Saying Goodbye to Canada

"Oh, Canada."

When you read those words, how do they play out in your head?

1) As a statement of surprise and delight, as in "Oh, Canada. You look quite nice in that tank top. I wasn't aware you worked out."

2) Like you just bumped into your sociopath ex-girlfriend, Canada, while boarding a cruise ship for two weeks: "Oh. Canada, Long time no see. So, you're here by yourself? Great." 

3) Most likely, you hear the opening line to the Canadian national anthem: "Ohh, Caaaaanadaaa." I know you're singing it right now. When you do, are you able to keep going? I always try, but I can only make it to "our home and native land...," then just trail off in my typical crude, West-Seattle-tinged growl. Maybe I'll try to learn it this weekend with the help of the internet. I figure if I take half a day to learn it on Saturday, I can know it for the rest of the day on Saturday prior to having no recollection by Sunday morning.

America's Hat. The Great White North. Land of Milk and Hockey—I love Canada. I'd think we all do, especially up here in the PNW, where many of us have been crossbred like Labradoodles with our cousins up yonder. They are us and we are they, eh? This entire region might as well be called Vancattle. Okay, maybe not.

Sure, there are differences. When it comes to branding, Americans prefer the fierce, majestic bald eagle to the benign yet attractive maple leaf. Canadian citizens own 35 firearms per 100 people, whereas Americans possess 120 guns per 100 residents, so while the Canadians could beat our ass with a snow shovel if they had to, chances are they wouldn't shoot us. 

For me, the relationship is complicated. My first trip to Canada as a kid was as part of a soccer exchange program between my local soccer club and a league up in BC. Along with my teammates, I was left with a randomly selected Canadian family overnight. The following day, we were reunited with our hungover parents, who then watched as we played an international friendly against our new pals (Note to future soccer parents: Never use the word "leave" or "left" with your eight-year-old, especially a month before the abandonment takes place. They'll immediately stop listening to whatever lame sales pitch you're attempting and worry about it from then on.). 

The family I stayed with was nice enough, except the house smelled like Vienna sausages and the mom kissed me goodnight. Following her unwelcome gesture of affection, I tried to sing myself to sleep with the lyrics to the Partridge Family's highly underrated second album. But alas, sleep eluded me until the wee hours of a murky British Columbian morning. Later on, I had an absolute shit soccer performance and represented my homeland shamefully against the Canadians due to a profound sleep deficit. 

Even so, a bond with our funny-sounding continent mates had been cemented, only to become bolstered over time. During my musical awakening, so much great stuff was oozing down from the north, from Joni Mitchell to Rush, from Triumph to Alanis Morissette, The Tragically Hip, Sarah McLachlan, Neil Young and Nelly Furtado. Canada had infiltrated my DNA. 

During my early adult years, I took several trips to Vancouver with my friend, John. We drank, spoke in Scottish accents to each other (his parents were from Scotland) and had our ears pierced. And who knows, I may have smoked a Player non-filter or two and purchased a Sex Pistols album that was only available north of the border. 

Our northern junkets tapered off as we grew older and formed other relationships, but I always believed someday John and I would head back up, we'd take one last trip for old time's sake. Like most of us folks looking down the backside of the mountain, I've always welcomed the opportunity to recapture a smidge of the youth that seemed to have evaporated so quickly. To my profound regret, this final, awesome, hilarious trip to Canada with John never happened. Now it can't.

Yesterday, I learned that my company has immediately ceased its operations in Canada, which includes both the online presence and 13 stores. Most people know where I work since I've been there so long, but if you don't, it's a major fashion retailer based in Seattle. The Canadian business accounts for a small portion of total sales, but it hit me so much harder than I would've thought. 

Maybe it's my strange introduction to the country or my crazy trips with John. Maybe it's my worries about job security or my age or this aversion to change that seems to go with it. Whatever the case, loss never seems to get any easier. 

Love you, Canada.

A day with my kids: This is it.

My kids and I spent an enjoyable day together yesterday. It began with my older daughter and I coaching my younger daughter's indoor soccer team, the Blue Fire. During the second half of a hotly-contested match, Lauryn wound up and fired off a shot from half court, about two feet off the ground, directly toward the goal.

It scorched the back of the net. She had just scored her first goal of her soccer career, from about twenty yards out.

Since I'm the coach, I have to demonstrate a little composure out there. You know, can't play favorites, and I suppose that's why, after Lauryn's goal, I had to jump around and scream like I was on Family Feud every time someone on our team scored. Got to cover my tracks.

After the game, flush with fatherly pride, I took my daughters out to dinner. My wife had retreated to her classroom to catch up on some work, and I tend to spoil the kids, and myself, in these situations. The restaurant just happened to be conveniently located a stone's throw from a place which offers a dessert called "The Blizzard," so we celebrated America's many unhealthy food choices by swinging through the drive-through for a little helping of mud pie heaven.

The plan at this point was to return home, switch on the TV, and tune into some trashy reality show, like We Live in a Cake or Furry Millionaires on Four Legs or I Sleep on Pizza Boxes. Unfortunately, none of the evening's offerings met our high standards, so we decided to rent This Is It, Michael Jackson's swan song documentary of his last rehearsals before the shows that weren't to be.

I loved this movie. I know, like everyone else, about his strange personality, his checkered history, his odd behavior. But as a performer, as a musician, no one tops him. His charisma seeped right through the screen. Michael is probably the single musical artist about whom my daughters and I can agree. He hadn't really released any hit material for the past twenty years, yet my kids seemed to know so many of his songs; we all sang along, surprised that each knew the words.

He sang, danced and conveyed himself with such vigor, it was hard to fathom that these were his final days. Lauryn reminded me that he had a serious drug problem and that his doctor had been charged with "Manslaughtering."

I recommend this movie to anyone who craves nostalgia. I recommend spending a day with your kids to anyone period.

Coaching tweens: one man's struggle

I can't really get a read on these people.

They're referred to as "tweens," but they're actually a compilation of almost every year of their lives from zero to ten.

I've signed on, yet again, to coach kids' indoor soccer. This time, it's a gaggle of eight- and nine-year-old girls, including my daughter. We practice every Thursday night in an archaic, dusty elementary school gym, where the parent-spectators hug the sides and try not to get nailed with an errant line drive to the chest.

We are the Blue Fire. I guess that's a good team name, since it implies scorching hot play, so hot that it's...blue? My teenage daughter is the assistant coach, and it's a good thing, because she handles the warm-up exercises and plays good cop to my impatient, old school bad cop. Every practice, she assembles the kids into a circle for stretching, but before long, about half the players are just sitting, cross-legged, chatting. Here's an example:

Teenage assistant coach: "So...how was everyone's day at school?"

Player #1: "It was good. I got in trouble yesterday. It was my fault, but it wasn't my fault. You know what I mean?"

Teenage assistant coach: "Oh, yeah. I know what you mean."

Player #2: "I got in trouble, too."

Player #3: "I got in trouble, too."

I watched the girls as they sat and talked. It seems like girls this age are just a bit off in their appearance. They're all really cute and bubbly, but their hair always seems a little stringy and oily; their shoes aren't usually tied all the way.

A few of them wore their shin guards on the outsides of their socks, and it reminded me of a kid I knew in seventh grade. On the first day of gym class, each boy was issued a shirt, shorts and an athletic supporter (jock strap). This poor kid walked out of the locker room wearing his jock outside of his shorts. Luckily for these girls on my soccer team, they will never be stigmatized for wearing their shin guards over their socks they way that poor kid in gym was. His name was Chuck.

We always try different drills for the first half of practice, like dribbling, passing and shooting at the goal. Again, half the girls usually pay attention, while the other half try strange things with their soccer balls. As I demonstrated how to properly trap a soccer ball, one girl decided to stand on hers with both feet. Naturally, she fell, landing hard enough on her side to break the hip of your average eighty-year-old.

"You guys. Please don't stand on your ball," I said. "See what happens? It's really dangerous."

Another kid stood on her ball and wiped out hard. Then another one.

"Okay, let's start our scrimmage early."

I really do love this team, an I try to be patient with them. They attend school all day, where things are segmented and structured, so soccer practice is a great opportunity to blow off some steam. Plus, this is a YMCA, free-to-be-you-and-me activity, not the ultra-select, premier, all-star platinum soccer league.

But next time one of those kids stands on a ball, we'll see how well a nine-year-old can do push-ups.

The colors of coaching

Whenever August rolls around, I ask my daughters what types of physical activities they're planning to fill up their time with in the Fall. Usually, their response is "I don't know," followed by "I'm going to school. Isn't that enough?"
Then I'm forced to clarify. "No, walking around at school isn't enough. Do you guys want to play soccer, or maybe brush up on some swim lessons, or how about a dance class or something?" That's usually met with a thick silence, like I've asked them to deliver calves out back.
I've learned that if I throw something out there and then shut up, the girls will actually mull over what I suggested. A couple of times, Lauryn has said she wanted to play soccer, and it would be really great if I coached her team. That was usually followed by the familiar pang of family/community obligation in my fatherly gut, and before you can say "over-sized shin guards," I'd signed up yet again to coach YMCA co-ed kids' soccer.
Coaching can be really fun, as long as it's soccer, and not a sport that utilizes lethal weaponry, like T-ball. I won't expound on my lone T-ball coaching escapade; I'll just say the combination of a four-year-old with an aluminum bat is like, well, a four-year-old with an aluminum bat. By the time the season ended, one of my kids had been hit in the face by the ball so many times, he didn't even cry anymore. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
With kids' soccer, there really isn't a lot a kid has to know. You just instruct them to stay on the field (not run to the bathroom when they see one of their friends do it), and think about soccer the whole time. One kid walked over to me while he was supposed to be playing and said, "My brother punched me in the junk this morning." I remember saying, "So are you okay now?" He replied, "Yep," and then ran back onto the field. It would be pretty funny if adults were that blunt, but also a little creepy.
I've found that these kids prefer really accurate names for their teams. When I told one team that their uniforms were going to be red, they became the Red Flames. On another team, Purple shirts meant it was Purple Panther time. We've also been the Green Limes (like there's another color of lime) and the Yankees (not sure how that happened). Lauryn was once on a team where they couldn't agree on which yellow thing they wanted to be, so they became the Banana Lemon Lightning.
We'll see what my daughters choose this Fall. I've finally reached the point where more knowledgeable people are coaching my kids, so my sports mentoring days are probably behind me. I guess I could always try coaching that dance class.