Let Them Celebrate

The Canadian Women's Olympic Hockey team created (apparently) a whole heap of controversy, when after defeating their American counterparts, 2-0 on Thursday night, the ladies celebrated their gold-medal win.

After the medals were handed out, the players retreated to their dressing room. The excited fans filed out of the arena. This is where it gets real crazy, folks. The players went back out onto the ice, bottles of champagne and cans of beer in-hand, and continued their celebration. They posed for photos, with the aforementioned champagne and beer, and a few even pulled out cigars to grin down on, as they puffed out their proud chests after a memorable win.

Some media members, like Skip Bayless, a stuffy blowhard from ESPN, are treating this incident like the ladies dropped their Cooperalls and mooned the American team or clubbed a baby seal. He's basically calling the Canadian Women's Hockey team a disgrace to our country for "disrespecting the stage they were on"and that they're an "embarrassment to Canadians and little girls watching them".

I am an acquaintance of one of these Olympic hockey players. I know how hard she trains and the months of effort that are put into getting to this point in her career. I know the strict diet she must follow and the sacrifices she must make to stay in shape and stay focused. If she's lucky enough to reach the pinnacle of achievement in her sport with teammates that have essentially been family over the course of a lengthy lead-up to the Olympic Games - by all means - let your hair down out of your helmets.

In fact, the players waited until the arena was essentially empty before going back out onto the ice to have their additional fun. This was their time. They earned that moment. Enjoy it.

Some have taken a stab at Marie-Philip Poulin, who just so happened to score both goals in the deciding game. Ms. Poulin, who is 18 years-old and about to turn 19 in less than a month, was photographed with a beer can in her hand after the game. Oh my. I guess the arm-chair critics have never stepped foot into a high school weekend party in Anytown, Ontario or walked on the beach during spring break down south. These are the times I wince at the media's insistence on finding fault with anything that they perceive to be an ill towards society's accepted norms. Cripes, how's the view from the high-horse? Leave it alone. Don't bruise this achievement for those that deserve it most; the players.

I'm willing to bet, that tomorrow afternoon, whichever team wins the gold medal in the men's hockey final, that team will celebrate. They'll be laughing and cheering and hugging their coaches and teammates and posing for photos. Then the champagne will be uncorked and these grown men will chug a toast to their sensational win. It's a scene we've all witnessed before in numerous sports in countless different years. In the fall of 2007, I watched one of my favourite players from the Boston Red Sox dance in a drunken frenzy on the beer-soaked infield at Fenway Park, while wearing his boxer briefs and flip flops. Jonathan Paplebon is an eccentric, bubble-head but that season he was lights-out effective in the playoffs. When his team won the ALCS, he ran out onto the field and celebrated in front of a full stadium of fans, young and old, and they loved him for it. I didn't read or hear one criticism of his behaviour. Not one.

This is a double-standard and there's no getting around it. These female hockey players were criticized and scrutinized simply because they're women. That's it. There's no other reasonable explanation. Male athletes have celebrated their team achievements for generations. Women's hockey is still a relatively new sport, at the Olympic level. The novelty is still fresh, I suppose. I guess the stuffy old media just can't accept that women deserve to play hockey and excel at hockey, but heaven-forbid, they'd better not celebrate afterward. They had better quietly retreat to their dorm rooms and nod sweetly when a passerby congratulates them on the greatest night of their athletic lives.

I never thought I'd be on the same side as the Toronto Maple Leafs on an issue, but it appears that some of their players support the women's Olympic team's right to celebrate. Now THAT would be a novelty: a Toronto Maple Leafs' team celebrating a victory with champagne! As unlikely as that scenario may be - it hasn't happened in about 40 years and I can't see that trend changing any time soon - if the Buds ever do win Lord Stanley's cup, they had behave themselves afterward!

Tiger Talk

I've read a lot of columnists weigh in on Tiger Woods' 13 minutes of dialogue, last Friday morning. Some are calling him a changed man; someone who is well on the way to full redemption and forgiveness in the eyes of a formerly adoring public. Others are calling him robotic, a fake, a phony - that he attempted to look emotional in a last gasp attempt to improve his public approval ratings.

I don't think he has completely redeemed himself, but I also don't think he's a fake. I think he's humiliated. In a world where he has been able to control every last action that he makes, whether it be on the golf course, in a major sponsor's boardroom and well, even in the bedroom, Tiger Woods was finally forced to look vulnerable and weak. Those are two adjectives that have never described him previously.

I suppose I can understand the media's desire to report, discuss and dissect the tumbling life of the world's most famous athlete. I'm not one of them. I don't care how many women he slept with. It won't stop me from buying Gillette shaving products. I never would have bought a Buick, no matter who was hocking them. I can't really afford, nor do I really need, a $200 golf shirt. Tiger Woods is big business, whether it's selling cars, watches, sporting equipment, or gossip magazines. It's all about the dollars. It's all about the ratings. I get it - it's all business. Tiger is the richest athlete in the world today. He has made umpteen millions of dollars and in his shadow, his colleagues on the PGA Tour have made millions as well, because they compete in the same tournaments that Tiger shows up for. Trickle-down effect.

However, what Tiger does on his own time, should be his own business. Up until this fall, the man was private to a fault. He rarely gave interviews and never talked about his personal life. Unfortunately, when you are the most famous and most rich athlete in the world, your life ceases to be your own, when you do something like crash your car into a tree and sleep with numerous women that aren't your wife. Memo to Tiger: people were going to sit up and take notice. This world is full of cameras and microphone and cell phones. As much as you'd like to be able to conduct a personal life, where intimate details are off-limits to outsiders, it was never going to happen.

Now it's done. Tiger's is in rehab. He's admitted he's weak and needs guidance. He's apologized to just about everyone he's ever met apart from the clubhouse attendants at Augusta. He's putting golf on hold to re-evaluate his priorities and perhaps save his marriage.

I hope he can be left alone to do what he needs to do. The next time he re-emerges from his seclusion, it will likely to announce that he has completed the rehab and that he is recommitting to golf. Another media circus will ensue and once he does step back onto the links, driver in hand, it will be memorable, regardless of how he scores that day.

One thing this whole series of incidents has shown me is that Tiger Woods is not a machine. He is not without fault. He is not without frailty. He is human; well... away from the golf course anyway. He is vulnerable to temptation and to straying from what is considered acceptable behaviour. Despite the fame and the money and the access to just about anything he could ever want at the price of any dollar; he evidently wasn't content with the life he was leading.

As Friday morning's announcement showed us, Tiger Woods is not a comfortable public speaker. Everything he has ever spoken, aside from commenting about his golf scores, has been scripted. Think about it: commercials, endorsements, speeches at his foundation events.... all pre-prepared. All carefully thought out and presented neatly for consumption. This time, it was all about him and his problems and his exposed weakness. The slow, calculated sentences proved that was the most uncomfortable moment of his life. It likely made playing the 2008 US Open with a partially torn MCL feel like a walk on the beach in comparison. It appeared to be sincere, even though it was pre-prepared and that he had hand-picked those who were sitting in the room when he made his comments.

I don't really care what Tiger Woods does with himself off the golf course. Whether he attends church every Sunday morning, whether he has dinner with his kids every night, whether he gives half of his money to those in need, or whether he has one-night-stands with every Elliot Spitzer hand-me-down. It's his life and it's frankly none of my business.

I'm a sports fan and I'm selfish. I want him back on the golf course. I want him to return and dominate like he used to. I have never cheered a golfer from my couch like I did in 2005 when I watched him hit this shot at the Masters. It was the most unbelievable shot I've ever seen, despite one of the worst looking high-fives with his caddy! I think he's got a few more tricks in that golf bag. Let the man do his work, let him heal and take care of the crucial matters at his home. The sooner it gets resolved, the sooner we can go back to appreciating this once-in-a-generation talent. The past few months likely won't be forgotten by many, but at least they'll be dealt with honestly and put in the rearview mirror so that golf will once again become his safe-haven.

Olympic Guilt

I'm going to be completely honest. I'm harbouring a shot-glass of guilt.

I haven't watched one second of Winter Olympic coverage on TV.

I love sports. I love the passion and human interest that comes with sporting competition. I subscribe to Sports Illustrated and I've received their Olympic preview issue. I flipped through it, read a few passing pages then tossed it aside and looked for something else to dip into. I'm just not into this. I can't push that accelerator to the floor to get my interest revving. What's wrong with me?

I should have seen the warning signs back in August of 2008. The Summer Games in China were in full swing. Michael Phelps was tearing up the record books in the swimming pool while doing his best water-cannon impression. Apart from the odd cursory glance at the images on the front of the newspaper box on the nearest sidewalk, I never would have known the Olympics were even happening. At one point that August, during Olympic mania, my family had travelled for a summer break in Boston. It has become a favourite destination for this crew, as we can sample heavy doses of American history, heritage buildings wrapped around choking American commerce, fresh Atlantic seafood choices and of course, the gladiators with Louisville Sluggers at Fenway Park. Back at the hotel at the end of the long day on our feet, I'd flip on the TV to discover whether or not the Red Sox topped the Rangers that night. One problem for this narrow-minded viewer; I'd have to sit through endless recaps of what some 86 pound runner from Ethiopia achieved in the steeplechase and whether or not the U.S. mens basketball team could achieve their "win gold or nothing" expectations.

In December 2009, the Olympic Torch Relay came through my town. I was a member of the community task force that helped plan and deliever the celebrations. I worked endlessly with VANOC staff for the better part of the year, arranging logistics like road closures, parking, security, stage and tent locations, along with coordinating performers and sponsors. Heck, I even got to hold the torch in my hand. By the time that flaming stick left into that foggy morning, onward to the next location, I have to admit, I was relieved that life could return to normal, whatever that was.

Fast-forward a few months and the torch finally arrived in Vancouver, evidently with the aid of a soaking-wet Wayne Gretzky and a flat-bed truck. (didn't see it). I understand that a "luger" died during a crash on a test run. (didn't see the highlights). Kingston's Jayna Hefford scored six points in a Canadian women's hockey game vs. Slovakia. (couldn't help but stumble upon that one.) However, the remote control sits idle on the coffee table and I find other diversions to occupy my time.

The Olympic Games are a wonderful celebration of national spirit. They represent the pinnacle of individual and team achievement. They stir a simmering pride in not only those who participate but those who watch. I'm just not there yet.

Maybe I'm longing for the days when Wayne Gretzky wasn't such a corporate shill and dazzled fans with his skills on the ice and less so with his ability to advertise for a struggling North American car manufacturer. Maybe I'm stalling to "make time" to sit and watch the endless TV coverage. Maybe I'm soured by the corporate branding that's forced down my throat whenever I turn a corner. I live nowhere near Vancouver, yet every billboard, every bus stop, every blip on the TV, claims to be offering a product that's the "official sponsor the Vancouver Winter Olympic Games." So? Should I now switch to your brand of toilet paper? Should I drink that beer that I'm sure the new Canadian gold-medal winner in moguls enjoyed after his knees regained their spring? Is Jayna Hefford going to pound back a Quarter Pounder tonight? I'm not buying it.

I want to watch. I want to be interested. I love my country and I wish these talented athletes all the success they can achieve. On the other hand, I just can't bring myself to turning my couch into a stationary bobsled while panic-stricken VANOC officials order more snow to be helicoptered in to one of the warmest cities in Canada. I'll go back to biting my tongue now.

Survivor - Heroes vs. Villains

These days, pop culture seems to be rated in the following ways: something is “in”, it’s “five minutes ago” or it’s “out”. Many would argue that “Survivor” is definitely “out”. It’s the grandfather of reality TV. You know what? I don’t care!

This is the 20th season in the 10th year and all the players on this season’s show are people that have played the game previously. Some have played a few times. Some have won the million dollar prize. Some have met some excruciating ends to their time on the show. (Hey James, you’ve got two immunity idols, you may want to play one tonight!) The amusing (if not fascinating) element to this season’s collection is that most of the characters were so memorable and entertaining in their respective seasons, CBS brought them all back to compete in a mix this time! One team of “heroes” from seasons past, and one team of “villains”. Good vs. Evil. Sportsmanship vs. Treachery. OK, I’ll bite. It’s a fun premise, and I must admit, I’m still a sucker. It feels a bit like watching Raiders of the Lost Ark; it's a little dated, it feels like you’ve seen it all before and you have - but man, it still tickles you in all the right moments.

I’m watching tonight’s episode, and the characters are flown in by chopper to their beach in the South Pacific. Stoic host Jeff Probst stands them up, shoulder to shoulder in a cartoon-like cluster firing-line and explains to the rookie viewers why each contestant is on the tribe they’ve been assigned to. “Boston” Rob blurts out, in his now famous, sarcastic Back Bay drawl: “I’m a villain?” Classic. Love that guy.

Through the two-hour season premier, if you’ve watched the show for years, you find yourself feeling like you’re participating in some bizzaro high school class reunion. You know all the faces, you think you know all the stories, then someone walks away from the pack, the palms go up in front of mouths, and the conniving starts. It’s always a fun social experiment to see how this will all shake down and who is ultimately left standing at the end. It’s rarely who you think, and that’s a big part of the fun. This is a goofy novel that won’t let you skip to the last few pages to see how it ends; you have to sit through the whole shooting match.

Episode 1 gave us a reward challenge that featured a wrestling-rugby-type game in the sand that featured Stephenie’s shoulder popping out of place and Rupert breaking a toe. Calendar pin-up girl “Sugar” has her bikini top conveniently torn off in the tussle. Upon winning her Baywatch-audition-tape sprint to the finish-line, she turns and gives a middle-finger salute to the other team. Later on, "J.T." snapped a chicken’s neck with his bare hands. If the censors wouldn’t show us Sugar’s topless touchdown, they sure weren't going to let you see the Kentucky Fried Massacre.

It’s early. The tribes are already starting to fracture and break-up into smaller alliances. Poor Sugar - not only did she lose her top and helped lose an immunity challenge when the Heroes were so far ahead of their competitors, but she was also the first to be sent home from the game. We'll miss her tears. Heck, the teaser preview of next week’s show features Boston Rob walking in the woods and appearing to pass out! Man, don’t leave me now! We’re only one episode in! I was hoping he’d be around at least until spring break. See, now you know I’ll have to tune in next week to see what happens. And if you read to the end of this post, chances are, you probably will too.

Incomprehensible Suspect

Front pages, like the one staring back at me today, bruises my faith in humanity. Bruised, but not broken.

The Base Commander of CFB Trenton is accused of murdering two women, and assaulting others.

I do not know the victims. I do not know the alleged perpetrator of the crimes. What I do know is that when an unthinkable event like this occurs, in a sleepy, country town like Tweed, ON, you can’t help but step back and contemplate the blind faith we put in strangers. More specifically in this case, I examine the faith we have in the men and women whom one would only assume are above such illogical, inhumane behaviour.

I live in a neighbouring military city. Our Base Commander is among the most visible, most respected leaders in our community. The Base Commander’s influence and presence is not confined to the boundaries of the base. He leads charitable campaigns, attends civic ceremonies and welcomes potential new businesses to the neighbourhood. The leadership and dignity that is attached to that position is earned and justified.

I can only imagine the emptiness that must be permeating at CFB Trenton and in the surrounding area, when the news was revealed at the police briefing. Did he say Colonel? The Base Commander? It just didn’t register. It still doesn’t seem real.

I cannot fathom the terrible anguish and rage that must come with the discovery of a loved one’s alleged murderer. Further discovery that this person is someone that should be held to a much higher standard of accountability and integrity than the average citizen, causes mouths to drop even lower.

I’m an optimist. I want to believe that people are inherently kind and law-abiding. I am not, however, naive to think that there are occasions when a lone wolf will break from the pack. However, if what we are learning is true, in this case, I just grew a whole lot more protective of the people I love.

Undercover Boss

The Super Bowl has come and gone for another year, and although I enjoyed watching the game, despite my Pittsburgh Steelers sitting this one out, it was the program that followed that proved to be much more intriguing.

For weeks, CBS had been hyping “Undercover Boss” for the programming slot immediately following the Super Bowl. The premise is simple enough: a head-office leader of a major company disguises himself, changes his identity and goes undercover to examine the day-to-day operations at the lower levels of the business. In the first episode, Larry O’Donnell, President and COO of Waste Management, a $13-billion U.S garbage company, sorts through waste and recycling on a speeding conveyor, stabs at litter with a stick on a windy hillside and pumps out human excrement from portable toilets at an amusement park.

Despite reminding myself that viewers must tune into reality TV with a sceptical eye, I have to admit, the premise hooked me. O’Donnell, posing as “Randy”, a guy filming a documentary on entry-level employment, meets his daily new boss and follows them around through their daily routines, their trials and tribulations and even gets invited for dinner at a co-worker’s house after one day on the job. O’Donnell seems like an honest man, genuine in his feelings towards the people he interacts with on the frontlines. He discovers men and women with long-term health problems, excessively demanding or inappropriate working conditions, or financial burdens that threaten to force them to move out of their homes. Heavy stuff. How will this masked, corporate suit react to the discoveries he makes? Will he check out of his roadside motel and return to his Tiffany cufflink lifestyle after his week at waste-truck fantasy camp? Will he pay the random subordinates’ stories the obligatory lip-service around the upper-management boardroom table or will action be taken? The viewer is lead to believe, through a series of captions across the screen, that the five people O’Donnell has interacted with, have had their grievances addressed, been reassigned to more life-affirming positions within the company and/or have been given promotions and raises.

This is a pleasant, tidy, scripted ending to the program and you want to believe the positive message that the big bad COO is a changed man, after one week of sorting trash and scrubbing a porta-potty floor with a brush. But is it too tidy?

I know the editors of the program want the experience to resolve itself with hugs from the coworkers and tears of joy, but as interesting as the concept might appear, I couldn’t help but think of the thousands of people working for this company who also likely deserved attention from a superior, who likely work in worse conditions for less pay and have no hope of the COO of the company helping them dump Mrs. Jones’ trash in to the back of their truck. Will O’Donnell be held accountable for these on-the-job deficiencies he’s discovered - items that can be addressed company-wide and will he and his corporate management team be held accountable to make sure some changes are implemented? Or have I just watched the latest, brain-numbing reality TV slop that amounts to just another bad aftertaste in the cafeteria that has become network television?

I want to believe in it, but I can’t invest in it emotionally, as the show participants seemingly want us to do. That might be possible if the Waste Management story-line could be extended to more than one episode, as the audience observes the slow changes falling into place at the work-site. Unfortunately, it wraps up into a 60-minute happy meal and its almost as fulfilling.

According to the preview, next week is a look at the behind the scenes exploits at a Hooters restaurant operation. After literally scraping the bottom of a latrine in its debut, one can only wonder what “Undercover Boss” will expose about the ladies in the orange shorts and their everyday travails. I’m sure the Hooters big boss will be undoubtedly shocked to his very soul, or so we're lead to believe.