Competitive pressures begin in the off season. The determined and committed athlete will devote themselves to build, improve and prepare both body and mind for the next challenge. Old injuries are overcome and past disappointments are pushed away. Age, our consummate enemy, is kept at bay another year. All off season pressures endured by an athlete are self imposed.

The preseason period imposes new strains upon the athletic psyche. The Continue Reading…

This story is dedicated to Al, Ron, Harry J., and all of the great coaches that I known.

The Parent "The next time I recruit a team, I'll do it in an orphanage..."  Every youth basketball coach has quietly uttered those words or a similar expression, at least once in their career.

Whenever basketball coaches gather at tournaments,... Continue Reading...

Sunday morning in Whitby, Ontario may mean many things to my fellow suburban citizens. Frantic scrambling to get to the youth hockey arena, religious worship, or pure sloth, deserved or not, are common. When our underachieving girls' basketball team is not at some athletic outpost for a weekend tournament, my early Sunday begins with the hefting of... Continue Reading...

My gold pocket watch is an anachronism. It is as cutting edge as an electronic typewriter or as snail mail. A cell phone tells better time, sleek and graceful, with gigabytes of ring tones and video. The heavy watch in its place of honour represents a time before retro with the telling of analog stories as the graceful hands sweep the ivory face. The... Continue Reading...

"I did this," says Memory. "I cannot have done this," says Pride remaining inexorable. Eventually, Memory yields. –Friedrich Nietzsche

I have never warmed to the works of Nietzsche. I remember his name being tossed around like a poker chip at some of the university student parties I attended, long ago. The Philosophy students there could... Continue Reading...

In September of 1977, I had commenced my first year studies at Scarborough College, the University of Toronto’s less fashionable eastern outpost. At 18, my self-assessment as to my talents had not yet been hammered into final form by the grim blacksmith of experience – I confidently believed that most things were not only possible, they were entirely... Continue Reading...

I was never a boxer. If you have no desire to get hurt or if your pain threshold is limited to the normal function of the peripheral nervous system, boxing is a poor athletic choice. My friends feign amazement when I tell them that I never boxed. They laugh as they wonder how my face, one made for radio, acquired such character without being punched... Continue Reading...