When I phoned a few of my editors to say there would be no column last week due to an arm injury, I was immediately riddled with guilt. I am, after all, the toughest SOB on the planet (light heavyweight division), a Zen master and lucky enough to have a few editors that have finally acquired a tolerance for my sports insight.
I deferred most of the real Riders' coverage to the esteemed journalists like Rod Peterson, who covers the team with pinpoint accuracy and a black and white take on the outcome of games with the occasional inside scoop on the players.
My biggest fear over the Grey Cup game was not the weather, or the widespread panic that overtook the weak and paranoid during the days leading up to the game in assuming Calvillo and company would blow us out of the water.
The genesis of my personal concern was that my middle son and seven of his delinquent pals from in and around Regina actually took a limo to the game and now that Heineken has introduced mini-kegs of draft beer they were traveling in a sleek black missile with a liquor license.
When was the last time you saw an RCMP constable pulling over a limo? That's right-they just assume it's Keith Richards in the back with an armful of groupies.
I finally reached my son later the week after the game and simply texted "are you alive or in some Edmonton prison for wanton hubris?"
My phone vibrated right away and he confirmed he was safe and sound and back in Saskatchewan, but that he needed to know the score of the game.He thought that hubris was the garlic spread used on killer baguette.
Moving on, fans have been known to party the entire week away during the festivities of the host city and then are forced to read the results of the score in column just like this one.
Not only did he come back with my heirloom fur hat and Sorels, but he only had to miss one day of work from the hangover.
Hollywood scripts are written from adventures like his, so providing that one of his buddies did some creative filming with their fancy cell phones I might be about to enter the realm of screen writing and unfortunately dump you guys for greener pastures.
The only real comment I have on the game is that Durant took a lot of late hits all season, many of them from me, and at the ripe old age of 28 his future is brighter than let's say a 22-year-old plumber with a drinking problem, or a one-fingered writer. Just by keeping it close, we have secured another off-season of Rider Pride and like every farmer I hang out with, there is hope.
As I pound away on my laptop with one finger and my left arm hanging limp like a zombie, I find myself strangely linked to Calvillo. Why did I have to confess my arm injury? Pushing a drunken Rider fan out of the ditch near Fort Qu'Appelle is the way of the good Samaritan and needs no glory attached to the fact that I suffer endless pain and have been forced to train my cat to tie my hiking boots for me.
Neither did we need to know Calvillo has a lesion on his thyroid, a tear jerking post-game confession is common to professional athletes who crave the limelight and consider their woes to be more troublesome than those of us mere mortals.Perhaps it was aimed to further enhance his status as a CFL star? Hey Anthony, you're now sitting with a rather modest 3-5 record in Grey Cup games and everyone on your street and mine has health issues that never warrant a nation-wide press conference.
I hope he gets healthy if only to allow us another chance to kick his rear end. Next year, his thyroid will be the least of his problems. The green and white bone bruises covering his aging body will make him wish he never beat us.
My own mother clings to life living on fluids, oxygen and memories, and we all have relatives and friends with MS or cancer and I even know a writer that just spent three grand at a local denturist and now can't find his brand new fake teeth. Save us the press conferences just get well so we can break your arms and legs with good clean hits.
Let's take these guys off their pedestals just for the off-season OK?
And pass the hat to send sniffer dogs to Odessa to find my damn teeth.
