Canadian Shield lakes are cold and fish lurk in their murk. How wonderful, then, that Roosevelt read Francis Bacon and that I watched Magnum PI. My knee bumps Something Unidentified. Weed? Rock? Submerged log? Trailing bit of half-rotted rope attached to an old buoy? I can’t tell. But maybe, …
They play, apparently, for the love of the game. That seems right—it’s the same reason we watch.
Negative patterns underlie many of the cautionary stories we tell. An inexplicable, random bad choice here or there—how unsatisfying, somehow, compared to a pattern of bad choices that signals a human frailty.
Game. Hobby. Recreation. Sport. Addiction. Golf is all of these and more. It is enticing, impossible, ridiculous, relaxing, impossible, invigorating, frustrating, impossible.
Those of us of a certain age remember—rightly or wrongly—a simpler time when skips called the game and everyone else pretty much did what they were told.
She shoots: she scores four. Not against all reason, but certainly against any reasonable expectation.
Someone wins, someone loses: that’s the format, all right. What we remember is how beautifully they played the game.
For more than 50 years I lived happily without hockey. Now, as I wait anxiously for the Sens to secure a playoff berth and agonize for our junior team, ambushed by the Russian army, it is clear that the national game has me in its clutches. Let my story be …