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SFU vs. Thompson Rivers University
Sat Feb 06, 8:00 PM
Win 91 - 74
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SFU vs. Thompson Rivers University
Sat Feb 06, 6:00 PM
Win 81 - 47
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SFU vs. Thompson Rivers University
Fri Feb 05, 8:00 PM
Win 79 - 73
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Women's Basketball
SFU vs. Thompson Rivers University
Fri Feb 05, 6:00 PM
Win 88 - 49
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SFU vs. Trinity Western University
Sat Jan 16, 7:00 PM
Win 80 - 45
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Men's Basketball
SFU vs. Trinity Western University
Sat Jan 16, 5:00 PM
Win (ot) 68 - 64
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Men's Basketball
SFU vs. Trinity Western University
Fri Jan 15, 7:00 PM
Win 81 - 69
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Men's Basketball
SFU vs. University of Saskatchewan
Sat Jan 09, 8:00 PM
Loss 102 - 81
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Women's Basketball
SFU vs. University of Saskatchewan
Sat Jan 09, 6:00 PM
Win 67 - 58
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Men's Basketball
SFU vs. Pacific Lutheran University
Tue Dec 29, 7:00 PM
Loss 79 - 72
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SFU vs. University of Fraser Valley
Thu Dec 03, 7:00 PM
Win 95 - 69
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Men's Basketball
SFU vs. Western Washington University
Wed Dec 02, 7:00 PM
Loss 96 - 43
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Men's Basketball
SFU vs. University of Lethbridge
Fri Nov 27, 8:15 PM
Loss (OT) 87 - 73
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Women's Basketball
SFU vs. Trinity Western University
Fri Nov 06, 7:00 PM
Win 99 - 39
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Kate Hole's Blog
Kate Hole and her popular prose return for the 2009-10 season in the Clan Spot. Every Thursday during the season Kate will use this space to percolate, ventilate and most importantly, elaborate on the complicated lives of student-athletes at Simon Fraser University. Here is her first installment of the year.
February 4, 2010
It’s that time of year again.
The days are getting longer, the air is getting warmer and dryer, and the strength of the sunlight is getting just that little bit more intense. I hear birds in the morning, instead of just the searing beep tone of garbage trucks backing up and the tremulous staccato of rain on my windows, and my hopes for a snow day have finally dwindled into near-oblivion (the first year, sadly, that we haven’t had at least one). It’s almost time for the Olympics – less than two weeks away! – and I’m already preparing all possible ways to keep myself as far as possible from the city (me and crowds, especially of international magnitude, do not go well together). And yet, as spring accelerates its seasonal approach, I’m less excited than apprehensive; and instead of relief, all I’m feeling is an exponential increase in stress, and I cannot wait for the next couple months to be over.
Well, that’s not true (and that’s obvious). We’re a hair’s breadth away from the start of playoffs, and certainly as far as basketball goes I’m looking forward to every last one (and they will be last) moments. But, as is common this time of year, being ‘ahead of the game’ is synonymous with ‘only being three or four days behind schedule’, as opposed to ‘falling behind’ which, this time of year, really means ‘holding on to the cliff wall with one pinky in 45-km-per-hour-plus winds’. No, really, I’m serious.
It seems like, nowadays, every time I feel like I’ve got one facet of my life completely in order, the amount of time it took to put that one thing together is more than enough for everything else I’ve neglected to back up and fall apart. Just yesterday, I spent the better part of an hour and a half printing, photocopying, and organizing all of the articles on reserve in the library for the rest of the semester – only to realize that, in the meantime, I had forgotten a read a short story anthology and was up till the witching hours finishing it. I did all my laundry and even went to the grocery store and picked up cleaning supplies I had run out of – dish detergent, bleach, laundry soap, glass cleaner – and put them away in their respective spots for an end-of-week cleaning, but as soon as I’d put everything in its place I remembered that we were on a road trip this weekend and I had to pack all of those newly-folded clothes into a duffel bag again, and on top of that, I now wouldn’t have time to clean the kitchen and the bathroom before I left. I even made a big dinner last night (for two, mind, but more than enough for leftovers) so that I wouldn’t have to spend time cooking and could get more homework done this weekend, but as soon as I put everything in Tupperware and squeezed it, Tetris-style, into the fridge, it struck me that I wouldn’t be home to eat it for the next three and a half days – and so part of it is coming with me on the bus, and part of it has been sent off in various directions with various other people so that my culinary efforts, at least, will not rot into unused oblivion.
It’s the curse of the basketball player, it seems: spring, just when everyone else in the world is enjoying the warmth or preparing for a nice vacation or relaxing in the hazy sensation of summer-is-coming-next, is the very moment when every aspect of our schedules – athletic, academic, and even domestic – ramp up to ridiculous heights and speeds, and we’re left gripping the proverbial concrete with shaking white knuckles and hoping we don’t get blown away in the fray. It’s not something I’m unfamiliar with, of course – this is my fourth year, after all – but that doesn’t mean it’s any less of a shock when that first big wave finally charges, spitting froth and foam, into the bay. And, as of this blog, it’s certainly happened: to-do lists are a mile long, readings are stacking up by the foot, practices seem longer and harder and the sweat is pouring off of me (and my teammates) by the gallon. We’re in the thick of it, once again – March Madness, like the Superbowl, begins ages before the main event – and we’re hiking up our socks and wiping the grit off of our foreheads and getting ready to give it another go. I mean, after all, we don’t really have much choice, do we – this (at least for me and my fellow seniors) is our last big chance to take it to the finish line, and we’re certainly not giving up without a fight. Although, I must admit, the fight (at least for next little while) feels a lot less even-keeled and lot more like a featherweight in the heavyweight division… and, well, I’ll be honest, it’ll probably involve a heck of a lot more coffee. (At least until April.)
January 28, 2010
This season has been one of many ‘lasts’: the last semester of morning practices, ever (which will not be missed); the last season of blogging (which will); and (as of now), most importantly, the last home league game I and my fellow seniors will ever play, the last Barbara Rae Cup, and our last chance to go out with a bang and provide as dominating a performance as possible while raising as many funds as we can for an exceptionally worthy cause.
That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, this Saturday will be our Breast Game Ever – and we need your help to make it the best of the Breast… er, the Breast of the best… uh, make it really something exceptional.
Last year, as I’m sure you all remember (you are fans of ours, aren’t you), Katie Miyazaki, Courtney Gerwing, Anna Carolsfeld and Laurelle Weigl shaved their heads in the middle of the west gym, effectively helping us raise over $18,000 for the BC Cancer Foundation and breast cancer research. These four ladies lost their locks for 
laudable reasons – and due credit goes to them – but it was the legions of loud and loyal fans, such as your supportive selves, who padded the proverbial pot with the products of their own pockets and whose perennial patriotism made what might have been an underwhelming undertaking into an unequalled event the likes of which our team has never before experienced. We were, for lack of more alluring adjectives, flabberghasted (and happily so): what had begun as simply another in the list of (equally deserving) charities we ventured to assist, albeit with a (what we at the time believed to be) lofty goal of raising $5000, had ultimately ended up producing more than three times our intended sum and effectively exceeded everyone’s – ours, the fans, and even the BC Cancer Foundation’s – wildest expectations.
Now, certainly we don’t expect the same kind of results this time around – it’s not every day that four beautiful babes get buzzed for bucks – but we still want to make an impact, and so once again we have set what we believe to be an achievable goal: $5000 for the BCCF. But, like I said before, it’s an impossible enterprise if we do it alone – and so, for the last time in the CIS, and the last time in Brea’s, Lisa’s, Rakel’s, Brittany’s, Robyn’s, Laurelle’s, Matteke’s, Alex’s, and yes, my, careers, and maybe even the last time ever, we need your unequalled support: in donations, in posters, and in t-shirts; but most importantly, in your attendance and incredible (and infamous) enthusiasm. After all, (apologies in advance for this one) there is no “I” in team (sorry, had to do it) – and since no man (and no woman, and certainly no Clanswoman) is an island, we need all the help we can get; and what better help than from the friends, family and fans that love us (almost) as much as we love them.
And so, here we go again – for one last harrowing, heart-wrenching, hectic time, we need to pack the playground and rock the rafters until the fur (and especially the feathers) fly. So bring all your breast friends – your bosom buddies, if you will – and implant yourselves in our midst. Hooters and hollerers, bangers and knockers, and all sorts of rowdies are accepted – beggars can’t be choosers, and besides, we’d really be boobs if we turned anyone away. So come one, come all: have a couple of cans (of beer, in our beer garden), share your assets (by donating or buying), push-up the volume and get ready for a good time. Because, as I’m sure you all know, we can’t all be cheerleaders (or at least we can’t all do it as well as you); but whether it’s money, mouthiness, or some other mastoid manipulation, there’s more than one way – and only one last big chance – to totally, completely, and whole-heartedly support your girls.
January 21, 2010
Wednesday’s practice was, for the most part, nothing out of the ordinary: some warmup sprints and layup drills, followed by some breakdown drills, some shooting, and a great deal of time spent practicing against Winnipeg’s defenses and running over their plays. We scrimmaged near the end, did some cool-down drills, and started our post-practice stretch – and then four CCES techs walked in, duffel bags and clipboards in tow, and hustled Nayo and Kelsey off to go pee into some plastic cups.
I’ll be perfectly honest: I couldn’t help but laugh.
I laughed, mostly, because the testers randomly assigned us numbers and then drew them, and Kelsey’s luck is especially poor in this regard; but I also laughed at our team’s collective lack of shock or surprise, in fact lack of any emotion other than some good-hearted chuckling at the expense of the poor unfortunate souls who had to go take a very awkward bathroom break. We just sat there – we kept stretching, we unlaced our shoes, we did a quick cheer and an overview of tomorrow’s practice – and we were completely and utterly unperturbed. We walked to the changeroom like always, we showered as per usual, we chatted about homework and the sorest parts of our bodies. No one was freaking out, no one was scared or confused, and no one was really surprised – something that I firstly attribute to our absolute confidence in our and our teammates’ cleanliness (drug-wise), and secondly to the fact that, well, let’s be honest… this isn’t the first time it’s happened.
Yes, we’re all fairly familiar with the process – so for those of you that don’t know, I’ll give you the Cole’s Notes. The CCES, or the Canadian Centre for Ethics in Sport, was established fairly closely following the Johnson scandal (where he won the 100m dash in a sub-10-second time, before testing positive for a banned substance and being stripped of his medal). Over the years, the CCES has evolved from merely policing the ‘obvious’ substances – anabolic steroids, mostly, and other performance enhancers – to modern day, where various cold medicines, natural herbal remedies, and even painkillers are considered ‘banned substances’ (due to trace ingredients they use), not to mention illegal drugs like marijuana, alcohol (if consumed during or immediately previous to competition), and even abnormally large amounts of caffeine. Athletes are not only expected to declare any and all medications and herbal remedies they consume, but to be aware of the full list of banned substances and avoid any such compounds in all of their products. Recently, the regulations have tightened even more: when my university career started, if I took a supplement that caused me to test positive and that substance I tested positive for was found in the supplement but not listed in the ingredients – that is, if I took the supplement believing it was clear, but the company used an unlisted ingredient that I was not aware of and it flagged my drug test – I wasn’t liable, as long as I had declared my use of the supplement previous to the drug test and it was proven that I was not aware of the compound’s presence. Now, whether or not I am aware of an ingredient’s presence – and this means that a company might use it and not list it – if that ingredient causes me to test positive, CCES legislation rules that I will be considered responsible and banned from competition for a set period of time (and/or, depending on circumstance, stripped of medals and/or awards). As a result, we have to be exceptionally careful about what we ingest and when – seemingly simple things, like whey protein powders, energy drinks, and boosters at Booster Juice, could potentially flag a drug test and are substances we generally avoid.
As for the testing process itself, the short version is this: a CCES tester can show up at any time and at any location – at your house, at the end of a game, at your training facility, or at the end of practice. Once you have been informed of their intent to test you, you are not allowed to leave their sight until you have provided a sample. If you can’t pee (you haven’t drank enough water, for example), they must stay with you until you can pee – however long that may take.
Once you are ready to pee, you sign a whole series of paperwork and pick a plastic container from a handful of identical vessels they have brought with them. You check it for cracks or breaks in the safety seal, and if you have brought a coach or chaperone with you (this is optional) they can check it as well.
Then, the fun part: you go to the bathroom. One tester stays with your paperwork while the other comes with you to give your sample. Your chaperone can come with you here, too, but cannot interfere. The tester must watch you produce your sample (to make sure it actually comes from you) and then watches you seal it, making sure you do so properly, and walks with you back to the other tester waiting with your paperwork.
From here, there’s a whole bunch of CCES “legal-ese”: stickers have to go on your sample and on your paperwork (some to prove it’s yours as others as seal-tampering devices), the bottle has to go in a plastic bag you pick and check for leaks, you (and your chaperone, if they are with you) sign the paperwork, and the testers have to sign off on it as well. This is all to prevent any kind of tampering or accidental contamination: for example, if your sample is not sealed properly and something gets in to it, it could cause you to flag for a substance that didn’t actually come from your body.
And from here, you wait. Obviously, if something banned turns up in your sample, then that’s a whole other kettle of fish – but for the most part, the peeing itself is the extent of testing you interact with.
It’s funny, of course, because it’s such an odd and in-depth process that, at the same time, seems so normal for us – after all, how many people (without some really interesting social lives) can say that someone has approached them in the middle of the day, shook their hand and said, “Hi, you may not know me now, but you’ll know me well enough soon—let’s have some of your urine.” But it’s not funny, also; just the other day, I spoke to a good friend of mine who had a teammate test positive for an unlisted substance in a supplement he took, and (although everyone knew it wasn’t his fault) he was banned from competition in his sport for two years for unintentionally failing his drug test. It’s a hilarious and also sobering (no pun intended) process: it’s a sort of ‘big brother is watching’ idea that is altogether weirdly entertaining, mildly perturbing, and, yes, more than a little bit strange.
But, we like to think of it this way: it’s a sort of mutually beneficial regulation system, one that benefits both the athletes and the sports themselves. It prevents cheating and promotes fair play, and it also reminds us to take care of our bodies, eat right, and generally not do anything stupid. And that’s what we do: yes, we’re more than a little persnickety about what we eat and drink and when, but it’s for a reason – no one wants to get stripped of their hard-earned accolades, and certainly no one wants to do so while actively trying to do everything right (and clean). So, the next time you see one of us, hip to hip with two surly-looking bodyguards with clipboards and a plastic cup, you’ll know why; and we’ll be back in 20 minutes or so, a little red-faced, but still in one (healthy) piece. Or, maybe not – because hopefully we’ll have drank enough water, or, like Kelsey last night, you won’t be seeing us again for a good couple hours; because sometimes, not matter how hard you try, and no matter how much you think of waterfalls, your body (and your bladder) just won’t listen – and that’s even funnier than getting tested in the first place.
January 14, 2010
I was home alone the other night, going about my business and doing chores and homework, when suddenly, I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in my patio door. I was vacuuming the house wearing basketball shorts and a sports bra, socks (because the socks were dirty anyways and they picked up the extra dust the vacuum missed), and a pair of bright blue rubber gloves (because I was also cleaning the kitchen sink). I had my hair up in an alligator clip, my slow cooker was bubbling aromatically with salmon chowder next to the stove, and I had been singing along to “Uptown Girl” for the last two-and-a-half minutes, affectionately inserting “she’s my roll-er-ball” in place of the real lyrics for – yes, you guessed it – my dear, sweet Dyson vacuum. I paused for a moment, just to truly appreciate the magnitude of the vision I was presented with, and then an ad for the Bay came on the (muted) TV – and all I could think about was how much I wanted a new shower curtain and a small-pot coffee maker.
My god, I am getting old. And I look spectacular.
I’ve been thinking that a lot, lately – the old thing. I think the magnitude of this whole ‘this is your senior season’ is finally starting to hit me, and it’s bringing with it a whole wave of emotions I’m not entirely sure how to handle. I’m sad, certainly; it really sucks that, all of a sudden, this is my last year playing ball at SFU and it’s happening a whole season earlier than I planned. But I’m also a little excited: next year, and for the first time since sixth grade, I’ll be able to live as a normal student: have a part time job, maybe, wake up after 5AM, have a glass of wine with dinner on a weeknight. And finally, I’m scared. Terrified, in fact – for the last ten years of my life, I’ve played basketball year-round and it has essentially ruled my existence. It decides what I eat, and when; it tells me what medications I can and cannot take; it controls my workout schedule, my training regimen, and my physio; it chooses my classes and lords an iron fist over my makeshift social life. That’s not to say I don’t love it, of course – believe me, I do – but it’s altogether a liberating, exhilarating, and novel concept that also leaves me wracked with apprehension. In less than three month’s time, there will be an empty space in every self-explanatory sentence I hand out when people ask, “so what is it you do?”: and in place of “varsity basketball player”, I’m realty not sure what that strange, empty space is going to be filled with.
But, must as my incredible coolness and stunning good looks cannot distract me from household chores, I can’t allow myself to think too far ahead. We still have eight league games left, and hopefully at least seven playoff games after that, and I (and the rest of our seniors, and our juniors and sophomores, and our freshmen) need to take the rest of this season one day at a time, one practice at a time, and one drill and one play and one pass at each go before we even think about moving on to the next one. Because, although the rest of our lives are indeed fast approaching, we can’t look too far into the future just yet – for now, we have two more practices and one more game this week, and we’ll start with just that and not let ourselves get distracted. It is a thrilling and often epiphanic thing to really think about yourself and your future, but it should be done (unless absolutely necessary) as infrequently as possible, as long as there are still tasks to be completed in the present. That’s not to say don’t plan, of course – there is never anything wrong with planning – but don’t let the plan overtake the process. After all, if you look at yourself in the mirror too long, the world can pass you by; and if you stare at yourself in patio doors, in all your glory freshly regurgitated from 1986, you’ll never finish cleaning the sink in time to mix the chowder before it burns.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Like I’ve always said, I’ve never been a huge fan of New Year’s – I’ve always found it to be the kind of holiday that has far too much buildup and not enough result. Correspondingly, I’ve never truly believed in the idea of New Year’s resolutions; like New Year’s Eve, I feel like a New Year’s resolution usually contains far too much pressure, not enough planning, and an incredibly high risk of failure. That’s not to say, of course, that they don’t work for some – and I’m in no way discrediting the hordes of people that have quit smoking, lost weight, started new careers, etc. – but for me, all they represent is far too much hype, a huge degree of fragility, and not enough substance or concreteness.
Of course, as I said, I’m not opposed to goal setting, and I’m certainly not opposed to self-betterment; I merely prefer to treat the new year as it is: an opportunity to reflect on the past, yes, and maybe even to rethink some goals and plans, but ultimately just another day and another step along the line.
And really, that’s all we’ve seen so far: yes, we had Christmas break, and got our grades back (a deep sigh of contentment and relief there), and even travelled to Montreal for a tournament (a beautiful city, and a lot of fun), but nothing actually changed on our team or in our lives. We came back to campus, we trained hard as per usual, and we prepared for yet another weekend of tough, physical league games, the first of which we are flying to Edmonton for this very afternoon.
And that’s my point, I suppose – not to be pessimistic, but to be realistic: because even though a new year has come once more, ultimately it’s just the same as last season: we shake the clouds out of our heads, brush the snow off our shoulders, and get ready to burn off the rest of the turkey we ate doing the exact same thing we did in the fall. And It’s especially important, I feel, to be aware of this, because all the other teams – especially the ones we still have yet to play – are doing the exact same thing: getting down to business and racking their brains and their bodies for ways to build themselves up stronger and harder and get a couple more W’s on their score sheets. It is this, in fact, that I feel causes the greatest degree of failure in New Year’s resolutions: not the idea that the individual isn’t strong enough or determined enough to make a change, but that the person making the goal for some reasons feels like everyone else in the world has changed too, and that somehow the process to achieve said goal will be far different or far easier than it would have been were they to try to complete it the previous year.
But that’s the thing: nothing has changed. Despite flipping another page in the calendar, the world hasn’t turned on it’s end, and life is still occurring in the exact same manner it was last week, last month, and yesterday. The man trying to lose weight won’t suddenly discover that all the donut shops in his neighbourhood have closed down for 2010, nor will the woman whose plan is to prevent procrastinating find it any less difficult to actually sit down in front of her computer and do the work than it was before, or find the draws of TV and friends and leisure activities sing any less of a siren song. And so, the truly important thing to do in the new year is not to resolve, but to reflect: to look back on all the contrasting adversities and accomplishments that 2009 has brought, break them down, analyze them, celebrate and revile them, and then use them as tools to do even better when the next opportunity rolls around.
And so, here we are: another new year, but still in league; the end of another semester, but the start of a new one; and the end of one era, but also the start of another. We have three (knock on wood) more months of basketball, which means three more months of work; but we can’t let ourselves think that we’re special. Because for every practice we have, and every set of lines we run, and every weight we lift, and every nagging injury we ice and stretch and grind our teeth about, the other teams and the other players are having them too; and much as we’d like to think we’re unique, and that no one wants to win as much as we do, ultimately we know that’s not the truth. We’re going to have to work just as hard, if not harder, than last year if we want to keep up our success – because if we don’t, no one’s going to step aside and pat us on the back and say, “Oh, here, it’s okay, have a mulligan.” They’ll be chomping at the bit just like we are – and wanting it just as desperately – so we can’t be prepared for failure, we can only be ready to fight.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I’ve found, the past few days, that a lot of things are surprising me. The size, color, frequency, and placement of my bruises, for example, continue to astound (the latest, a large navy welt at the base of my thumb on the top of my left hand – how on earth did I get hit there?); the little gifts occasionally appearing in my locker are a frequent source of joy and awe (my Secret Pal knows me very well); my recent grades have been both shockingly and pleasantly received; and, most of all, merely waking up Tuesday morning was an both an exciting and astonishing accomplishment – all of a sudden, without warning, I had made it into another December. And oh, what a December it already is – and what a December it will be.
Because, even with all of these pleasant surprises, I know there are far more and far better things to come. In fact, even with all of this festive fandango just popping up around me, all I can think about is what comes next: one more game, one more take home final, a handful more practices, a Secret Pal gift exchange (I am terrible at this game, but it is part of the fun), and then finally, blissfully: Christmas break.
Aaaaahhhhhhhh. And she will be a good one this year.
It’s kind of odd, actually – normally the elaborate extravagance, economical excess, and corporate and capitalist commercialization gets the Grinch in me growling and grinding her gears – but not this year. For some reason, this year I feel like I can move beyond it all; or, at least, I’m not focused on it, because all I can seem to think about – and all I have been thinking about for the past month or so – is heading the heck home for the holidays. (Finally.)
I can’t wait – for all of it. For the biting cold of Alberta winters, for taking my chocolate lab out to play in the snow and chasing her around and throwing snowballs until she looks like an icing-sugared chocolate truffle, for wifesaver on Christmas morning and an excessive number of lattés and Christmas oranges in between, for The Best Christmas Pageant Ever! (Barbara Robinson, utter classic), for Linus and Lucy bubbling pleasantly through the house speakers, for curling up in front of the fireplace with a giant mug of mocha and a good book and finally enjoying some recreational reading… everything. I absolutely cannot wait to go home for the holidays, and I’m getting more impatient with each passing day.
I think, maybe, the finality of this season is what’s increasing my anticipation – that is, that this has now officially been the last fall semester I will ever play SFU basketball, and that realization is making me altogether more homesick, more nostalgic, and more easily excitable. And certainly, there are things to celebrate – my last 6AM practice EVER, just to mention one – but there are also things I’m going to miss. I’ll never have another first year, for example; I’ll never wear that #15 jersey again that was two sizes too small (when your point guard and your post wear the same size, you have an issue); I’ll never be a rookie on another university basketball team, and I’ll also never be a senior again after this year has come and gone.
And so, I suppose, as I write my last blog of the semester (and the last of 2009), this is the sentiment I must express: that in every life there are many firsts, and also many lasts, and all should be given equal merit and equal value. I mean, I won’t lie – I am jacked out of my ever-loving mind that 6AMs are over, as, I’m sure, are all the other seniors – but I will still look back on them fondly (perhaps as my memory fades and blurs away the pain) as I move on to a new phase of my life. And cherishing these firsts and lasts, of course, also means looking forward to the future: because having high expectations and true excitement is just as valuable as having tender thoughts of the past. Next semester, and next year, will bring with it many more novel and amazing moments and experiences: a brand new set of awesome course books (Animal Farm, anyone?); a whole new semester of games, and especially (knock on wood) playoffs; the return of a certain someone from a certain three-and-a-half-month adventure, whose arrival I can assure you will be greeted warmly; and, more than anything, a new year and a new set of faces and a new rising sun every time you wake up.
And so, I say to you all, Happy Holidays, and see you next year – enjoy spending time with your families, enjoy the snow (or the heat, if you’re so inclined), and most of all, enjoy every moment. Because holidays, especially Christmas, may be infuriatingly commercial at times, but they’re also a good reminder: to make, build, and keep those loving connections that you unconsciously foster the rest of the year. And that’s what I’ll be doing, in a mere matter of days: making, building and keeping my connections at home. With my family, of course; but also with my pillow, my coffee mug, and my fork – because family’s not the only awesome thing about Christmas.
Friday, November 27, 2009
It’s been a very strange and difficult week for me – as, I’m sure, it has been for many of us. Bernie’s memorial was exceptional: the videos, photographs, speeches, and most of all overwhelming attendance was an amazing spectacle to behold. At the same time as it brought us all closer and reminded us of our true values, however, his beautiful tribute left us all more than a little drained, over-stimulated, and emotionally fragile. As well, with our games having been cancelled last week, all of our schedules have been a little thrown off – not to mention, thousands upon thousands of words of papers, the growing panic of looming finals, and the general buzz of excitement and impatience as Christmas break fast approaches (but not quite fast enough). And so, I was probably a little less shocked than I otherwise would have been when I perused the athletics website this morning (Friday), inadvertently clicked on my blog page, and realized, oops – I hadn’t actually written one yet this week. Sorry, guys – that was 100% my bad.
In all honesty though, minor brain farts like this one are little stumbles that I’m more than willing to accept – in lieu of far bigger ones, of course. After all, I’m still getting all my papers written and handed in, making it to practice on time, and even occasionally achieving that little something extra. That’s right – I am officially jumping higher than I ever have before, recently managing to curve the tips of my second and third fingers over the top of the rim. I was so excited, I couldn’t believe it – until Langford handed Nayo a tennis ball and she loped across the floor, floated up to the rim and dunked it on her first attempt. An attempt which I, then, promptly failed – three tries in a row. Well, someone’s always better than you at something, I guess. And it’s always good to have goals. (Stupid rookies.)
That moment really made me think, though: everyone really is better than you at something, but that certainly doesn’t mean you have to accept mediocrity. I mean, I will never shoot three pointers as good as Buna, or Tindle, or Carly, or any of our guards, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t still practice mine for those rare moments when the clock is running down and I’m our only shot option left. And conversely, just because Nayo can jump out of the gym, doesn’t mean she shouldn’t keep working on getting higher and higher off the ground; after all, dunking a tennis ball is one thing, but I’ll be waiting impatiently for that moment (hopefully sometime in the near future) when we steal the ball, lob it up court for her, and she strolls casually underneath it, lifts off the ground, and crams it home in front of a packed West Gym.
I think the theme for our games this weekend, therefore, is excellence: that mediocrity is never an option, and striving for success goes much farther than simply playing to your strengths, but rather, pushing past them, getting farther, and excelling beyond your means. A couple years ago, Lani Gibbons showed us a video called “212: the extra degree”, about taking that one extra step further to be exceptional. In it, it explains that at 211 degrees, water is merely hot; but at 212 degrees, it boils. That same metaphor should be applied to everything in life, I think: it is only that one extra degree that makes the difference between average and awesome, and between ordinary and amazing; and we should all keep that in mind with regards to all endeavours we take, whether they are on the court or off. After all, no one wants to go to sleep at night, at least I know none of my teammates do, feeling like they didn’t give these last few games everything they had; and yes, I’ll be perfectly honest, I am a little jealous – and I really want to dunk that stupid tennis ball.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
It’s been a weird week for me: wind howling through my oven vent like a wild animal, rain moving parallel to the ground and pounding mercilessly on my windows, the three hour delay and baggage loss on the flight back from Brandon this weekend, that weird moment earlier in the week when I turned on my kitchen lights and three of them sneezed a shower of sparks and died – and so I found it even weirder when, due to a swine flu outbreak, our games this weekend got rescheduled to a beginning-of-December-and-middle-of-February-split. It’s so strange, in fact, I barely know what to do with myself: two whole days with no class and no practice? Really? And neither one of them is spent holed up in an airport, or hunkered down in a hotel, or crammed onto a giant bus ripe with the smell of stale pizza and stinky gym shoes?
Wow. Guess I’d better spend it writing papers.
What’s really weird for me, actually, is that the closer it seems to be getting to Christmas break – I only have two more papers and a take home final, and the corresponding classes and morning-and-exam-break-practices, before I get to go home – and yet the nearer that fateful day looms, the longer it seems to take to get there, and the harder it is to push myself out of bed each morning at the soft, sultry hour of 5AM. I’m managing to get through it and get things done, of course – the papers are handed in on time, and I have yet to receive an anxious phone call from someone informing me I’ve slept through my alarm – but everything just feels like it’s taking that much more effort than usual. My fingers on the keyboard, usually flying at near-warp-speed, feel as though they’re straining through cold syrup; the chilly air of the gym before practice is just that extra degree more brisk than usual; and the laundry, and the dishes, and the vacuuming, and all other forms of domestic upkeep, seem to be falling by the wayside as my hobbit hole crumbles into mocking decrepitude and I just sigh and burrow deeper into my blankets.
In all honesty, though, this weekend’s break is probably the best possible thing – for me, and for all of us. Many of our girls are dealing with nagging injuries: ankles, knees, hips, and backs all will benefit greatly from an extra day of rest and recovery, and hopefully have us back in fighting form (or at least closer to it) once Monday once again rolls around.
As for me? I’m relishing it. True, I will probably spend the majority of it curled into a ball of sweatpants and blankets (I stubbornly refuse to turn my heat on – it has been off since January and I’m still holding strong), coffee mug close at hand as I stare, bleary-eyed, at yet another hulking mass of quotes and MLA citations, but that’s okay. As far as I’m concerned, productivity is not at its highest rate for me right now, and so the more time I have allotted to complete a task, the better – especially if that task is “Subverting Mechanized Society with Internal Organized Chaos in Sherman Alexie and Chuck Palahniuk’s Novels”. Yech.
Well, that’s all for this week: I’ve got papers to write (have I mentioned that?) and a well-deserved latte break fast approaching. And, though it seems to be slowing by the minute, I know time will continue to pass – as it always has – and winter break will eventually come. Until then, however, I shall remain, glued determinedly to my computer screen…
Oh, wait, is that a Friends mini-marathon? Sweet. Eh, this paper can wait a little longer.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Remembrance Day is a day of repose and reminiscence – it is a day to remember those we have lost as well as give thanks for what we have gained by their absence. Thousands of men and women fought and died in the World Wars so that we, in our modern society, could enjoy the things we often take for granted: independence, democracy, safety, and culture. Many of us, also, are touched more by this day than others – the trenches and battlefields have claimed our grandparents and great-grandparents, our great-aunts and –uncles, as well as those of our closest friends. Truly, November 11th is a day that collectively saddens and humbles each and every one of us – but even more so this year, when we were marked by the sudden and unexpected loss of yet another friend.
Bernie’s passing was a shock to all of us: he was a healthy, happy young man at the peak of his youth and vitality, and such a violent and senseless act was something that has shaken us all to the core. There seems no reasonable explanation for it – if “everything happens for a reason”, then the only logical reason could be chaos, because there seems nothing more unfair than the startling and bewildering news we all received on Wednesday morning. Bernie was kind, well-spoken and generous; he was as dedicated an individual as they come, and he was there on the field, choking back tears, when he led his team to their first victory in three years at the beginning of the 08/09 football season. He was a remarkable athlete, yet humble; he was kind, yet competitive; and it would seem that there was nothing he enjoyed more than playing football, and playing it well, thick in the midst of his teammates, coaches, and friends.
There really is no other way to describe his loss than utterly unfair. The good truly do die young, it seems – and the best of us are the ones that leave the biggest holes with their passing. There is no way to heal the gaping wound except to let time wash over it; and even then, all of us know that we will never forget – we will merely keep moving forward. It seems cruel, in fact, that the very next day, the sun still rises and the grass still grows; that the world hasn’t shut itself down in solemn mourning seems like a double slap in the face. But that’s the way it works, isn’t it: that no matter what we do, or how much we wish it, there is no way to stop the clock; and so, time will pass, second by second and minute by minute, and tomorrow will eventually come, and with each consecutive day we must still wake up and lace the pieces of ourselves tightly back together, and cling to each other for support in a time when the world just doesn’t seem to make any sense.
Bernie was taken from us too soon, and we grieve together as we mourn the tragic loss of one of our own. He was an exceptional young man with a heart of gold, and his presence will be sorely missed. Many of us will wear black bands on our jerseys this weekend; many more of us will post pictures, and notes, and heartfelt sympathies for Bernie, his family, and his friends. We will come together as a collective because that is the only thing we know how to do, and the only way we can truly honor his memory. Because, as night will still fall and morning will still come and time will still move forward, so will we: we will keep going, and keep striving, and keep persevering. And most of all, we will remember – we will, all of us, remember – because though we cannot fight the past, we can make sure that we never forget it.
We will remember.
R.I.P. Bernd Dittrich
1988-2009
Our Quarterback, Our Leader, Our Friend
Thursday, November 5, 2009
I won’t lie – life gets really difficult sometimes. Well, that is, I find it really difficult. 5AM wakeups (I know I say this all the time, but it deserves repetition – they’re that awful), hard practices, appointments, assignments, classes, and just the general humdrum of cooking, cleaning, laundry, and general maintenance… sometimes, all I can say is ugh. UGH. And with season in full swing, classes in session, and final exam prep already beginning, it’s rare I find a free moment – a free moment, that is, that shouldn’t really be filled with some other menial task that desperately needs to get done.
The nice thing about this sort of lifestyle, however, is that it’s forced me to not only strengthen my efficiency, but also rework my concept of prioritization. Yes, it would be lovely to just sit back on the sofa all day, watching reruns and working a larger divot into the cushions while the dishes went unwashed and the garbage rotted itself to oblivion, but it’s not that easy. (I mean, if nothing else, in an apartment my size undone dishes and un-removed garbage tend to stink the place up a lot quicker than in something larger.) But by the same token, while I would love to come home every day to a spotless abode gleaming with dustlessness and smelling sweetly of lilac Febreeze and lemon Pledge, the reality is that an immaculate living space is much less important than a functional one – and having something clean enough to live with, and live in, is far more necessary than something that looks like it’s being staged for potential buyers.
The same goes for cooking. Yes, I will admit – the occasional night I have made myself a gourmet dish of cottage cheese and fruit for dinner, or stopped at Subway on the way home – but it’s also important to remember to make a priority of myself and make nutritious (but quick) dishes that also taste good. In fact, it is food, I find, that suffers the most from my hectic schedule: why cook a fancy meal when there’s no one to impress but myself? Why bother having extra dishes to clean when I can just buy something packaged and then throw away the garbage? And why make myself morning eggs, despite my awareness of an athlete’s need for protein, when the box of cereal and jug of milk are right within reach and require so much less effort?
And, I’ll be honest, more often than not cereal is what I reach for (in the morning, that is), as is anything else that I perceive to be simple, fast, and easy. But past experience – including one not-so-fun bout with Type II complicated mono – has made me realize that when I’m tired, sore, and stressed out, food (and not coffee, though my heart tells me otherwise) is often the necessary solution for a renewed bout of energy (and just general body repair).
But, enough assertion – time for action. So, without further adieu, here are a few of my favourite (and super easy) recipes for when the going gets tough(er/est). (P.S. – they’re all really good for you.)
*Note: all recipes are done for two people. This is because leftovers are the next best thing to actually having to cook.
*Note 2: Credit goes to my mom for salmon. The rest are the result of experimentation (and the odd lucky accident).
Salsa Chicken:
Ingredients:
-two boneless skinless chicken breasts
-2 cups chunky medium salsa (or, for a variation, 1 cup bruschetta mixed with one small package herbed goat cheese; or, four tbsp lemon juice, 2tbsp rosemary, and 1 tsp each salt and pepper)
-tin foil
Preheat the oven to 350F.
Cut two pieces of tin foil each about the size of a piece of paper. Fold up the sides and put a tiny bit of the mixture in the bottom of each for the chicken breast to sit on.
Place each chicken breast on top of the mixture on a sheet of tin foil. Using a knife, cut a slit down the middle of the chicken breast so that your knife goes end to end but only about halfway through the chicken.
Divide the rest of the mixture in half and pour over each chicken breast. Pull the sides of the tin foil and roll and crush together to form closed pouches around each chicken breast.
Bake 30-35 minutes, or until the chicken is white all the way through. (The pouches keep moisture in, and force the chicken breasts to absorb liquid and flavour as they cook.)
Jambalaya:
Ingredients:
-one package long grain and wild rice
-two large cans tomato juice (or as much liquid as is required to cook the rice. Spicy is best here because it adds more flavour, but feel free to use plain.)
-one small white onion
-one each red and green peppers
-six to ten large white mushrooms
-half a bag of frozen cooked prawns
-half a link of spicy turkey sausage
-one can herbed tomato paste
-one larged can herbed crushed tomatoes (my favourites are chili pepper or Italian, or a mixture of both)
-2 tbsp Italian seasoning
-1 tsp dried red pepper flakes
-1 tsp onion salt
-1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Prepare rice according to package directions, except using the tomato juice instead of water to cook with. (This way the rice absorbs the flavour and is less bland).
Slice the sausage and drain the prawns and place in a sauce pan with the oil, tomato paste, crushed tomatoes, and spices over medium heat. Cook, stirring frequently, until the sausage starts to puff up in the middle of the slices and is the slightest bit dark around the edges, and the prawns are heated through.
Slice the vegetables and add to the saucepan. Cook until just soft. Drain excess liquid.
Add to the cooked rice and stir.
Simple Salmon:
Ingredients:
-two large salmon fillets
-1/4 tsp salt
-1/4 tsp pepper
-1 tsp dill weed
-1/4 cup fat-free sour cream
-2 tbsp coarse grain mustard (or Dijon mustard if you don’t like grainy)
-2 tbsp lemon juice
Preheat the oven to 350F.
Mix all ingredients except salmon in a small bowl. Place salmon over tin foil (this helps with cleaning), skin side down, on a baking sheet or in a baking pan. Coat both fillets with the mixture.
Bake at 350 for 25-30 minutes (depending on how big the fillets are), or until the fish flakes away all the way through to the middle and is not soft or rubbery.
Frittata
Ingredients:
-six eggs
-1tbsp milk
-1 cup fat free smoked ham, chopped (the ham steaks work really well)
-1 each red and green peppers
-1 small white onion
-6-10 white mushrooms
-2 medium tomatoes (I like Roma because they’re stiffer and have less liquid, but it’s your choice)
-1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
-1 cup light sharp cheddar, shredded
-1/4 tsp each salt and pepper
-1/4 cup powdered parmesan
Preheat the oven to 350F.
Chop the vegetables and toss with the chopped ham. Heat in a sauce pan over medium heat with the olive oil until the vegetables are about halfway cooked and the ham is heated through and sizzling.
Whisk the eggs, milk, salt and pepper, and parmesan. Add the vegetables and ham and half the cheddar cheese and mix.
Pour into a pie pan sprayed with Pam. Sprinkle the rest of the cheese over the top. Bake for 35 minutes, or until it has puffed up and doesn’t look wet anywhere and doesn’t jiggle at all when shaken slightly.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
As I walked into physio this morning before practice, I was greeted with a familiar sight. Bodies lay strewn across treatment beds, wrapped in a vibrant array of tapes, tensors, wraps, bands and heat packs. Legs and arms, purple and green with fresh and fermenting bruises, were capped with hands and feet pink and raw with blisters and crusted with tiny blots of dried blood. The room reeked of muscle rub and tiger balm, and the sound of creaking limbs and snapping joints echoed eerily off the walls like some sort of morbid morning music.
Yeah, that’s pretty much the standard around here.
It’s only two months in – our first league game is on Saturday – and already we’re beaten, bloodied and bruised the likes of which I haven’t seen in years. I, for one, have already partially torn a quad, rolled three ankles (two on one side, one on the other), lost enough blood to fill a small water bottle, and covered myself in enough bruises to paint a mural on the side of an office building. And I’m one of the best ones – in fact, so far our team’s collectively dealt with pulls, sprains, tears, tendonitis, stress fractures, flu and mono, and although this may seem like the short end of the stick, believe me, we absolutely couldn’t be happier.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Obviously mono is something we’d like to avoid completely, and certainly our little bout of influenza was less than fun – but we’re getting both kicks at the can as early in the season as we’re able, which is far more beneficial than dealing with them in the midst of league, or even worse, during playoffs. And as for the blood, bruises and bumps, heck, we’re practically celebrating them – because it means that we’re knocking each other around hard enough in practice that no one else should be able to do it to us in games.
And, I have to admit, this is one thing (of many) that I’m exceptionally thankful for: that sport has taught me the difference between being hurt and being injured. I mean, who else but an athlete can walk into a physiotherapist’s office and say, “Hey, can you tape up this broken finger for me because I have to go to practice”? That’s not to say, of course, that it’s all brawn and no brains – that is, despite our abnormally high pain thresholds, we are also acutely aware of our need for rest, maintenance, and recovery, and we certainly know when we need to sit out – but I think one of the best things my teammates can say about each other is, if any of us really wants to play, well, despite all odds, we will work and we will find a way to do it. After all, for many of us (more than we originally expected), the 09/10 season is going to be our last one ever – and woe be to whomever it is that thinks that a broken finger, or a rolled ankle, or a little bit of flu, is going to keep us from lacing our shoes (and ourselves) up and getting right back on that hardwood.
In fact, that’s kind of been our ‘theme’ the last few weeks: that if we beat the heck out of one another (within reason, of course) every day in practice, then there’s no physical burden another team can lay on us that we haven’t already seen. Memorial, for example, was an exceptionally physical team – but we focused our energy on offense rather than taking offense, and on defense rather than defending ourselves, picked each other up off the floor and kept on fighting through the full 40 minutes. And Windsor, also, was no exception – small, but feisty, quick and quick to hit back – but we decided that the fight wasn’t won merely by who hit hardest, but instead by who hit first; and after a humbling, and enlightening, Saturday night game we came back doubly determined to strive for success on Sunday.
And it is this very same attitude – that we fight hard, and as a collective – that we are bringing with us this weekend. It will be two more incredibly tough games, against big teams with strong skill sets, and we’ll need to bring our A game if we want to walk away unscathed. Well, unscathed, perhaps, is the wrong word, because I think we’ll get beaten up. In fact, I know we’ll get beaten up – we’ll limp home with more bruises than ever before (if that’s even possible), drag ourselves to the physio room and press balm to our wincing war wounds in the hopes that they’ll heal before Monday’s practice. But if we do things right, stick within our skill sets and focus on our goals, and most of all refuse to be pushed around, then I truly believe we’ll have success – blood, sweat, and tears included. And so, when we set foot on the island on Saturday, I’ll be excited – to see ghouls and goblins and vampires and werewolves and all manner of holiday mania. And I’ll be thinking, lucky for our opponents that it’s Halloween today…
…because they certainly have reason to be scared.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
I think I would consider myself somewhat indecisive.
Okay, very indecisive. In fact, I couldn’t make a decision to save my life. I think at least a good 60-plus-percent of my vocabulary is made up of “I don’t know,” “I don’t care,” or “Doesn’t matter to me.” Don’t get me wrong – I can make necessary and important choices, I’m far from completely hopeless – but ask me to form a strong opinion on any sort of menial, day-to-day affair, and my response will likely be moot.
Choose a restaurant? No thanks. Pick an outfit? Fuhgeddaboudit. And those fancy ice cream places with, like, 50 flavours and 500 different topping combinations? Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. It’ll take me an hour just to decide on the type of waffle bowl.
In fact, I’m even indecisive about choices I’ve already made. Like, do I like morning practices? I don’t really know. I hate waking up at 5AM – it’s like physical pain for me – but I love having everything done and over with before most people have even started their day. I can schedule whatever appointments I want to and drink as much coffee as I want without worrying about tiring myself out for a 3:30 gym session. Except… going to bed at 9:00 at night, ¾ of the week, is no fun at all. So that one’s still up for major debate.
Or my major (to speak doubly). I love English, I love writing, I still want to be a published author someday… but the idea of using that tiny slip of paper as a pillow in my cardboard box bed still scares me a little. Or the fact that every single person who asks me what I’m taking assumes I’m going to be an English teacher… or that going into law with my English degree, assuming that’s what I’ll do, means another five years of school. Just for the basics. And yet… you really can’t get much better than a Monday afternoon lecture on Fight Club, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, A Clockwork Orange, and West Side Story. Really, you just can’t – they’re that good. Oh, but the aggravating subjectivism of essay scores… well, there’s good and bad in everything, I suppose (*sigh*).
Like living alone. I love having space – my own kitchen, with my own food, and my own bathroom with my own… um… bathroom gear? Anyways. My own bed with my own sheets and my own vacuum and my own laundry machines… it’s nice to be able to have control over everything (because as well as indecisive, I’m also more than a little Type A). But I still get jealous of people with roommates sometimes, and yes, on a regular basis: having someone to sit and watch TV with, having someone to eat dinner with every night and buy groceries with and help you clean up the house… and yet, all I have to do is imagine trying to fit just one more person into the tiny little apartment I have, all 500 square feet of it, and immediately I’m back to relishing space and craving complete solitude.
Truly, there are few things in life I am very sure of: I hate mornings, but I love getting things done early; I love English but, on occasion, the capitalist side of me disagrees; I love the scent of pink grapefruit and yet I hate the taste; I like being a hermit, but I still know how to get lonely. I suppose the real point to take from this, then, is that nothing in life is really a true yes or no – you can’t simply love something completely or hate it entirely, you just have to like specific parts and make those ones most important in your life.
And to me, as of this moment, I would have to say the most important part of my life is… getting through it alive. No, seriously; right now, my biggest focus – with midterms abound and practices hard as ever – is to make it through to the next day healthy, happy, and intact. And if that means making sacrifices – like sitting at my desk writing essays for three hours instead of taking a long-overdue nap on the couch – will make the next day easier to get to, or better yet, to get through, then I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.
Currently, I’m trying my best to apply that set of thinking to (wonder of wonders) basketball practice. What can I do today, or this drill, or this half hour, to get through to the next one and make it better? Can I go for one more rebound, if it means that we avoid doing sprints for missed box-outs? Can I put that layup up hard, instead of just tossing it in, so that maybe my team will have a better chance at winning the drill? Can I push through that one set of lines, deal with the pain quickly, and do it well so we don’t have to do any more? The answer to all of these, of course, is yes. I can do them, because I choose to do them – whether I want to or not. I choose to work hard, to get rebounds, to finish layups, and to get better – because it means improvement in the long run, and that is motivation enough.
I suppose the one true benefit, then, of my rampant indecisiveness – is, ironically, my ability to choose. I don’t know if I like morning practices or not, so sometimes it’s difficult to motivate myself – as such, I have to choose to motivate myself to do them or I lose all of the benefit. I don’t know if my English degree was a good choice or not – but I don know that I love what I’m doing, and day by day I have to remind myself of that so that I can choose to actually write those papers and not just tune out to a Sex and the City rerun and say, forget the whole thing. And I also choose to write this blog every week to tell you about all these desperately important life choices of mine – because, if nothing else, I have no roommate to tell them to instead, and you’re the next best thing. So, the next time you’re feeling confused, or indecisive, or noncommittal, just think of it like me: what smaller decision can you make right now to make the bigger one easier? Don’t know what restaurant to go to? Start brainstorming ones to knock off the list so that your choices are narrowed down. Don’t know if you want to write that essay right now? Look at all your projected tasks (work and pleasure) between now and the due date. Does another opportunity pop up? Or is now the time to get the deed done? And if you’re not sure what to write about, for a blog (just as an example), on a Wednesday night just before bedtime when all you can think about is sleep, just think about it this way: you don’t know what to write about? Well, perfect.
Just write about that.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I have to say I’m a big fan of the recent (that is, within the last few years) switch in trends from baby-doll t-shirts and short hemlines to tunic tops, long tights, and cute flat shoes. I’m finally able to fit into regular stores – but at the same time, every time a piece of clothing is long enough, wide-shouldered enough, or just straight up fits me, I still get a little thrill of excitement. And the same was true this past weekend, when my mom and I went shopping together: after finding a few things (multiple items, for cripes sakes) we liked, we decided on a smooth black dress with ¾ sleeves and a strappy back. As we went to pay, however, we noticed there was an issue with the tags – they’d been ripped in half and no one could read the price or the barcode. “Don’t worry,” the girl at the counter reassured me. “I’ll get someone else to grab it.” She gestured to another store employee and pointed at the dress. “Grab a barcode for this, will you? Oh, and get a size large.” She leaned in to me conspiratorially. “Sometimes the price goes up with bigger sizes.”
Umm… excuse me?
I was shocked, not to mention offended. At that moment, I was ready to simply say, “Never mind, I think I’ll pass,” and leave the offending item there – but I didn’t. And once I got to the car, I was convinced I should get back out and bring the bag back, still freshly folded and untouched, and return it right there and then. But I didn’t do that either. And when I got home, I checked the online store – which proved that no, in fact, the price didn’t vary by size. In fact, I couldn’t find a single item on the store’s website that did. Not even shoes. So was this girl really stupid? Or horribly misinformed? Or just really, really bad at retail marketing?
Either way, my outrage (now tempered) got me thinking. What is so bad about being tall? And why does this whole ‘size’ thing keep rearing its ugly head? Every time I start to think that society has moved on – that, at long last, a 6-foot-plus person has become somewhat less of a spectacle – something like this happens. And to be honest, I hate complaining about it, too – because I hate it being something I have to complain about. You can make an eleven and sell it to Payless – why can’t you make a twelve? You can make size 38 length jeans for men – why not women? And why, when I go to the store and all the size larges and most of the mediums are sold out, do you continue to pad your shelves with stacks upon stacks of extra-extra smalls?
I suppose I’m just sick of feeling like someone my size has to live on the ‘outskirts of normal’. I’m not seven feet tall, just six – I’m not a giant, I’m just far from short. And I’m really sick of some people, and especially those people that run and stock clothing stores, making me feel like an oversized freak,
And, conversely, I’m also very grateful – to parents that put me in sports from a very young age, so that instead of becoming a too-tall, too-clumsy, too-big adult, I can actually make functional use of my body (and I’m only clumsy in private, for the most part). Were it not for sports, I wouldn’t only be big, I’d be big and gangly, or big and clumsy, or big and awkward. Basketball has made me into someone that’s not only capable and (somewhat) confident, but actually functional; I understand my size, its benefits and detriments, and I’ve pretty much come to accept it. And now, everyone else just has to as well.
I mean, seriously – I’m getting really sick and tired of… well, not just the complaining itself, but of having any sort of reason to complain. I don’t walk around with a chip on my shoulder, cranky at life for making me so statuesque; but it still does bother me that, in a world with so many other people my same height and even taller, people – namely retail clothing companies – make it so hard for me to look decent And so, I ask you this: stop treating me, and every other person that takes a long pant or a big shoe or a size large shirt – like we’re in some far, unreachable extreme. We’re not. In fact, I would be more concerned if all of those XXS shirts were flying off the racks and the mediums and larges were still there, because it would mean that your sizing chart was way off and you were catering to a demographic that didn’t really exist. Well, I’m here to say, I – we – do exist. And we wear clothes, and buy shoes, and shop at regular stores – so treat us like we do. And I’d better not hear boo about size-graded pricing, or I’ll tell you one thing for sure: I’m returning that stupid dress.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
If there’s no rest for the wicked, as the saying goes, then in the last couple of weeks, I must have done something terribly heinous. Like, utterly deplorable. Unforgivable even. Because I am EXHAUSTED.
Understandably so, of course – October has started, papers and homework assignments are in full swing, and now exhibition games are beginning – but somehow, it’s always a bit of a shock to me just how utterly draining it is to live my life every day. There’s the 5AM wakeups, the 300-plus-page novels, the gradually increasing number and size of papers, the workouts and groceries and laundry and just day-to-day things to do… and now we’re tossing in a handful of exhibition games, against increasingly more difficult opponents. All I can say right now, is… thank god it’s almost Thanksgiving. Because I honestly don’t know how much longer I can last.
Honestly, as far as Thanksgiving goes, the food isn’t even that big of a deal for me. I’ve walked through change rooms and down hallways and across campus for over a week now hearing nothing but the drooling wishes of homesick people: of turkey and herbed mashed potatoes, family recipe gravy and thick slices of pumpkin pie, caramelized onions and cheesy broccoli… and honestly, none of it appeals to me. Well, that’s not true. It does appeal to me. In fact, it all sounds delicious. But what really sets my mouth watering, far more than any homemade holiday dinner can, is going home to my parent’s house and just getting some bloody REST.
All I can think of is my big, warm, comfy bed, thick with pillows and heavy blankets, and diving into the middle and burrowing away until Christmas like a hedgehog in a pile of wood shavings. I want to curl up with my dog and nap; I want to drink hot chocolate in the living room and doze; I want to go to sleep early with a full belly and not wake up until… well, at least cripes sakes, after it’s light out. When I’m awake, all I think about is falling asleep – and when blissful unconsciousness finally hits, all I dream about is staying in bed until the snow has already melted away for another year.
In all honesty, though, it’s probably a good thing that I’m so utterly drained. If I wasn’t feeling this way, it would mean that I wasn’t pushing myself to the breaking point, which would also mean I wouldn’t be working hard enough. If my quads and hamstrings didn’t burn and my chest and shoulders didn’t ache with fatigue (or, like right now, if my calves didn’t throb with the tightness of rebounds, fast breaking, and a new full court press), then I wouldn’t be putting all of my effort into this last year, and no matter how we finish it would mean that I would be disappointed. After all, this is the last chance I get at this – so giving it less than 100% would not only be counterproductive, it would be lazy. Why wouldn’t you sprint the last meter just a little bit harder than before? Why wouldn’t you push yourself in the bog to lift something just that tiniest bit heavier? And why on earth wouldn’t you bear down, grit your teeth, and say, this is it: I don’t get another warm-up round. It’s time for the big show, and I’d better put on a performance that’s worthy of being witnessed.
And so, I leave you once more. I’m tired, I’m sore, and yes, I’m a little bit cranky – so (for this week at least) I’m packing it in and going to bed. And when my alarm goes off at 5AM, I won’t pretend that I’m going to like it – but I’m going to get up anyways, because that’s what I’ve trained myself to do. And besides, only two more early mornings before Thanksgiving – and then I get to start the countdown until Christmas.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Change is difficult, or, at the very least, complex; change is the only thing that is constant, that happens all the time, and yet change always seems to be the last thing you expect right before it jumps up behind you and shocks you with its arrival. In most senses, shifting and movement and differentiation are all good things (variety is the spice of life, after all), but lately it just seems like things are more revolutionary than evolutionary, that building on past experiences has become a violent scramble to keep the pieces stacking neatly, and that the old rolling stone, far from softening and fermenting with mossy inactivity, has reached a dangerous sort of velocity and is rumbling madly along far off its previously intended track.
Overblown metaphors aside, for many – if not all – of us, the arrival of autumn and all it brings has been received less excitedly this year than in the past. So many things are changing that we, certainly at the beginning of our careers, never expected, the most notable of which is the shift of SFU Athletics to the GNAC conference of the NCAA. And it is a move, also, that seems to have come so much more rapidly than any of us expected, bringing with it new legislation, a brand new rule book, and yes, a new cap on the eligibility of all but a handful of our players.
And so it seems, readers, that my third year of blogging will now be my last – since for myself, as well as three other fourth-years, senior status has set its sights on us a season sooner than we supposed, and far from merely prepping for our penultimate playing period, we’re now collectively hammering the home court hardwood for one last harrowing, heart-wrenching time. It is, I admit, a hard concept to grasp – having to identify oneself as something other than ‘varsity’ or ‘a basketball player’ a whole year earlier than previously expected – but what I won’t admit to, disappointment and unfortunate circumstance aside, is a defeatist attitude. I believe I can speak for my fellow new seniors, as well as everyone else on our team, when I say that success is not something you have handed to you, nor is character built in any other manner than by staring stoically down the gun barrel of hardship and adversity. Our lives are changing, and while they are doing so sooner than expected, change would still have happened to us eventually – and the only thing we can do, and the only thing we have been doing since training camp started a few weeks ago, is waking up at 5:00 AM every morning and lacing up our shoes as per usual. After all, there’s no better way to solve this dilemma than to take it on the chin and get to soaking our red and blues with all the blood, sweat, and tears we could possibly have left to give.
And so, without further adieu, we’ve been thrust into the thick of it once more. We’ll be playing exhibition games this week already, and the week following, and the week after that; and then season will start, and we’ll begin the first round of another long fight to try to win one more championship for the tartan team. We are sprinting faster, jumping higher, and pushing each other harder than we ever have before; we are deadlier shooters, stronger post players, and more harrowing defenders than we were any time before this. We are more focused, more motivated, and more determined; we are realistic, but not fatalistic; we are adjusting but have never lost sight of our goals. But, don’t let me tell you these things: see for yourself. Because when Windsor, or Lewis and Clark, or anyone else for that matter happens to set foot on SFU turf, they had better be ready for a fight, because we will certainly be prepared.