Hoop dreams February 4, 2010
Posted by DaveC in blogs, sports.1 comment so far
Another conflicted blog/sports post, though I think it’s more the former than the latter.
I know I’ve talked some about basketball before- I recall a particular entry about Dennis and I, and our experiences in community leagues and against each other. Maybe I’ll link that, I think it’s a good reference for this piece.
One of the ideas for a novel that often bounced around in my head in my younger years was a full length blog-ish thing on basketball and life, weaving back and forth- similar to my posts there, or my earlier entry on curling. As a writer, it’s an instinct to find meaning and themes and symbolism between sports and life, and I think that’s part of why I like both- sports AND stories. And what connects them.
(We can ignore that I don’t know nearly enough about life to make that kind of memoir compelling for now, let’s work with the main premise.)
I’ve always tried to make that kind of writing not so rooted in the sport that you need to be a fan like me to understand it, but enough so that the meaning comes across clearly, and a basic understanding of it is rewarding for the reader. Most of my favourite “sports” books are ones that are more about life than the sport- books that aren’t afraid to see parallels, and use them to draw the story out more.
Sports are less important than life, and much simpler on the surface. But in any really good sport- as in anything worth understanding in life- there can be layers of meaning and symbolism to those observing. It’s not always visible in the moment- In the middle of any event requiring our attention, we don’t tend to reflect on it. In writing, it gets drawn out, poked and prodded, given that meaning that sportswriters like to ascribe to it. Is that a romantic notion, to want to see that meaning? To want it to be more than a contest?
In a really good combination post, this is what I want to wrestle with: Is it life that explains the sport? Or the sport that explains life?
Reflections: Three January 22, 2010
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The mirror, as in both cases, has changed- it’s now a fold out medicine cabinet, in three parts. More useful, if less aesthetically pleasing. Our man inside has changed too. I’m not sure how to evaluate him yet. He’s always been very hard for me to pin down.
***
I came in, feeling weak and drained. My head throbbed, an ache born of a rampant cough of the last four days or so. Even as it ached, it was lighter, somehow, as if the weakness had forced a crowded mind to unburden itself, rallying against physical troubles with mental strength.
I reached for a spoon in a glass, pouring cough syrup into it.
“Think that’ll help?”
His voice startled me, and I looked into the folded glass. He seemed pale, drawn, which led me to wonder- is this how I looked to people this week? No wonder I was getting the fifth degree at work on Wednesday. This guy needed a painter’s brush to give him some colour (and a sandwich or three to fill him out).
The spoon had paused halfway to my mouth. “Maybe,” I quipped. I’d been taking it for the last few days, with seemingly limited effect. “Feels nice going down, if nothing else.”
He swallowed the spoon, licked his lips, nodded. “I can get on board with that.”
There was silence for a moment- his hands grasped the sink, almost as if needing it for support. I didn’t- did I? My head felt light again, and I moved my neck, looking around the room, as if that would brace me in the moment.I felt my hands on the sink’s edge, not knowing how they’d gotten there.
“Have we figured it out yet?” he asked after a while, breaking the silence.
I paused. “Do we ever?” I quipped back at him. Our conversation so far had been clipped, short, spoken more in silence than in words. That suited both of us, since we could read each other well enough.
He reached for the spoon, twisting it in his fingers idly. “Been a while since you’ve been here,” he commented.
I nodded, conceding his point. “Thought maybe I’d found myself then,” I replied, as much to him as to myself. A moment’s reflection brought slivers of different memories- accomplishment, sorrow, joy, pain, betrayal, shame, love. I imagine they passed over my eyes in a moment, as they would have his.
He shook his head. He was defiant, brash in a way, as he set the spoon back down. “It’s the process, Churchy,” he quipped. It was weird hearing his voice say.
I nodded again, looking away. “Learned that,” I commented, sharper than I intended. I brought my voice down as I continued. “It’s all a process. You don’t reach the end and get the medal. You just get the next baton.” I paused before continuing, my gaze turning back to him. “Don’t know if I’m fine with it quite yet.”
His smirk made me want to punch him. Given that an attempt would result in a grievous personal injury, I resisted. “That’s the fun, isn’t it?” he asked rhetorically, with an edge that seemed almost bitter.
I had to chuckle, though. “Hasn’t always been fun,” I commented, knowing he’d know what I meant.
He inclined his head, agreeing silently. “I’ll be glad to see the back of this week,” he said, and stretched his arms over his head.
“Yeah,” I agreed, feeling the headache pulse again. The conversation was starting to bother it, apparently, and it was making its wishes known. I clenched my eyes shut for a moment.
“So what else have we learned?” he asked, pacing on his side. He seemed unaffected, though I’d missed the moment when I’d shut my eyes.
I sighed. It was the same lesson, wasn’t it? The one I was still learning, and would always learn. “Faith,” I replied. “Faith in a God I can’t understand.” And, I thought silently, hope for the next day.
Maybe it hadn’t been a good week, all in all. But I had it good. These times, difficult and good for me, have all helped develop me, make me a better man. I had to believe that. I DO believe that. The nights when I was coughing up a lung, buzzing through tissues, unable to silence a crowded head, I held on to that. It may not have helped the cough, but when the foundation’s good, the trappings are excess. Have faith in what is. And have hope for what will be. Solid principles, there.
He smiled. That, for once, seemed at home on him, pale face and all. “Good,” he said. “Then we’d best hit the sack.”
“Sounds like an excellent idea,” I replied. I turned off the light, and turned to go, feeling the throb in my head tug at me again.
“Next time we can discuss the woman troubles,” he quipped after me.
I chuckled and shook my head. We both knew that wasn’t happening, but it was like him to egg me on about that, rarely far from my mind, and inserted back with his late foray. Hope had elbowed its way into that conversation- I had discovered, to quote Trek, that “There were always… possibilities…”
Even with sickness dogging me, I still felt lighter, unburdened for having talked. As if his knowing or telling me what I knew had taken it off me. Which was odd, since he should have known it already.
On innocence and forgiveness January 12, 2010
Posted by DaveC in blogs, sports.3 comments
The quickest way to get any baseball fan tuned out is to say “steroids”, a story that’s run the gauntlet from ignored to shocking to overexposed and back to ignored again, albeit for a different reason this time. But there’s a greater theme in there I want to explore, and will do here.
Mark McGwire is a sad representation of what is now viewed as a dark time in baseball- in all of sports. We’d all decided, based on overwhelming circumstantial evidence (witness his “I’m not here to talk about the past” bit in Congress a couple years ago), that he had used steroids. And, continuing on, that he was a bad person for it.
Lost in those getting on their high horses and immediately denouncing his confession is that we enabled him. Not directly, to be sure, but in ignoring the signs. In getting caught up in the excitement, and not caring about the how and why of it. Steroids weren’t illegal in baseball, and testing was lax enough that there’s no telling how many people bulked up like WWE wrestlers.
Maybe we didn’t know any better. We trusted, unconditionally, that this was all right and good and well with what we expected from baseball.
I was younger. I don’t remember if I was curious. But I watched with everyone else as he and Sosa smacked home runs. Baseball was magical again, in a way it hadn’t been since the strike.
Much like any magic, the luster left once we discovered the secret. And in this case, how dirty the secret was.
*****
I’m still a fan of baseball. But I’m guarded, cynical. I don’t get as invested in anything. And it’s a little bit sad. But we have to be that way. We can’t afford to believe in that anymore. We’re less innocent.
Similarly, I can look back at my life, at pivotal moments where my outlook changed. And while I have faith in God, just how many other spots where I lost faith, where I became less trusting, more guarded.
Santa Claus isn’t real. McGwire and others in baseball took steroids to get bigger and stronger. Someone lied to me, broke my trust in a hurtful way. A childhood hero isn’t perfect. Or the realization that sometimes, people are just looking out for themselves.
I’ve described myself as a “naive cynic”, and usually quip about that being the worst of all worlds. I’m a trusting person- I want to believe the best of people. I want to trust them. But experience has taught me to guard myself in doing that.
Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.
In all those things, the common denominator is a trust broken- whether it’s an implied trust or an expressed one. With heroes and faraway role models, it’s implied- and sometimes, our own fault. We build them up to be perfect, untainted people, and that’s an unfair standard. But when we’re young, sometimes we don’t know any better. We can’t. Understanding only comes with experience, sometimes the worst of experiences. Experiences that take our innocence from us.
I often think back on one particular spot where I had my trust broken by someone close to me, one that left me in an equally broken state when it was admitted that I’d been lied to. There was an irony there, as I had spoken to them about forgiveness, and about how my faith allowed me the peace of knowing I could be forgiven no matter what I’d done. I knew they were struggling with something, but hadn’t been able to pin down exactly what.
Looking back, it was easy to see the signs. Much as our bulked out baseball players should have set off alarm bells in our heads as we watched them, there were signals and inconsistencies that slid into place with their confession to me. A lot of things made sense.
I grappled with that as I contemplated my response to the lie being revealed. I’d been wounded, cut deep by the revelation that my trust, given freely, had been abused.
But where better to prove that forgiveness? How better to show grace than by extending a hand up to someone who’s shown remorse, rather than condemning words? Isn’t that what God wants from me?
I forgave them. It didn’t take away what they’d done, but I swallowed hard and did what I thought was right, even when it hurt like nobody’s business.
Even in that forgiveness, setting things right that were wrong, there’s a certain hardness that builds up inside. That’s how someone gets cynical- if they get disappointed or hurt, they get cautious, and don’t take risks.
I’ve been on both sides of that- having disappointed someone or been disappointed- and know that it’s had lasting effects on both sides of the ledger. I like to think that having been shown forgiveness and grace, that I’ll be able to continue to pass it on, no matter how I’ve been hurt.
While Mark McGwire, my friend, and I can wake up the next day feeling like a huge weight is off our shoulders, having been granted that forgiveness, we find those around us a little sadder and less willing to trust us. We- and they- have lost some of our innocence. Forgiveness does not wipe the slate clean for us humans- it’s the first step in a process of rebuilding a relationship, one that takes time to heal.
God, thankfully, has no such conditions.
(PS First time I’ve done spell check on WordPress, and it’s correcting my grammar as well. “Passive voice” I’m letting slide for this one because it’s used intentionally, but “complex expressions”? Really? Wow. I’m both impressed and a little creeped out at the detail.)
Peaks and valleys January 9, 2010
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So I skied for the first time last Friday, breaking a 27 year streak of having not done it. My first thought was I wished I’d done it when I was younger- less moving parts on the body to screw up in learning the motions.
Ended up going to Canmore for the New Year with several good friends (a thanks to Rob, Kristen and Kim, who brought food so we weren’t eating out all the time- and ‘Drew for the beverages), and the weekend after, and was glad I did. There’s an odd desire to make New Years memorable, on the heels of Christmas, and this is one I’m sure I’ll recall for some time down the road.
I was ambivalent about going for a while- partly because my twin brother Dennis wasn’t coming with me, and this would mark the first year that I hadn’t counted down to midnight with him that I could recall (just leaving open the possibility that it happened before, but I don’t believe that it has).
I talked some about growing up and moving into adulthood before, and part of that has been the acceptance of the thought that there has been and will be times I don’t see or hang out with Dennis as often as we used to. And eventually, that there will be a day when we go on with our separate lives, apart from each other. Even now, we’re independent in the same living space- down the hall, or doing separate activities in the living room. We’ve become different people in a lot of ways, but still so similar in others.
This isn’t to say that I won’t be happy for him when he finds happiness in things away from me, gets into a relationship, and eventually gets married. But in that, there will be a twinge of sadness and nostalgia, missing what we had. Some of me wonders if that’s childish, but I don’t think it is.
Another thing I’ve come to appreciate more as I’ve grown up is how bad times make the good times memorable- and in some cases, that you can’t have one without the other. Whether that’s recalling the hardship and effort it took you to attain a goal that you may have thought beyond your reach, or in the middle of celebrating New Years with friends, that you think of one you left behind.
P.S. Doesn’t matter how tired you are/will be, you suck it up for New Years, right? I do.
footprints December 24, 2009
Posted by DaveC in blogs.1 comment so far
I love new fallen snow. When I can excuse all the paraphanelia associated with it, anyway. Shoveling, driving, cold, wind, trying to start my car… all the things that adulthood has made me associate with it. But in those magical mornings, when the ground is covered, and you’re able to sit, and stroll slowly, and see it before anyone else has touched it… it’s special.
I remember being younger, what we did, the more carefree activities that I associated with it- snowball fights, snow forts, running around and rolling in snow, covered and protected by heavy jackets and gloves and snowpants, but revelling in the freedom.
There’s almost an innocence to it… when you see a blanket of snow laying down on the grass, and you’re afraid to walk in it because it would ruin it. That it would somehow blemish the pristine beauty of it.
As I’ve grown up, I’ve found my desires changing. What I want out of life, and learning, and relationships. I’ve come to regard those as good things… they’re signs of change, and maturity. It’s interesting to pick it apart with the academic, analytical eye, see where it came from, why it happened, and where it might go.
One of the biggest changes is that the idea of having children doesn’t freak me out.
Let’s be clear- it’s not on the agenda in the near future, and I’d probably have a heart attack if someone asked me to raise a kid right now. But in my interactions, in watching how others have developed and grow, watching my friends start families of their own, it’s become… more real, somehow. Something I can almost relate to.
I think the genesis of this was a couple years ago, and while that was a snippet- watching a child’s genuine joy- I think it was, in some ways, a turning point for what I might want out of life. That the normality of a family wasn’t something completely out there, something my parents had, something that others did- it was something I might have too, someday.
Again, not on the immediate agenda, given my bachelor status. But the thought is hanging around, waiting for the train to pick it up.
Watching Ryan and Trisha dedicate Daniel last weekend brought that home a little bit. I knew them, had watched their relationship grow, and had the privilege of serving as groomsman at their wedding and MC at their reception, and am honoured to call them both friends. This was them, having brought a child into the world. And in dedicating him to the Lord in front of us, asking us all to help raise him, in our way. To be supports to all of them, to be examples of what the young boy should be.
I thought of the snow, then, as we stood in support. The innocence of it, of little Daniel, having just started his life. No footprints or impressions, a clean sheet before him. Lucky for him, he won’t have to worry about starting his car in it for a long while.
When everything is wrong, we move along December 16, 2009
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Still in mourning over the Jays trading Doc, though I covered that some before. It’s weird reading it now and remembering how I felt then, it still feels poignant.
It’s a rare occasion when I’m not thinking about something, which is a troublesome proposition for someone like me prone to over thinking. Especially in the middle of this season of the year, when there’s no shortage of tasks to accomplish- training at work my head is still swimming reading for the Canadian Securities course christmas presents to buy for everyone and Mom’s birthday on the 1st don’t forget that Alex is over today so let’s hang out with him youth event on Friday- what am I doing oh wait there’s the email, should probably get around to printing that passport application FINALLY asked Josh and Ryan about that make sure about that guarantor thing, Christmas again what am I getting Dennis isn’t it funny that I’m still not sure what I’m getting him after all we’ve only been brothers our whole lives I should be able to find that perfect gift shouldn’t I late day tomorrow cripes I’m not off until seven am I going to Mom and Dad’s for dinner I’ll see how I feel at four need to send Jared an email about that event Ken emailed me about the website I should probably do something for that after all I said I’d help him on that for his book ooo rice krispie squares.
It’s a bad thing, being a procrastinator and occasionally absent minded when you’ve got things you need to do.
I think I’m starting to get restless about being single, though. This isn’t good, for a variety of reasons. We’ll get back to that, I need to share a brief unspecific story.
There was a gal I worked with a while back, and I got the impression that she was interested in me. This was confirmed by an outside party, to my combination of ego-swelling and dismay.
(I’ve never been wrong on these impressions before, just phenomenally bad at responding to it. But again, we may cover that later.)
Two reasons I kiboshed that possibility: We worked together, and she had a boyfriend (which does make me second guess my impression, but the outside party was convinced). Any way I broke it down, there was no way it ended well for anyone. So we moved along.
In the past, I know I have distanced myself from the possibility of romantic relationships because of my own insecurities- tying back into the “phenomenally bad reaction” thing. So even if the reasons were legitimate, I still ask myself: am I looking for roadblocks because of me not being comfortable in my own skin? Or trying to be distanced and cold because of how prior relationships had gone?
It’s the kind of question that intrigues me, and fuels my continual waking monologue. Part of why I put it here, I’d be interested to see what other people think about themselves and me. I know I’ve gotten more comfortable and confident in my own skin, but like the turtle in the race, there’s still a long way to go.
But if I’m restless, am I at risk of taking it the other way? Settling because of some need to appear to be making progress on that front, or out of some desire to not be lonely? I don’t want to do that, either. Be dating or in a relationship for the sake of being in a relationship. I want it to mean something. Don’t I?
Could I be ignoring the possibilities in front of me because I’m trying too hard for perfection in that? Or will I be compromising my ideals and patience because someone’s there and available?
This conundrum is DELICIOUS. And perhaps common.
Men with brooms December 7, 2009
Posted by DaveC in blogs, sports.5 comments
Kristen, I’m going to confuse you again. Sorry.
And Micky might take a couple of days on this one, but I had to keep it all together.
***
I never thought I’d get interested in the sport. Curling, I mean.
Growing up, it seemed like one of those slow, boring sports- like golf (another sport I appreciated more as I aged). But my more experienced mind can appreciate the subtlety and strategy inherent in it.
I joined several years ago, with at least partial credit or fault going to Mom and Dad, who’d seen me through a tough period personally, and had suggested it as a way to get out, play a sport, exercise some more. At first, it was morbid curiousity, with the barest hint of interest. I joined a league with Dad and a few people he knew, playing the ‘new guy’ part to perfection.
But a funny thing happened on the way to inevitable, ineffectual disinterest. I actually liked it.
I’ve described curling as “shuffleboard on ice” to American folks, but that’s more or less where I’d start for anyone who doesn’t know the game.
Two teams, four players a side. Each team throws eight rocks in an “end” (like an inning in baseball, or a period in hockey), one at a time, from one end of the rink to the other, attempting to have their stones closest to the middle of the far ring at the conclusion of each “end”. In our league, we play eight ends.
The concept is relatively simple. The execution is the beauty of it.
***
There’s a lot of times in life where things in my life haven’t gone as planned. If you asked me ten years ago where I thought I’d be now, I’d probably have had the presence of mind to say “I don’t have a clue”, but I doubt I would have thought here. Whether it’s here in Calgary, here doing what I’m doing, and with the people I know around me.
I’ve always tried to abide by the theory that you shouldn’t have regrets, because you can always learn from what you’ve done, and you’re a better person for it. This isn’t to say I don’t like where I am. I like where I am. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have done some things differently, knowing what I do now. That’s where experience counts- and why it counts more than someone telling me that “this is how I should do it”.
Because sometimes, you don’t get the full effect unless you experience it for yourself. And there are so many areas where I can point at something and say “yeah, that’s absolutely how it is.”
***
There are four positions on a curling team- lead, second, third, and skip. The ’skip’ stands at the other end of the rink, and calls the shots- holding up his broom as a line for whoever’s throwing, and telling the sweepers when the stone is off line, and needs to be swept. And yes, the skip yells that, so as to leave little room for interpretation.
The two players who aren’t throwing CAN sweep the ice in front of the stone with their broom, which accomplishes two things- it makes the stone go farther, and it makes it go straighter. So if it’s off line (which the skip sees from his vantage point), or doesn’t seem to be going far enough, the sweepers will sweep.
Being one of the least experienced curlers on the team, I usually throw the “lead” stones- the first two in any end for our team. There’s a clean sheet, and usually, easier shots. Often times, the lead stones are well out of play by the time the end is decided.
But there’s a difficulty inherent in that as well- you set the tone for the end. If your shots aren’t in there, it doesn’t set up well for your teammates after you who throw. Also, as the first one who throws, you often get to figure out the ice- how far the rocks go, and how hard you’ll have to throw them.
The lead is the set up guy- get off to a good start, and the end looks good. Miss a couple, and you may have to dig yourself out of the hole.
***
Two weeks ago, I came in to work on Monday not knowing what I’d be doing that day.
There’s a joke in there for those in the know that this had become somewhat normal course over the last little while, and it was that kind of gallows humor that was rarely far from my mind, especially in the chaos that had often descended on our workplace of late.
I came ready for the new job and new challenges, but braced to step back into the old one if need be. I had been told to prepare for that, in the uncertain tone of voice that had usually meant the worst was coming.
A step into the manager’s office. “Hey boss. What am I doing today?” (I don’t believe those were the exact words I used, but they will suffice for this scenario).
A pause. “We need you on the line today, I don’t know if they got your shift covered,” she said. “Maybe later this week we can get you started training… sorry, Dave.”
I replied with an understanding nod. “Sure,” I said. I’d been braced for it, after all. “I’ll go get ready.”
I needed a moment to gather myself, and was surprised at how disappointed I’d felt at that. I’d known it was possible that I’d have to wait another week. The old job was comfortable, was something I knew. But the bitterness… it surprised me a lot. I was bitter, and a little angry.
I swallowed it down, and walked out to the teller line to sign in. My old supervisor headed me off just after I signed on. I imagine she was confused, but I didn’t turn to look.
“Dave? We don’t need you over here. I got your shift covered.”
This time, it was me who paused. “Oh,” I said, sounding less affected than I felt. “Oh, good. I’ll let her know.” A few clicks, and I was out, and back to the boss’ office to give the good news. The anger had left, replaced by a lightness I hadn’t often remembered feeling.
All in all, a good start to the day.
***
Sometimes I throw second stones. I kind of enjoy that. The shots are harder, with some rocks in play (usually), and it breaks up all the sweeping I have to do in an end. Rather than sweeping the last six rocks, I sweep the first two, and the last four.
So rather than leading off, I come back to our end having seen a few rocks glide down, our end starting to set up for us.
Even as someone finding his way in curling, when I’m setting up to throw, I still feel the tension, the competitive drive to do well. The mind racing, thinking of the different pieces I have to get right to make a good throw, looking down at the line for my rock, wondering how the weight is, how hard I need to push off, if I can nail that in-turn without getting my elbow way out.
Take a breath. Rear back, push off, and make the throw. Extend, keep the knee tucked in, try and release clean, and at the broom, exactly where the skip placed it.
I’ve been trying to get in the habit of not watching my rock all the way down the ice. Because once it’s left my hand, there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s on the sweepers and the skip.
***
I’ve often been accused (correctly, it should be noted) of being something of a control freak. And being self-aware, I can’t really deny that instinct. It exists. A psychologist could probably diagnose the total how and why of it, but I’m not really sure I’m interested in knowing. I’d be lost in that for a while, and assume they were right about it all because they were ‘professional’.
I see it at work, even this week as my trainer teased me about doing something that, well, I didn’t need to do anymore. That wasn’t my job. I could pass that on to someone else. Really, I could.
My response: “But I know HOW.”
Her continuation: “So do they. Let them do it.”
She was right, of course. Was it that I didn’t trust them? Or that I didn’t want to bother them if I could do it? Or a little of both?
I doubt there’s an easy answer. There aren’t any easy questions there. I want to be on a couch, I’ll stay on my own, thanks.
***
Emotions run high for me in sports, often more than in other areas of my life.
I’m not someone who expresses himself really, truly well, so I imagine sports has been an avenue for me to do that. I was a chippy, aggressive basketball player when I played in junior high. I get invested and irritated when I watch the Steelers play football. And even in curling, I’m berating myself quietly for bad shots as I slide back to the hack. At the end of the night, I’m usually relaxed about how things go, but during the game, I do want to win. Even in our rec league.
I remember one night in particular where I was steaming silently. My shots were missing, and my frustrating was building. I was ready to snap my broom over my knee and had brooded silently, ignoring the usual banter and quips that I try and take part in. It’s a game, and I’m usually decent at remembering that now, free from the little-man syndrome of youth and the easy irritation that accompanies it.
Dad was calling it at the other end that night, and I’d gotten down to set up for the shot, even after their second had thrown. ‘Let me throw a hard one,’ I was thinking. ‘Let me chuck a take out.’ I needed that. A high, hard one, something I could just wail on and throw. I saw one shot that might be that, and hoped he’d let me try it.
He did, tapping the rock that he wanted me to hit, and setting the broom down near it for my line. I reared back and let it fly.
I stared it down, as if my angry gaze would shatter the rock in two as mine flew down towards it, ignoring my usual sound advice about letting it go. The ‘thwack’ of my rock colliding with it was satisfying, and at least a slight tonic on what had been a frustrating night for my competitive side.
***
I had a frustrating day today, top to bottom. It started out awkwardly enough- getting up late, and leaving the house only to discover that I couldn’t lock my front door.
After repeated attempts to close it enough to turn the lock with what little brute strength I had (also worrying that the difficulty of turning the lock would strand my brother or Colette outside the house), I gave up, and waited for Dennis to come back from a morning trip out.
I stewed on the step inside, after looking at what possibly could have made our oddly-opening door go even more askew today. Why on Monday, why on a sleepless day, why when I already felt on edge and stressed and tired, and well before I’d stepped into work?
I’ve always thought that God had a purpose for everything that happened, and even in the midst of that stewing frustration, I felt it. I felt Him, speaking to me. It was strange in the midst of my brooding, and I think I only really came to that conclusion when Dennis had come back and I was driving, with Jars of Clay in my CD player, speaking words that seemed more poignant then.
My struggles aren’t more than trivial, ultimately. But they mean something to me, and I’m meant to have them.
***
Curling, like a lot of sports, can be cruel and darkly humourous.
You can call the perfect shot, feel it good out of the hand, and still have it not work. Sometimes it’s the ice. Sometimes it’s the sweeping, if they read it wrong. Sometimes your stone picks something up, and it peels off out of play, as you throw your hands up and wonder why.
Thought sometimes, it works the other way. As the skip yells and the sweepers sweep, you see something else- an alternative to the first shot, something you hadn’t considered at first. You didn’t get what you wanted initially, but you could make this work.
At the level we play at, we do this an awful lot. We’re not really good enough to hit our shots with any regularity, so often, we end up playing the one we didn’t see. Sometimes, you get to shrug your shoulders and smile sheepishly, knowing you lucked into something.
And then, there are still the times you make the shot, the one you thought would be perfect, and it doesn’t work.
***
I remember one night, in particular. I was curling late, so I had time to do something early. And there was something on my mind to do, something to make right.
The plan was there. I was going to go in, and make things right. It had worked so well in my head before… I’d planned it out, laying it out in a fashion that made sense to me, and had built it up in my head. It was going to be perfect. It was going to be how it shouldn’t be.
And as before, a funny thing happened on the way to inevitable victory and a happy ending. My plan fell apart. My words that had been there in my head weren’t there on my lips. The plan was blown up before I’d put the first steps in. I left in pieces, my world shattered.
I went home in sorrow, having barely made it up the stairs, mouthing for Dad to spell me at curling, knowing I was in no shape to play. I fell to my knees as I wept for what I had lost, the chance that hadn’t worked out as I’d thought.
It’s easy to look back now and say that it was for the best that it didn’t work, but it is not without some of that sorrow that I do. I still feel like him at times, vulnerable, exposed, wondering where I went wrong, wishing I knew what was right, but hopeful that there is more out there.
***
If you’re not throwing a stone, you’re probably sweeping.
This is a surprisingly taxing part of the sport, especially as one of the “front end” shooters. You sweep six out of eight stones, as one of two sweepers on the rock. And for me, it’s something I try and take pride in. I like being a good sweeper. I feel like it makes up for when I miss my shots.
The sweepers call the weight, while the skip (and occasionally the shooter) call for line. This does occasionally result in conflict- if the weight is light, but the line is good, the sweepers might want to sweep while the skip calls them off. Or if the line is close and the weight is up, the skip wants them to sweep, but the sweepers don’t want to get it too far. It’s one of the delicate balancing acts of the sport.
And one of the most satisfying- even when you’re not throwing, you can contribute. You’re still a part of it. Rarely watching, and never on the sidelines. Not until the end.
***
I had the chance to lead a “huddle” at work a few weeks back… kind of a meeting before we open, for all the staff. The twist with this one was, we needed an activity.
As someone who appreciates detail, I wanted to knock this out of the park. This was my first huddle, and it had to be great. I would accept nothing less. Something engaging, but still thoughtful. Not cheesy or trite or predictable. Quite the standard, I thought.
I found an exercise that had all the things I was looking for- “Broken Squares”, where pieces of paper were cut up into different sizes and distributed to different people before the huddle. They had to put the squares back together, with two hitches: They couldn’t speak to each other, and they couldn’t take someone else’s piece. It had to be offered.
It was fascinating and satisfying to watch, as something that could have been passed off in kindergarten was taken to like fish to a hook, and my coworkers very quickly got most of the squares back together without a word.
At the end, I got to say my piece, and while the basis was easy to pick out (“We should work together!”), I’d wanted them to look deeper. The importance of communication, not just in what we speak but how we say it, and not just in working together, but- and while this WAS trite, I couldn’t resist the pun as I reached for a triangle and flipped it so it fit correctly- “how our pieces can fit in a lot of different places.”
I heard good feedback on this particular exercise, and was glad for it. I can’t change the world yet, but if I can be the one encouraging collaboration and good habits in my corner, I’m off to a good start.
***
One of my favourite traditions of curling is the drink afterwards.
In our league, the winning team traditionally buys the losing team a drink. And often, the losing team will offer to buy a drink back- can’t encourage tanking, after all.
But unlike some sports and leagues, curling was always meant as a fun game, a recreational game, where one goes to relax, and not get too involved in it. Even if some of our teams seem like they’re playing the Canadian championship by how seriously they take it during the match, there’s rarely a shortage of jokes or drinks flowing afterwards.
Maybe that’s why we love it. And maybe that’s why we take our sports so seriously. Because they don’t mean anything. We can throw ourselves into it without worrying that it’ll mean anything tomorrow. Because it’s a distraction, a safe place away from stresses and work and relationships and all those other things that drag us down occasionally.
And while there are times that our lives will be more important, maybe it’s having the option to release that makes it so. When we are going through those difficult times, we can appreciate the time away more, that we can yell and sweep and throw and compete and have it ultimately not mean anything more than what it is.
Or maybe it’s just a game. Men with brooms, sliding from one end of the ice to another, competing merely for the thrill of it.
Questions best left for another day… or another drink.
Tea and sympathy November 29, 2009
Posted by DaveC in blogs.1 comment so far
There are things I miss about high school, though not among them is feeling like every crush and heartbreak was the most important thing that happened in the universe.
It’s convenient for someone like me to stand on a pedestal and shake my head at those who perpetuate this, if just because I’ve been right in the middle of that kind of drama in my own mind before. Who of us wasn’t, at some point? We weren’t staring forlornly into the distance with some singer/songwriter crooning in the distance like all those teen dramas suggest we should have, but it MATTERED to us. Maybe we were defined by a relationship, or a lack there-of. Maybe we wanted to be defined that way.
I woke up tonight, and found myself unable to get back to sleep. So after some reading, I came here, wondering if I’ve really shaken that old instinct, or just want to believe that I have.
*****
Relationships (romantic ones, by the way, assume that’s the context for any future use of the word in this post) came up in several interactions yesterday, and some in my late night wanderings on the laptop. Both as they relate to me, and to others… the latter of which got my hackles up more yesterday, oddly.
Is that odd that I’m more openly defensive of those close to me than myself? I don’t think it is, though I can’t speak as to whether that’s typical. We tend to lose objectivity on our own relationships because of our involvement with them. In some sense, that’s good- we lose the barriers between us and those close to us, and we feel love and intimacy towards that person. But that intimacy and openness can also mean pain, and a lack of perspective.
I think late nights make me more vulnerable to the slings and arrows of my own thoughts. I worry more, I’m less guarded… a great state for a writer, even if when I wake up later I might well find the delete button and relegate this back to the virtual ‘drafts’ folder of my mind.
I hope not, though. I need to be less guarded with people, not more. Courage, not fear.
*****
I love this song, which came up at some point in my internet wanderings tonight. It’s sad, and it’s emo, and I love it, even if it reminds me of some of the sadder parts of relationships I’ve been in. I have an inexplicable affection for sad songs, and I wish I could explain it in terms that aren’t “I can relate better to that”, which make me sound like some kind of unhappy shut-in. Which I’m not, honestly. I just think you get more meaning- and perhaps more character- out of the valleys than the peaks.
The various conversations and reading I did tonight got me to reflecting on the relationships I’ve had, and the relationships I might have- possibilities that are floating on the wind, more or less real than I believe. I’ve got an ingrained instinct to question and prod when people express genuine affection for me, which is kind of awful of me. But when you’ve grown up as self conscious as I have, it’s a hard instinct to shake. It’s one situation where the old, worn chestnut “it’s not you, it’s me” actually DOES apply. I have chuckled bitterly at this revelation about myself before. I probably will again, at some point, when it’s late and I’m feeling vulnerable.
I retreated into myself some after the end of my last relationship, and while that’s occasionally inevitable, I’m still fighting that instinct now. I can’t be afraid to put myself out there, to be honest and open, even just being social in basic situations.
I’ve felt pain at the end of relationships, when you realize you’ve lost the chance at something incredibly special. But I’ve also felt joy during them, the moments where something wonderful is shared, something that touches you in the deepest reaches of your heart, and all is right with the universe. I need to chase that feeling.
Courage, not fear.
Snakes and ladders, part 2 November 27, 2009
Posted by DaveC in blogs.2 comments
Continued from here.
I may have kept my own counsel initially, but I didn’t for long. Before I left work, I asked Mom if I could stop by her and Dad’s on the way home. As someone who’s been with the bank longer than I’ve been alive, there wasn’t anyone better to ask. To suss out the particulars, see if this was a good idea for me.
And being a self-described “conpulsive emailer”, I had to write someone. But one thing at a time.
I came home to an open door, and floors and walls I didn’t recognize.
I’m speaking literally in all the cases here- Mom and Dad were getting hardwood floors installed, and had painted the walls of their house, in preparation for selling it, and moving into a new home in Cranston sometime next year. Change, it seemed, was the order of the day.
Dad and I exchanged greetings as we moved away from the chaos of men at work- Mom wasn’t home yet, and she and he were heading to a concert that night. He, too, must have sensed the rarity of the moment- it wasn’t often I called out of the blue, with a point of news or seeking advice. It is a rarity that I regret at times, being too prideful and wanting to do it on my own.
But this wasn’t the time for such reflection- I told him of the offer. A way to move up, get on a different track at the bank. More challenging work, more involved work. More commitment. It was the latter that scared me.
Mom got home soon, and we shared and spoke. They were both excited for me, and I was excited for myself, even as I was uncertain of whether I would take it. She was realistic, and had views on it that I hadn’t considered.
We ate, and I left them to their concert and me to my consideration.
Later that evening, I emailed Melissa, someone who I’ve swapped emails with almost compulsively these last few months. I’ve chatted, written and podcasted with her, and found a kindred spirit in a great many things.
*****
Contained in Melissa’s response to my email: “Are you scared about settling in too much? And never pursuing those things you really want?”
The answer, of course was mixed: Yes. And no.
I’m continually scared of settling, even as I know I’m drawn to it. I’m drawn to routine, to comfort. I knew this was odd, to consider accepting this ’settling’, given the challenge of getting the position, the training I would need to take.
But did accepting this mean I’d picked the fork in the road? That I would never be a writer, or the perfect face for radio? That I’d be wearing a suit and tie and playing golf by four for the rest of my life?
It didn’t. But that depended on me. Would I become comfortable, settle, put down roots there? Put away the pen and paper, never to see it again? The manager would probably like that. I don’t know yet if I would.
*****
I came back the next day and said yes. Not much later, with approval from The Powers That Be, it became official. Dave Church was going to move off the line and into an office.
Well, it didn’t really become official until it was announced on the branch messaging system, and Mat came out of his office, grinning as he shook my hand and congratulated me. He was the first (outside of the manager, anyway), and one of a few people I can talk sports with who can keep up, so it was really cool to get that.
I’m someone who is genuinely affected when people are happy for me, so the well-wishes, handshakes and hugs got me grinning like an idiot for the next few hours, as we rounded out a long day. I’ll admit my concentration wasn’t the best over the next few, as I prepared for the next phase of my working career. I heard enough variations of the “Remember us when you hit the top” line to last me a while.
Melissa had mentioned the game “Snakes and ladders” in a recent exchange- yes, Mel, I’m aware I’m taking it out of the context we’d initially put it in- and the analogy has rarely been far from my mind. Five months ago, I was a casual teller, working and shifting with the wind. And now, I actually have to consider wearing a tie to work. I can’t help but feel like I’ve hit the ladder. I’m excited, even as I’m scared. It’ll be hard. But I can do it.
Much like in the board game, I must be wary of the pitfalls- the snakes that’ll take me down a few notches. I don’t know where I’ll be five years from now. I know better than to plan as if I do. Work hard, don’t settle. Keep learning, keep improving. But also, keep writing.
Because I DON’T know… do I?
Snakes and ladders, part 1 November 26, 2009
Posted by DaveC in blogs.2 comments
(Long, so I split it up. About new jobs, and… new civilizations.)
A few bits on the WordPress sidebar tweaked- let me know if you want to be linked (or-delinked, conversely), I know I missed a bunch of people who will take umbrage. Rest assured in the knowledge that you can EXPRESS THAT UMBRAGE and fix the problem.
So, work. I’m a banker, at the moment. What exactly that entails has varied quite a bit from day to day. Mostly teller work thus far, processing basic transactions, and occasionally more complex ones. I developed a surprising memory for people and faces, a complete detachment from the value of money, and a healthy, good-natured hatred of wire transfers.
It feels like, in a lot of ways, that our branch has had one crisis after another the last few months. Someone’s quitting, or moving on, or sick, or unable to do a particular task for reasons that range from mundane, to absurd, to downright strange. I’ve done different jobs, so I know that some manner of chaos insinuates itself into day-to-day routine anywhere. That’s just the nature of life and work.
I’ve bounced around some the last little while. There weren’t many teller or office tasks that
A) I hadn’t done, or
B) I wasn’t training for.
The upside of the bouncing, of course, was proving myself valuable. I’m a guy who thrives on that. I like being valued, and contributing. It’s a feeling I don’t know if I’d found in what I was doing before.
Maybe it was the atmosphere, a workplace that seemed to, for once, be positive, and have management that actually seemed invested in those that worked for them. THAT is truly rare, especially amidst the constant chaos of a busy workplace. I’d worked with managers who didn’t care for much more than what you brought them, and here was a place that didn’t just talk about empowering employees, but gave those that wished to the tools to advance.
That wasn’t the plan initially.
*****
My workmate Zul first put the bug in my mind, a few months back.
He was leaving his position at our branch as a financial advisor, moving into some kind of commercial banking. He asked me to come into his office for a moment on one of his last days. This was a first, and I was curious.
I like Zul. He’s snake oil smooth, to be sure, but he shared my quick wit, and love of subtle, mischevious humor. As we were two of three guys working at the branch, it was natural that we would seek each other out.
Zul spoke in slow, measured tones, and asked me to consider applying for the open position that would fill his soon-to-be vacated office.
I was a little taken aback. I hadn’t expected this. The position wasn’t the same as his- they were changing it to be more in line with what our branch needed, but it was still there.
Zul assured me I could do it. He talked of opportunities for advancement and growth (in different aspects than I might have), and that I wouldn’t want to be working the line forever.
I conceded his point silently- I DIDN’T want to work the teller line forever. If you’d asked me five years ago where I’d be now, I certainly wouldn’t have said at a bank, pushing 20s over the counter with a smile that fades when the line leaves. It was a fine enough job, to be sure, but…
I thanked him for his support, and shook his hand, wishing him well in his continued pursuits as I walked out. The case hadn’t been made, not then. I wasn’t ready. But the seed was planted.
*****
Cut to two months later- Zul’s office is still open. Our FAs are running short handed, even as our teller line continues with the constant chaos.
I’m training for a support position one of the few days we actually are full staffed, and now, the manager calls me into the office.
Once again, an event without much precedent. Yellow alert, shields up, and all that.
I sit down, and we exchange greetings. Her first question: “You gonna be here in a month?”
After a pithy “You asking me if I’m going to get H1N1 and faceplant?” and a few guffaws, we got to it. She was wondering if I was happy working at the bank, if it was my plan to continue working there.
It wasn’t initially, as I said to her then. But like a lot of well-meaning plans I’ve made, it didn’t stay that way. They accommodated me while I took classes, and I returned the favor now by doing whatever they needed, whenever they needed.
I hedged some in my response, but mentioned I was happy with how things were going, even as challenging as it had been. I wasn’t going anywhere.
So she offered me a new job. To inhabit Zul’s formerly empty office, as he had suggested some time ago. Become the junior personal banking officer they were looking for. A nice step up from “customer representative”.
After that, she laid out the case. Anyone else who had applied would need training, as I would. And with more changes on the horizon (one of our other financial officers was moving on, which I didn’t know until then), the familiarity I would bring would be a positive. She mentioned that Mat, another FA at the branch, had suggested me as well.
She also mentioned that I’d made myself valuable over the last few months, and that it had not gone unnoticed. This, in concert with Mat’s mention, was surprisingly gratifying, and I think I smiled and exhaled. There may also have been an awkward chuckle.
There were other things- money, courses and certifications I would need, and that sort of thing. She gave me a day to sleep on it, and I left with a crowded head, mulling about the challenges.
I was asked what had occured in the office. I kept my own counsel for a time amidst gossip and suggestion (a not un-impressive feat in an office of 80-something percent women), letting it swim in my head until I left.
