I might have been dreaming of killer bees, but it was just the Molson Indy insinuating its way in my dream. From Friday to Sunday the incessant insect-like high-pitched hum of race cars scored the backdrop to my days. I remember this time last year I was sitting on a streetcar and this hirsute and heavy homeless man who smelled like Stilton was standing over me and cussing a blue streak. When he finished his rant , he began exfoliating his hands by rubbing them together and saying: "Paul Tracy, do you think he's gonna win?" and then answering himself: "He may."
I might have mentioned that I live across from a park and how lovely that is. This weekend it was appropriated by Nike and some basketball shootout. The throbbing hiphop music and the overzealous announcers frayed the nerves of each of us. Tilo, the lighweight sumo wrestler from the apartment across was calling Nike while Mary, the 70-year-old Southern belle was pacing the front of the apartment regally, vowing to give Trinity-Spadina mpp Joe Pantalone a piece of her mind on Monday.
Hey I played Ulitmate Frisbee yesterday with Chris and Helen and Abi and Dave and - oh - lots of other people who were far more athletic and coordinated than I am genetically predisposed to be. But oh, it is was a big step, gentle reader, in getting over my pathological fear of team sports. Running up and down the field like a border collie, getting beet-red in the face: the body need it, I think.