"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Such a phrase is never stated, nor proclaimed. It is only uttered. In those instances where I’ve had to employ it, invariably, I’ve been well within the state of reckoning, near its capital city, flaccidity. Typically, too, it’s at the wrap-up stage of a long, convoluted tale, but one not without interest.
Common elements include vast insight and divine wisdom, with the promise of unfathomable fortune. Truth be told, there’s the odd mishap, and, on occasion, the outright flame-out. A big game is often involved, as are some key contacts — a ticket scalper, a couple of lawyers, and a doctor — scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper, stuffed in one’s pocket.
A stellar half-dozen such escapades and episodes quickly come to mind.
From 1984, I’ve some vague recollection of a plane ticket for Chicago, given the certainty of a terrific Tigers-Cubs World Series, spoiled, when the Padres, down 0-2 in the National League’s Championship Series, inconceivably won three straight from the Cubs, extinguishing that ticket. In 1996, I spent all the winnings and then some in a celebratory splendour precipitated by a $100 bet on 15-to-1 underdog, Evander Holyfield, versus Mike Tyson, that my ‘agent’ travelling to Vegas assured me he’d wager so, but didn’t.
Then, there was the snapping-up of three single ‘blues’ for the Red Wings, returning with former Toronto goalie Curtis Joseph, for a match-up versus the Maple Leafs, in 2002. My deductions had determined that the demand would be delirious, turning my three ‘blues’ into a tidy profit and a brilliant pair of reds, for myself and grade-school son. This no-doubt certainty was decisively derailed by the FAN 590’s declarations every 20 minutes for the balance of the afternoon, and well into the evening, that Cujo wasn’t starting. I sold one of the singles for half what I paid for it, then missed the bulk of the game having to keep my eyes glued to my kid in the opposite corner of the voluminous ACC.
Truly, sports fandom is a precarious pastime, fraught with the risk of emotional trauma and rife with fair expense. Countless books have been written, doctorate-level studies exist, psychiatrists’ couches are worn. The base root of the matter is one’s team must win a championship; imperative it is, then, that one must be there when they do.
Now, on the north side of age 50, with everything else headed south, there’s some sense of urgency in said quest. This, especially so, given the ‘O-fer-29-years’ Montreal Canadiens combined with the ‘O-fer-43’ Peterborough Petes. Thank God for the distraction of those ‘O-fer-55’ Maple Leafs, although I do tactically incorporate them when the added ballast (127 years total) better justifies the bombast behind some scheme’s case.
With 31 teams in the National Hockey League, and a sizable 60 in the Canadian Hockey League, long are the odds of either of my teams winning. This fact was outlined candidly to me by my sports therapist, Dr. Rueth Wrye, concerned that such angst, and the associated antics with it, might impair my health, “though more likely your marriage.” Seeing me sag, she gently suggested a more sedate pastime, “such as stamps, as in collecting.”
With my eyebrows arched halfway to the ceiling, Dr. Wrye, unfortunately, mistook this for interest. Belying her normally grim demeanour, and with heretofore unseen enthusiasm, she added gayly, “It’s wonderfully academic. You’d be a philatelist. Imagine your resume! Why, it would open up a new circle of friends with soirees, where there are spritzers around fine offerings of canapes and pate.”
In the echo of her, “It might keep you out of the taverns,” I asked her, “What’s a canape?” but, when I pronounced it more like “canoe,” adding a “P“ somewhere in the middle, kind of like “can,” with “ape,” she instantly tuned in that I wasn’t engaged, and I feared she might snap.
She straightened up and toned it down, reverting to her rigid way. Then, speaking in a manner with some malice that was in no way minced, “This infatuation of yours with the foamy and the fermented, you know, it borders on demented. Have you ever considered food?”
I let that go. I was kind of hungry. She was trying hard, and I liked her.
Then, with her composure fully restored, she cautioned clinically, “The ‘highs’ experienced by the serious philatelist will likely be comparatively lethargic to your teams winning, though this better suits the blood pressure issue. Conversely, the ‘lows’ of a philatelist, at their worst, will be mildly middling, less dangerous than the depths of depression when your teams are losing.”
While there was a modicum of merit in her message, in the tenseness of the moment, all I could manage was, “Duly noted,” and I departed.
Now, all that said, and the odd catastrophe aside, on occasion, some of these aforementioned, preposterous presuppositions do pan out with precision.
Seventeen years ago, Sidney Crosby was that day’s Connor Bedard, and the 2005 Memorial Cup’s highly enticing draw. However, this was inconspicuously so, some months in advance, well before the three leagues’ worth of March-April playoffs would determine the May tourney’s participants.
It was at such a point that I innocuously lofted a query as per a pair of tickets for the then seemingly mundane “QMJHL Winner at Host.” Few knew, including the gregariously generous beer baron to whom I broached this minor matter, that that contest most certainly would be the Rimouski Oceanic, with their star centre, Sid, versus London’s Knights, the tournament’s host, and, of all places, at the beer baron’s Budweiser Gardens.
I’m now in the midst of another such matter’s moment.
With the Petes having loaded up with a ton of top-flight talent at the OHL trade deadline on the 10th of this month, I laid awake all that night reworking their line combinations, after having revamped their power play entirely.
So swayed was I by my own propaganda, I capitulated totally to clicking that calamitous “BUY NOW” button, wholly dismissing the harrowing history had, whenever I’d done so. This, of course, was fine fun for a few beers and five phone calls, until the next morning when I awoke foggily to some intense vilification as per the verification of venues — Kamloops? Kelowna? Kenora? — inexplicably, I could not recall. Worse still was the clarification and cross-referencing of dates, these critical commitments, calendar-ically long carved.
Lo and behold, one day that dust and debris did settle. How surprising it all was when, suddenly, the course of action crystallized — a Memorial Cup ticket package, nine games in nine nights, Kamloops, B.C., in May. “Huh.” You see, there had been some confusion. I was accused of feigned sullenness as per overdue visits to family and friends in Victoria and Vancouver. Either way, that didn’t fly. Frankly, it flopped. Fabulously.
“But, I’ve always wanted to see Montana and Wyoming,” fared no better. In fact, it proved woefully weak in the wake of: “That’s fine. Why don’t you move there? How’s that related to 10 days of hockey in B.C.?”
Such blunt force was concussive, but, with a Herculean-like effort, on badly buckling knees, I called upon my inner Perry Mason, countering magnificently, “Fair enough, but clearly you’re forgetting the $1,000 I saved from Game 6 of the 2021 Stanley Cup final in Montreal, when Tampa Bay won the series in five.”
Such brilliance would normally carry the day, but it did not. Regrettably, I’d given the grand inquisitor some horribly, ill-timed grief over some $17 socks and a gingham garment of sorts, purchased at two-thirds off, the prior day.
Obviously, now, the primary objective is for the Petes to qualify for Kamloops. Failing that, fortunately, there’s the potential for Bedard, arguably the game’s greatest prospect since Sid, to get to the tourney, too, thus providing some insurance, that wildcard (“WHL winner at host/at QMJHL/at OHL”) factor critical to all such capers, should I need to bale.
If, fatally so, then a philatelist I shall be.
However strained our last session was, Dr. Wrye did give me a card for a neat little shop — the Northern Stamp & Coin Co., 90 Essa Rd., Barrie — that I’ve been clandestinely surveilling. Of note, it closes daily, and sedately, at 2.
I picked up the packet, pictured above, that piqued my interest, sparked an idea, maybe two. The card, those stamps, that crumpled piece of paper with the ticket scalper’s number — they’re all pinned together, just in case.
John Epstein is a former, 25-year Orillia business owner who left southern Ontario for the north years ago, and has never been back. He is now a freelance writer, whose column will appear monthly in OrilliaMatters. He can be reached at [email protected].
