest, like any circle of life you need a predator – and we’re just that. And how about the suburbs? Don’t let them off the hook that easily. Nobody is throwing red paint on any minivans or Timbits hockey players as far as I know. So think about it, one murderous shot of a crane can do more to the death of a deer than Jim-Bob from Lanark County.

Just then, as we had fresh delicious cigarettes ready to fire up in our mouths, three wolves came so near I can’t imagine I’ll ever see anything this impressive again. I’m told this sort are “brush wolves,” a mixing of coyote-wolf that risks the utter extinction of the pure wolf. But who am I to be picky about what kind of wolves I get to see? Apparently this variety of bad-ass dog have the loner stylings of a coyote, conflicting with the pack mentality of other wolves, equaling the potential end of wolf-packs. Whatever they were I can tell you the result is a beautiful creature mysteriously lost in it’s own design. They sniffed about, not noticing our scent, walking closer to the hide at an unnatural distance without there being black bars and an admission fee. Not being able to resist my curiosity any longer I moved my gaze for a stronger look. But the creaking of my neck gave me away and the jig was up. They ran away without a second thought. I’m not sure where they went, but they were probably brothers or cousins together on the hunt, searching for the same thing we were.

The post Deer factor appeared first on The McGill Daily.

“St. Anne’s, mate. Hard. Dats why dey call Nottingham Shottingham.”

Let me tell you, they describe crime in a whole different way in England. Just like sports. Sometimes though, like in America or impervious-to-corruption Canada, they cross paths.

“Remember dat match mate? Wit Dunkirk? Them lads from da firm. Proper fighters, skinheads. Throwin’ bananas at me mate. Not right innit? But I reckon neitha is da league…”

Imagine if for a time you played for a top-notch soccer club (which will go unnamed), and you grew up in a poor neighbourhood (a council estate in the U.K.), with a drug dealer for a brother, and then given your prolific talent as a footballer you were suddenly blitzkrieged with a £10,000 weekly salary.

Enter personal crisis, and it all goes tumbling down.

“I was young, mate, to be givin’ dat sorta money. All sortsa lads on ya for it, lads from St. Anne’s…”

For Anton it was too much. He was my former teammate on a semi-professional soccer team from Gedling, Nottinghamshire, which I was contracted to for a few months. But I’m not trying to impress you, clearly I’m washed up now and evidently writing about sports – something that may have spared me from my own self-destruction. Either way I wasn’t good enough. And if you don’t know what a Citroën Saxo is, it’s England’s version of a bright red Honda Civic with way too many add-ons, presumably to suffocate the insecurities of a small-time drug dealer. Because let’s face it: Anton was a drug dealer. Crack to be specific.

But not always. Like other young professional athletes, on both sides of the Atlantic, he couldn’t handle the modern professional athletic experience. At 18 he was given the “cheddar” and the attention someone his age had no preparation for, thrown out to play in front of thousands, subjected to the abuse of fans (while his testosterone was just settling into his veins), and then expected to “act a man.”

Unable to deal with the quickly compiling pressures of money and expectations, he retreated to his old friends from St. Anne’s who provided a false sense of stability and a perfect platform to steal from him. It’s a story à la Michael Vick: money, glory, fame, and jail (albeit for gun possession, not dog-fighting). And although Nottingham may be colloquialized as Shottingham, guns aren’t exactly kosher over there, nor in all of England, where not even cops pack them. If you do, you’re “propa hard,” a “rudely,” a “badman,” or – in standard english – a future convict.

“My mate Jermaine just got on da books wit Celtic. Tellin me about all da gash, mate. Notha world.”

“Why doesn’t the gaffer [coach] get you a trial with a higher club?” I asked curiously.

“Ah mate, damaged goods, innit? Them scouts will offa tha world,” he paused, “but lotta dem don’t tell ya how it will be. No world left to offa…” he said with a knowing grin.

And boy was he damaged goods. How can a team be sure that rotting in a jail for two years won’t skim the ability off any player? Yet they helped make the problem – so easily predicted, but never prevented – and then they just abandoned him. Anton had no choice when he got out but to begin from the bottom, trying desperately to work his way from the lower leagues all the way to where he rightfully belonged. Failure wasn’t an option nor was anything else. His schooling had always been arranged by his club, but he more often than not skipped most of his classes, and he had little qualification for the workforce other than being “well good at kicking a ball.” Some top clubs, like Manchester United, say they stress scholastic excellence from their youth academy players, which is laughable. It would be like the Ontario Hockey League (OHL) saying they produce scholar-athletes. I’m not saying the OHL never produces Noam Chomskys, but they certainly take more pride in producing Jason Spezzas. Anton’s point was well taken; recruiters will never tell you the dark side of the journey – what is statistically the likely outcome: failure. Worse for Anton, when he was in the minority who did make it, the fame, the glamour, and the money all conditioned a sense of invincibility with no infrastructure to support him.

We continued down the street, weaving like madmen in between what seemed like pylons, but were really just cars, while blaring Akala – a rapper so uniquely English I couldn’t make out one fucking English word. Which is fair enough – I’m sure Anton would’ve looked at me cock-eyed if I blared the Rankin Family Greatest Hits. If I was going to crash and die, I thought, it better not be in this shitty Citroën. I could already read the headlines: “Wannabe Canadian Footballer Dies in Micro Machine Accident.” Finally we started to slow down in an unfamiliar dodgier part of town.

“Yea so uh, what are we doing here Anton?”

“Business, mate.”

My nerves started to throb. I’m from the suburbs – I like to know exactly where I am when the street names start changing from niceties like “Cream-Honey Lane,” “Pineyhill Street,” or “Autumn Daisy Avenue.” Especially, considering we were on a street called “Mash.”

Pulling up on a corner near a simple pedestrian (or so I thought), Anton turned the car. Walking over to my side, this unknown man leaned in like he wanted something.

“What’s going on here, Anton?” I enquired.

Anton rummaged in the backseat through a cooler and produced a crumpled ball of tinfoil.

“Mate, pass that to him,” he rolled down my window. “Tenner,” said Anton simply. I passed the tinfoil to the man and didn’t ask a single question. The money came in return. Was this what I thought it was?

We moved on driving with a furious pace and I felt invincible: semi-professional soccer player, getting paid (like seventy bucks a game, but who’s complaining?), and hanging out with nefarious characters.

Nobody can stop me now, right?

The post More money, more problems appeared first on The McGill Daily.

“St. Anne’s, mate. Hard. Dats why dey call Nottingham Shottingham.”

Let me tell you, they describe crime in a whole different way in England. Just like sports. Sometimes though, like in America or impervious-to-corruption Canada, they cross paths.

“Remember dat match mate? Wit Dunkirk? Them lads from da firm. Proper fighters, skinheads. Throwin’ bananas at me mate. Not right innit? But I reckon neitha is da league…”

Imagine if for a time you played for a top-notch soccer club (which will go unnamed), and you grew up in a poor neighbourhood (a council estate in the U.K.), with a drug dealer for a brother, and then given your prolific talent as a footballer you were suddenly blitzkrieged with a £10,000 weekly salary.

Enter personal crisis, and it all goes tumbling down.

“I was young, mate, to be givin’ dat sorta money. All sortsa lads on ya for it, lads from St. Anne’s…”

For Anton it was too much. He was my former teammate on a semi-professional soccer team from Gedling, Nottinghamshire, which I was contracted to for a few months. But I’m not trying to impress you, clearly I’m washed up now and evidently writing about sports – something that may have spared me from my own self-destruction. Either way I wasn’t good enough. And if you don’t know what a Citroën Saxo is, it’s England’s version of a bright red Honda Civic with way too many add-ons, presumably to suffocate the insecurities of a small-time drug dealer. Because let’s face it: Anton was a drug dealer. Crack to be specific.

But not always. Like other young professional athletes, on both sides of the Atlantic, he couldn’t handle the modern professional athletic experience. At 18 he was given the “cheddar” and the attention someone his age had no preparation for, thrown out to play in front of thousands, subjected to the abuse of fans (while his testosterone was just settling into his veins), and then expected to “act a man.”

Unable to deal with the quickly compiling pressures of money and expectations, he retreated to his old friends from St. Anne’s who provided a false sense of stability and a perfect platform to steal from him. It’s a story à la Michael Vick: money, glory, fame, and jail (albeit for gun possession, not dog-fighting). And although Nottingham may be colloquialized as Shottingham, guns aren’t exactly kosher over there, nor in all of England, where not even cops pack them. If you do, you’re “propa hard,” a “rudely,” a “badman,” or – in standard english – a future convict.

“My mate Jermaine just got on da books wit Celtic. Tellin me about all da gash, mate. Notha world.”

“Why doesn’t the gaffer [coach] get you a trial with a higher club?” I asked curiously.

“Ah mate, damaged goods, innit? Them scouts will offa tha world,” he paused, “but lotta dem don’t tell ya how it will be. No world left to offa…” he said with a knowing grin.

And boy was he damaged goods. How can a team be sure that rotting in a jail for two years won’t skim the ability off any player? Yet they helped make the problem – so easily predicted, but never prevented – and then they just abandoned him. Anton had no choice when he got out but to begin from the bottom, trying desperately to work his way from the lower leagues all the way to where he rightfully belonged. Failure wasn’t an option nor was anything else. His schooling had always been arranged by his club, but he more often than not skipped most of his classes, and he had little qualification for the workforce other than being “well good at kicking a ball.” Some top clubs, like Manchester United, say they stress scholastic excellence from their youth academy players, which is laughable. It would be like the Ontario Hockey League (OHL) saying they produce scholar-athletes. I’m not saying the OHL never produces Noam Chomskys, but they certainly take more pride in producing Jason Spezzas. Anton’s point was well taken; recruiters will never tell you the dark side of the journey – what is statistically the likely outcome: failure. Worse for Anton, when he was in the minority who did make it, the fame, the glamour, and the money all conditioned a sense of invincibility with no infrastructure to support him.

We continued down the street, weaving like madmen in between what seemed like pylons, but were really just cars, while blaring Akala – a rapper so uniquely English I couldn’t make out one fucking English word. Which is fair enough – I’m sure Anton would’ve looked at me cock-eyed if I blared the Rankin Family Greatest Hits. If I was going to crash and die, I thought, it better not be in this shitty Citroën. I could already read the headlines: “Wannabe Canadian Footballer Dies in Micro Machine Accident.” Finally we started to slow down in an unfamiliar dodgier part of town.

“Yea so uh, what are we doing here Anton?”

“Business, mate.”

My nerves started to throb. I’m from the suburbs – I like to know exactly where I am when the street names start changing from niceties like “Cream-Honey Lane,” “Pineyhill Street,” or “Autumn Daisy Avenue.” Especially, considering we were on a street called “Mash.”

Pulling up on a corner near a simple pedestrian (or so I thought), Anton turned the car. Walking over to my side, this unknown man leaned in like he wanted something.

“What’s going on here, Anton?” I enquired.

Anton rummaged in the backseat through a cooler and produced a crumpled ball of tinfoil.

“Mate, pass that to him,” he rolled down my window. “Tenner,” said Anton simply. I passed the tinfoil to the man and didn’t ask a single question. The money came in return. Was this what I thought it was?
We moved on driving with a furious pace and I felt invincible: semi-professional soccer player, getting paid (like seventy bucks a game, but who’s complaining?), and hanging out with nefarious characters.

Nobody can stop me now, right?

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The whole scene got me thinking. Why is it a pack of generally unemployed malefactors of society, who would probably do horrible sexual tricks to your sister, throw up in your face, and then beat you jimmy-shitless for fun, get so much respect? Worse still, what conditioned them to such depths?
Anyone capable of this brand of self-destructive behaviour can try as they might to convince me of their own personal happiness, but fortunately for me you can’t piss in my ear and tell me it’s raining. I’ve disqualified innate douchebaggery or psychotic dispositions, because either one would be a sick evolutionary joke made at Canada’s expense. And how spiteful a God that would be. Alas, these aren’t terrible people, just people doing terrible things. A bit of junior hockey, as they say, kangaroo court; a sporting experience that fosters a marauding brotherhood of social deviancy – and for a long time it was an infatuation of mine. I quit playing at sixteen, bewildered by the process, a mess emotionally. It was pressure, it was alcohol, and it was them. But to live within its confines for five years chasing an NHL dream that only 600 players a year worldwide get to enjoy? What would the personal effect of it be? And the despondence once you admitted failure…

Air quality isn’t usually a problem in Ottawa, but at Cabino, the bar I was frequenting (I discovered the name at this point), it was somewhere between whiskey-throwup and chlamydia; lucky for me chain-smoking was just about the only way to stay healthy. Between cancer and a cigarette-less night with this species of douchebaga canadensis, I chose the cancer. Under my breath, lighting a stick, I exhaled, “What fucking disasters…”

“Brings them back to the glory years when they would go out as a team to the bar to pick up puck bunnies, eh,” said a hearty growl beside me. “Now it’s to get black-out drunk or to go to a friends house after and do blow with the other ex-junior hockey players who didn’t make it.” The response, lacking brevity and conveniently elaborative, came from a freakishly large bear – strangely outside of its habitat, I thought – with distinctly human features. I squinted, who in the? Samuel? An old friend among the famed few sane of the junior hockey brigades. A former player and former GM of the Rockland Junior Nats, a team once helmed by Brian Murray, now executive extraordinaire for the Ottawa Senators. “Benny how are ya?” he flung out his paw and I extended my lizard fingers to shake.

“Pretty good Sammy, just laying back having a few in the Jungle Gym… Say out of mere curiosity who are these girls?” I quizzed, pointing.

“Think like a neanderthal, Benny. They’re around to catch the next big NHLer or to snag a falling star. Either way most of them don’t know what the H in NHL stands for.”

“What a shame.”

“It’s Gongshow.”

Yes, I had forgotten. Dreaded Gongshow, or the company responsible for the overtly misogynistic and exceedingly popular Junior Hockey Bible; a manual legendary for codifying such Byronics as “lamb-roast,” “swamp-donkey,” and “the reverse oil-rig,” and now bills itself on their official website as “Locker Room Lifestyle.” The self-appointed head-pariah of the multitudes of hockey players in Canada, or the subculture of vulgar creaturedom that helps infect it’s institution. “Why?” I asked Sam, “Why do they do this shit?” At this point I had just witnessed two players pour beer on a helpless girl, then open palm brush the froth into her hair. In a daring act of rebellion, she proceeded to vomit on them.

“Junior hockey is a huge underground fraternity,” he chuckled. “They challenge each other to do the most over-the-top thing, pranks between teammates, trying to steal the biggest beer signage from d.t. [dowtown], or usually by picking up the dirtiest girls in the bar.”

I guess fair is foul and foul is fair.

We shook hands once more and dear Samuel lumbered back to the bolge of a bar leaving me with “Steve” (he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with this article, so I dub thee “Steve”). Did I mention Steve is also a former junior hockey player? Perhaps even the most well travelled of all: Granby Inouk (outside of Montreal), Nepean Raiders, South Ottawa Canadiens, Gloucester Rangers, Athens Aeros, Metcalfe Jets, Clarence Beavers, Alexandria Glens, Winchester Hawks, Cumberland Grads, Ottawa Junior Senators, Clarence Creek Beavers, Terrebonne Cobras, Smith Falls Bears, and a short peaking stint with Chicoutimi in the QMJHL.

But I swear he’s loyal.

“How about you, Mr. Stevey-pevey, you got any salacious tales for me?”

“Not sayin’ shit to you, pal.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Think I need these guys hatin’ me for chirpin’ shit to a poet? What are ya, fuckin’ David Suzuki at a bar? Fuckin’ observin’ everythin’ y’know…”

Steve, blessed “bud” of mine, I think you’ve told me quite enough already.

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