Monsters In The Parasol

    The summersaults of his stomach told Quentin that perhaps eating that potent chocolate brownie might have been a mistake. All four walls of this apartment, belonging to a friend of a friend of his oldest sister, felt like they were closing in on him. Again he tried to find his sister, the only one he knew, in the crowd of fourty crammed into this tight space, but could not find her tiny body.
    The brownie had been given to him by a complete stranger, a nerdy Japanese fellow with glasses and a silver bottom tooth. Quentin tried to locate him somewhere in the party he but didn't dare move. He was so aware of his own body movements he decided common balance was a miracle.
    A tall girl stood out amidst the party-goers, who were all starting to blur together in a mashed potato type of haze. She had dirty blonde hair, torn jeans and a pink tank top that was low enough for her curves to not be ignored. Quentin observed her for a moment, her visual appeal stimulating his affected senses, until she began walking towards him slowly. He panicked but didn't dare move away, so he let her approach him with a lustful look in her eyes. Once she was close she grabbed both sides of his face and pulled him in for a passionate kiss.
    'Clearly you don't waste time...' said Quentin cooly, bringing his right hand along her smooth shoulder.
    He pulled back for a moment and was immediately horrified: this was not a woman he was making out with but a monster! Three hideous noses, drool dripping from pointy sharp fangs, yellow eyes looking into his soul hungrily. Quentin let out a small scream and ran backwards into the drink table, knocking over three empty gin bottles.
    The tall girl, who was now a girl again, gave him a confused look and wandered off to a lineup at the washroom. Quentin let his breath come back to him and took a seat on the couch. There was somebody beside him and Quentin was pleased to see it was the same man with the silver tooth who had given him the chocolate brownie in the beginning.
    'Dude, I gotta ask, what was in that brownie?' inquired Quentin.
    'What brownie?' replied Silver Tooth.
    'The brownie you gave me! Like an hour and a half ago!'
    'Bro, I wasn't even here an hour and a half ago.' answered Silver Tooth.
    'Really? I... I was sure we met in the kitchen... while those guys from Concordia were doing shots...'
    'Concordia? What's that bro? I think you have me confused with someone else.'
    Quentin glanced at the rest of the room in terror and, recognizing nobody's face, tugged at his pockets for his precious belongings. His sister was nowhere near this place, and even if she were he wasn't certain he could recognize her.
    'Bro, who do you know here?' asked Silver Tooth.
    'Uh, my big sister.' replied Quentin.
    'Yeah yeah. Hey I got a joke for you. What do you call something that's warped and bubbled?'
    'I dunno. A Super Mario power up?'
    'Ha! Right bro. That's good.' said Silver Tooth, then nodding at someone he knew and leaving Quentin be on the couch.
    Slowly, as Quentin watched the party progress before him, each person started looking more green and spherical. An unremarkable song played through on the speakers and by the end of it all of them looked alien. With each passing tune they all changed so much that even if he watched just one person, they would be unfamiliar by the time songs where transitioning from each other. While this progressed, the party-goers became more aware of Quentin as not one of their own. By the end of an epic hair-metal ballad, everyone in the room was staring squarely at the stranger still tasting chocolate on his lips.
    'I don't even know, what I'm doing here!' explained Quentin loudly.
       

Steckland Russ --- (iv.iv)

    The next three chapters come from a very different frame of mind. While my habit with the previous episodes was to recapture them fresh within hours of happening, this occasion has have required time for me to make sense of it and still now I don't understand. Throwing words at it might help me, maybe.

    Here we go.



    (xiv) -- Lansdowne to Greenwood   

    The windy ride home from Earlscourt Park was chilly and unpleasant, especially with my arms and legs unprotected against the cold autumn breeze. Once I arrived home, shivering and hungry, I was ready to hide away in my room with a bag of tortilla chips and several Futurama episodes, except my father caught me as I was about to enter my solitude.

    'Steckland. School called. Fellow named "Crate" or "Kegeight" said you left your knapsack in the locker room.' barked my father.
    'Ah, wondering where that went.' I said unconvincingly, the smelly gym clothes I wore only making me feel more ridiculous.
    'He must've been a caretaker or something cause he sounded drunk. Anyhow, your Aunt Jennifer is in town and I said we'd go over for dinner at her friend Sherry's. We're leaving now so keep your shoes on.'

    This was horrible news. The last time I had seen Aunt Jennifer I was eleven years old and she had ripped into me for getting a mediocre Geography grade. "Architects don't get a C+ you know." she had said, poking me in the ribcage uncomfortably while I yearned to get away and play Super Nintendo. Now she was surely older and crankier, my grades were much worse and there was no Super Nintendo to escape to (it broke in Grade Ten if you recall, Future Steckland.) With my recent discovery of myself on the Highview expulsion list, the timing of this unhappy reunion could not have been worse. Soon we were off to the East End, and such a quiet subway ride it was that closed my eyes for minutes at a time and pretended I was going anywhere else.

    'The next station is Greenwood, Greenwood station.'

    The echo of the automatic announcement lingered in my mind until the train came to a stop. Our habit of mutual silence continued all the way out of the unfamiliar subway station and onto "Linsmore" street. Up we went, the lights of Danforth fading away behind us until they disappeared behind a bend in the road.
    Along the sidewalks were many tall thick trees watching the houses around them, their branches peeking across the porches and second floor windows as they surely had done ever since these homes were built. Their presence was so dominating I thought of this as a place owned by the trees: all these houses were here only as decoration for them, filling the empty spaces beyond their roots so that they don't feel so lonely. It was appealing, even while I felt like an intruder upon their aged domain. 
    What was not appealing was my destination in this mysterious place: Aunt Jennifer. My father broke the silence between us as we made a right turn onto Milverton Blvd.
   
    'It's been a while since you've seen your Aunt Jenn, hasn't it?'
    'Yeah. Think I'd just graduated Junior High. She wouldn't stop talking about how my name wasn't on the Honour Roll.' I remarked.
    'Jenn is only here until Friday.' said my father, not listening. 'I'm sure she'll be delighted to see you. Ah, here we are.'

    The corner of Milverton and Monarch Park had arrived and my father gestured to a house across the street. While the other three homes of this intersection were round, large and well nourished, our destination was the squat bungalow on the south-west corner: a square hut so out of place I wondered if it had missed a growth spurt or something. My father knocked on the front door and an unfamiliar face welcomed us in without a smile, a trend I was sure would repeat itself.
    The inside of the house was even more stunted than the outside: the low ceilings appeared to have confused the owner so much that the chesterfield cushions barely reached my knees while the coffee table in front of it was flirting with my nipples; a battered television flashed thirty-two colour static against the dim lighting of the living room; the white carpet was a memorial of red wine stains, dog hair and cigarettes that never quite made it to the ashtray; piles of old beauty magazines were stashed by the front door, the bathroom door, the kitchen counter, on top of the television and underneath an old record player. There were four woman lounging about, all no younger than fifty, flipping through newer versions of the same magazines and sipping red white and clumsily smoking cigarettes. I realized none of them was my aunt Jennifer and felt quite pleased for a brief moment.

    'Stecklandy! Stecklandy!' said a shrill voice, loudly. 'Over here! Give your sweet aunt a hug! Over here now!'

    I'm not sure how recently you've seen Aunt Jennifer, Future Steckland, but I can predict with certainty that she has not aged well. Her arms must still be bony and hook-like, her fingernails still sharp and painted blood-red, her dark eyes twitchy and judgemental, and her smile crooked and cold. Her resemblance to my father was in the nose and jawline: it gave me great relief that I had not inherited either of those features.
   
    'My goodness! You're so skinny! Never going to attract any pretty girls like that! And your hair! You're a dirty hippie you are!'

    I scratched an itch behind my ear, below a few centimetres from where my longest hair ended.

    'Going to have a chat with your father about that. Oh here's Laurie! I'm going off to the kitchen for some more... grape juice. You two stay right here!'

    Aunt Jennifer swooped off to the kitchen and disappeared behind the open fridge door.

    'Thanks Laur. You saved me there.'
    'Yeah you looked like you were in trouble there. Think nothing of it.' shrugged my sister.
    'Is my hair really too long?' I asked, feeling the back of my head.
    'You should know not to let her get to you, Steck. She said my hair was too short, my glasses too thick and that I'd never attract any handsome men like that.'
    'Ha!' I laughed. 'That's a good one.'
    'Isn't it? I would've laughed but then the jig would've been up for sure.' said Laurie, brushing her light brown bangs out of her eyes. 'Everything good with you, Steck?'
    'Not great.' I said truthfully. 'Almost got expelled today, might've lost my knapsack in gym class. Shit! My glove was in there!'
    'I'm sure it's fine. If I remember right, Kreight waits a few days to throw out anything left behind. Probably to see if a whiskey bottle will grow from it someplace.'
    'Heh, yeah. You're probably right.' I smiled.
    'Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're back in classes again.' said Laurie plainly. 'School is important, even when it isn't interesting.'
    'Course you'd say that, you were the only one of us who ever really gave it their all. I remember when you were in Grade Twelve we wouldn't see you for months at a time. Always locked in your room or the library.'
    'Ha, not always. For all the good that did, anyway. McGill still didn't want me full time. That was like a steak dinner rare for Aunt Jennifer.' grumbled Laurie. 'But it worked out. I'm happy with it. Living in Montreal would've been weird, Steck. My French still isn't very good. Not to mention, maybe I... don't completely find myself...'
    'True.' I nodded softly. 'That could've been completely different.'
    'Exactly.' agreed Laurie. 'I look back at those points where my life could've gone in a completely different direction and see that one path isn't better or worse than the other. Just different. You'll soon be finding some forks in the road ahead, Steck.'
    'That's what I'm afraid of.' said I. 'Any regrets there, Pathfinder?'
    'Of course.' replied my sister. 'I regret not punching Airck Bolland in the gut. Grabbing my ass on prom night? And my dress was very thin fabric! Come on! Oh, if I ever see that guy again...'

    Laurie and I laughed it up for a while longer until she had to leave because of an early shift the next morning. Once she left I found myself drifting aimlessly from one small room to another, finding nobody I wanted to speak to and feeling uncomfortable just standing in one place. It was about 9:30 and I decided I'd spent a reasonable amount of time here to leave. I went to my father, who was chatting up a giggling woman spilling red wine all over the white carpet, but Aunt Jennifer intercepted me.

    'Stecklandy! Stecklandy Russ. You know I 'ever cared for the name Russ. Eeet's why I didn'ta keep it, you know.' said Aunt Jennifer.
    'It is what it is.' said I, peeking over her shoulder to try and catch my father's attention.
    'Never much cared fer the name Steckland, i'ther. That's your mother's doing, fsure. Never liked it. I wanted Richard, or Paul. Or if you were a girl...'

    What she said next was like a first pitch strike from Roy Halladay.

    '...Jenn.' said my aunt predictably. 'But no. Steckland it was. Steckland it is. That tart. My silly little brother never could stand up to her. And how is "Steckland" doing these days? Tell me, tell your Aunt Jennifer...'
    'Steckland is fine. He's actually on his way out.' I replied calmly.
   
    Aunt Jennifer threw her hands wildly up in the air, spilling half her glass of wine onto the wall behind her. Her mouth was wide as though she were smiling but I knew there was nothing positive about her expression.

    'Leaving? Of course of course. Quitting when the going gets tough! That sounds about right.' she said, her voice raising.
    'I'm sorry, what do you mean by--'
    'Oh don't play stupid.' interrupted Aunt Jennifer, swigging the remaining wine in her glass. 'I've been around in the world much longer than you. Much longer. I see you com'n here, long hair and hands in your pockets, like this is the last place you wanted to be. Oh I see it! I see it! If only dad hasn't dragged me here I'd, I'd be high on herbs with my video games!'
    'I don't even... what are you talking abo--'
    'You're nothing. Ya hear me! Nothing! Skipping classes! Wasting your life for nothing! Yer nothing and useless!'

    Aunt Jennifer's voice had increased to a level that everyone in the room had stopped to take notice. My feet trembled and burned: I wanted to defend myself but didn't know how. I glanced to my father and saw no sign of support arriving soon.

    'You're talking nonsense. I'm not--'
    'Deny, deny. I'm notta deadbeat, I'm not anything! Deny an' loosen the pursestrings! Coming to me for money? You pathetic weasel of---'

    I felt something shatter against my leg. It was the wine glass, now in tiny shards along my jeans. The largest piece of the glass was right at my left foot, marking the spot of the initial impact.
   
    'What's your problem you drunk batshit crazy witch?' I screamed. 'Are you out of your fuc--'
    'Steckland! That's enough!' barked my father.

    Horror grabbed my chest and would not let go. My father looked away as I turned to face him, perhaps ashamed but it was too late. I grabbed my sneakers, clumsily put one of them on and carried the other one as I walked out the door.
    There were droplets of red wine on my white Highview gym t-shirt, unwashable stains to remind me of this encounter for far too long. I wanted to tear off this damage and hurl it into the half-moon hanging oblivious in the night sky. Streets and intersections unfamiliar came and passed me by as I stormed deeper and deeper into neighbourhoods I did not know. Soon I was lost, without money for transit fare, on a street I didn't know ran east-west or north-south. I sat down on someone's front lawn and put my other sneaker on.     
    The area I found myself in was entirely different from where I had run from. While those streets had dominating trees and elegant homes, this was a place of crooked windows and front lawns of dying grass. Those enormous trees of before felt like a protection from the evils of unknown night, especially now that they were gone and I was in this barren place. I felt the chill of ghouls sneaking around me in an increasing fog, licking lips and watching my steps for the first sign of weakness. My steps quickened but that was of no use: I had no clue where I was or where I was going. All I was now was easy prey.
    A somewhat busy street in front of me disappeared into the fog and I figured my time was near. Vicious screeching rushed up behind me from far away, sending cold goosebumps along my arms and legs. The fog was now so thick I couldn't read the street number of the house right beside me. All around the screeching only became louder and I swore there were shapeless shadows circling me in the fading sky above.
    Two figures gained substance and approached me. Hand in hand, one with a clean white cloak covering it's face while the other wore a identical black cloak. Both of them reached out gloved hands to me but I backed away. They pulled their hands back simultaineously and then reached out again. I was more compelled this time to return my hand: I was tired, lonely, lost, ready to let go. My right hand trembled as I reached out, nearly brushing fingertips on the white glove before I pulled back. More cloaked figures emerged from the haze, all reaching out to embrace me. The air had become incredibly cold and my skin was numb all over.

    'Kid! Kid! Have an eye, kid!'

    The voice had come from nowhere yet everywhere. I spun around, scanning the mesmerizing white and black gloves for whoever had called me. There were dozens of cloaked ghouls closing in and I could see nothing else but them.

    'Kid! Three o'clock! Right here!'

    I turned to my right and there, behind three black cloaks was a person very much out of place: a lanky gentleman dressed in a baseball uniform. His jersey and pants were cream coloured and his socks, high, were brown with two yellow stripes at the top. The number on the back of his uniform, "19", was also brown, as was his cap with a white "S" logo on the front. A larger, similar brown "S" was stitched over his heart. His hair was shaggy, his eyebrows bushy and his moustache thick and plentiful. This stranger certainly didn't play for any team I had seen before.

    'What team do you play for?' I asked, quickly realizing this was not a particularly good first question.
    'All of them.' replied he.
    'Okay... uh and who are you?'
    'Folks call me: The Shortstop.'
    'The Shortstop?'
    'Yes.' said The Shortstop, spitting some chewed tobacco onto the street.
   
    As I was about to inquire further, The Shortstop pulled a white baseball bat out from behind his back and swung hard at the head of a white cloaked ghoul about to strangle him. I ducked, expecting a gory scene but instead the ghoul howled and vanished back into the fog. The Shortstop faked another swing at a black cloaked ghoul reaching in behind him, then spat onto the street once more.

    'These cats ain't gonna do you good. You should get on outta here.'
    'What are those things?' I screamed, a sound that died in the heavy fog above.
    'There are doubts that throw themselves upon ya and then doubts you grow yourself, like a weed you hate but keep watering. They work together kid, to swoop in and carry you away. All you can do is field that groundball and make the best throw you can. Here.'

    The Shortstop handed me his bat. It was pristine: it could not have ever touched a single thing in the solid world. I took it and looked it over in awe. The Shortstop merely spat more tobacco and watched me impatiently.

    'Get on outta here, kid. And keep working on that slider.'

    Suddenly the Shortstop was gone and I was alone, surrounded by the ghouls. They sensed my confused fear and let out a high shriek I can only interpret as "swoop in for the kill." A black glove seized my shoulder and all energy was zapped from my right arm. I yelled and swung the bat hard with my left arm at my attacker, disintegrating it into the haze upon contact. Other ghouls swarmed me at my weak side but another hard lefty swing sent them back into the nothingness of which they came. I charged towards another white ghoul coming at me straight ahead and with another well placed swing it was not a threat any longer.
    The rest of the cloaked ghouls were still around me, strategizing the best way of taking me out. My legs did not want to wait around for that and started sprinting towards a hole in the crowd. Some gloved hands reached out to grab me but I ducked and swung the bat wildly in their direction. Their shrieking was becoming louder and my temples vibrated in pain as I went. The surrounding fog was weakening and I could see that busy street that had faded away forever ago reappearing. I pushed my legs harder towards it but a black cloak slashed my ankles and I tumbled onto the street, bat still safely in hand. Freezing air breathed upon my neck as I felt a gloved hand approach there, yet somehow I turned myself over in time and jumped onto my knee before the fiend could swipe me again. My left foot had no feeling but I was able to swing hard at the ghoul who'd nearly had me, erasing it with a hideous howl that I wasn't sure came from it or me.
    There were no other challengers in my way: the other ghouls merely floated in a half circle idly and watched me come onto my feet. I stared up at every one of them, my heart beating at a freeway pace and my hands brandishing my wooden savior over my head. They hissed and did nothing more, and I turned around and limped quickly towards the lights of the busy street growing clearer against the fog.

Steckland Russ (iv.iii) --- Wellesley to Lansdowne

    (xiii) --



    Once Reading Period ended, Soraunen left class with a pink-haired friend and disappeared down the busy fourth floor hallway. I carefully eyed the dented lockers along the walls, thinking I overheard a mention that her locker was close by but no luck. The boy's bathroom behind me smelled like the cafeteria "Bean and Boiled Egg Thursday" so I thought it time for my next class.
    My last period of the day was Gym and by the grace of miracles I had remembered to pack a uniform in the morning. I entered the locker room, grabbed my uniform and tossed my knapsack onto the changing room bench. In case you've forgotten, Future Steckland, our gym clothes at Highview are a white T-Shirt with a red crest and wolf opposite the heart, while the shorts are blue and simply read "HIGHVIEW" in block letters. I had just changed into this getup when Marcos Slickon, in my Gym class apparently, peeked around the corner.

    'Hey Steckland! You up drinking all night bro? Your clothes smell worse than those Sherbourne hobos!'
    'For the record these are my brother's clothes.' I protested. 'He didn't care much for laundry, or deodorant it seems...'
    'Yo, freshen that up. If Kreight gets a whiff of you he'll probably ask for a swig!'

    Unfortunately, Mr. Kreight never got the chance to ask me where my moonshine was. Just as I jogged onto the dim but shiny gym floor, Manuel the Hall Monitor tapped me on the shoulder; I was to report to Mrs. Hawker in the office immediately.

    'Are you sure she doesn't want to see one of the other Stecklands?' I asked desperately.
    'There are no other Stecklands.'
    'Uh-oh.'

    Describing the sensation one feels heading towards a confrontation with Hawker isn't easy, though I would liken it to sitting in a dentist's chair knowing you're about to get your teeth drilled while the dentist takes their time. I wandered up to the second floor, past the science labs, past some Grade Nine girls who giggled behind me, past the rotunda and the framed photos of graduates of years gone by. To think if my face ever would be in one of those frames, for within fifteen minutes such ideas can change from improbable to impossible.
    The office was open and as always there was Phoebe, eyeglasses atop her head while her long dark fingers typed quickly onto her keyboard.

    'Stecky. Sit down.' she said curtly. She was not smiling.

    I sat on the wooden bench opposite Phoebe's reception desk. I wonder if you've ever gone back to visit Highview, Future Steckland, and whether the office is still painted light teal or if the room is as boxy and tight as it is now. There are sounds of phones occasionally ringing, papers being shuffled and shredded, the water cooler dripping and the nervous toe tapping of the students waiting beside me on our wooden bench. Still wearing my gym clothes, I felt even more awkward and uncomfortable.
    There were three other unlucky schoolmates waiting next to me on the bench: Tyler Myagara, a notorious class skipper who I hadn't seen in a classroom since Grade Ten; Karla R. (I forget her last name), almost always to be found outside the side exit or the girl's bathroom during classes; then the calmest of this crew, wearing a beaten brown leather jacket and a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap backwards atop his bronze hair.
   
    'Yo Steck, what'd they leash you down here for?' asked Mal Larson, adjusting his red cap.
    'Attendance probably.' I answered. 'You?'
    'No clue. Haven't been called down here since like Grade Nine. Whatever.'

    Mal tucked his hands inside his jacket and stared up at the ceiling. I was about to ask him something when Ms. Floyd, the other receptionist, stood tall over us with an announcement.

    'Malcolm Larson, Mrs. Hawker will see you now. Steckland Russ, Principal Boller will see you.'

    The unpleasant moment had arrived. There was relief at not having to face Hawker, but being confronted by the principal hardly felt like victory. The door to Ms. Boller's office was slightly ajar so I pushed it open and took the chair furthest from her frustrated glances.

    'Steckland, Steckland. Oh Steckland, what are we going to do with you?'

    I didn't answer.

    'I don't know. Like, I really don't know. I don't.' said the principal simply.

    She was uncharacteristically still, clearly focused upon her task but finding no joy in it.

    'You're going to have to tell me why this happened. After that, I'm going to have to make a decision.'

   
    ***


    I left Principal Boller's office in a kind of numb state. Everything that had gone through my mind in the past weeks was now buried beneath the ground. There was no doom running through my veins, just the blunt force of reality, and everything sounds so much more serious when it actually exists.
    Gym class was over so I went straight for my bicycle. I fumbled with the key out of my shorts before I freed the lock from the post beside the sidewalk. Mal Larson came out the side exit as I hopped on my wheels and he snapped his bike free from its parking spot in a single motion. He glanced at me and then quickly to the street.

    'Let's go.' said Mal.
    'Let's go? What do you mean?'
    'Let's go.'

    Mal started riding hard towards Jarvis and turned upwards. I hopped aboard my bike and followed him, realizing as we turned left on Bloor I had no idea where we were going.
    We navigated the difficult mid-afternoon traffic of Bloor until Bay Street where Mal made a hard right turn. Bay curved into Davenport Road and we continued, bouncing through its stretches of bad road and powering up the winding hill before Spadina. This is a familiar path for me since I ride the Davenport bike lane eastbound everyday for school, but once we passed Christie and Mal showed so signs of slowing down I was into the unknown.
    A large part of me was tempted to shout that we had just passed my street (I even saw my house for an instant) but even if I had I doubt he would have heard me. Mal ran a red light at Ossington and I followed through the honking cars just so I wouldn't lose sight of him. There was so much vibrancy in this neighbourhood: adults with their young children spilling out of bakeries and flower shops to bask in a sun that had just peeked out from her cloudy hiding place. A church bell rang just as Mal ran another red light at Oakwood, missing a turning mini-van by maybe half a metre.
    We cruised along the Davenport hills until Mal finally came to a stop at Lansdowne Avenue. He looked around for a moment and then set off full speed up the steep north hill of Lansdowne. I hadn't the bicycle or the energy for such a challenge so I jumped off my ride and walked up the sidewalk after him, going just fast enough to keep him in sight.
    At the top of the slope the road bent left and Mal disappeared. I swung around the bend and found shim riding slowly into a small parking lot. Beyond that was an enormous green park with incredible open space: there was a running track surrounding a soccer field, basketball courts and brown trees to the left of that, busy gazebos in the distance beside what looked like a public swimming pool, and comfortable benches offering rest and comfort to travellers brave enough to fight the nearby inclines. The sign behind the parking  lot fence read:

    EARLSCOURT PARK

    Mal wandered to some metal bleachers beside the soccer field, dropped his bike onto the grass and lay down upon his back on the highest bleacher seat. I popped the kickstand, set my bicycle next to his and hopped onto a seat within talking distance of my silent pal. Minutes greeted and passed us by yet Mal still said nothing.
    My attention wandered towards four kids playing soccer on the field, in particular the youngest and smallest who was wearing a green shirt. Despite his disadvantage in size the little one was clearly the best player: he was quicker, sneakier, and his kicks were much more precise and forceful than those of his brothers. (By the way they ran I am certain of this relation) Yet his older siblings paid him little respect for his superior skill, getting beaten time after time and just laughing it off with another brother. The tallest (and probably oldest) could not have been much older than eleven.

    'You ever play soccer?' I asked my silent companion.
    'What?' he responded instantly, as though surprised by my presence. 'No. Never.'
    'All right.' I said simply.

    Mal continued to stare into whatever thing in the sky had consumed him, but I could tell my question had stirred him at least.

    'Sports were never really my thing.' said Mal after a moment.

    The kid in the green shirt let loose a loud shout of joy: he had scored against his tallest brother.

    'I've seen you carry round a baseball glove in your bag.' commented Mal. 'That your thing?'
    'My... thing?' I repeated.
    'Yeah your thing. Baseball. Unless you're just the type who carries round some random smelly thing to attract chicks or something.'
    'No, no. I like baseball.' I clarified, unsure exactly what he was getting at. 'I play it when I can. It's fun.'
    'Huh, okay. Never figured you as that jock type. I smoke with a lotta of those dudes on the hockey team and they're a hell of a lot different than you.' said Mal, reaching into his leather jacket for his cigarettes.
    'Different sports attract different people, I guess. My brother was really the one who got me into baseball though.'
    'Your brother?' inquired Mal as he lit his smoke.
    'Yeah. He was always dragging me out to play catch since I was like eight. I always figured he just wanted a guinea pig to test his slider on or something.'
    'Slider? Like a mini-ham--' *cough cough* '--hamburger?'
    'No it's a pitch. You make the ball move by gripping and throwing it a certain way. Funny thing is after all those years of watching him aim it at my face, I picked up how to throw it and by the time I was thirteen my slider was better than his. Caplan threw his much harder but mine dropped more and I could control it better. Heh, we haven't played catch in over two years now. I bet he'd be impressed now.'

    Mal took a long inhale from his cigarette. The green shirt kid scored another goal and his siblings just laughed it off casually.

    'I never knew you had a brother.' said Mal. 'He went to Highview?'
    'Yeah, he did. He never graduated so you won't find him in a picture near the office. Pretty much all he did at Highview was play baseball. Star pitcher by Grade Ten year, made the city all-star team I'm sure. Mum was so proud. I remember seeing his picture in the Sun one day, crazy feeling man, I can't even describe it. There's your big brother in the goddamn newspaper, doing what he loves to do and succeeding. I was pretty young then but I remember those times well.'

    I fiddled with the pockets of my shorts, wondering if I'd said too much. It had been a long time since these memories had come into my mind.

    'Nice guy, your brother?' asked Mal.
    'Complete asshole.' I replied with a smirk.
    'I think I would've liked him.' said Mal, grinning. 'Sounds like my sister.'
    'Sister?'
    'Sister.' repeated Mal. 'My older sister Carol. She didn't go to Highview though.
Oakwood.'

    Mal pointed to the back deck of a brown house beside the park, just behind some trees. 'We used to live in that house there, the three of us. Mom, Carol and me. I remember I used to sit on that porch with my Spiderman and Batman action figures and have them fight to the death. Boom, pow! Ha, the loser would fall off the edge and into the grass of doom below! Fun, man. Once the neighbourhood Labrador got to Spidey before I could get down there, I stopped doing that...'

    I laughed, and was happy to see my companion do so as well. Mal tossed his finished cigarette to the grass and sat up, sniffing the air curiously.

    'Yo Steck, why you wearing your gym clothes?'

    I looked down at myself: it had not occurred to me until now that I'd just gone straight for my bicycle after my visit to the office.

    'Forgot to change, I guess. Damnit, my knapsack is probably still in the change room. Hope it's still there tomorrow.' I wondered, slightly worried.
    'I'm sure you're fine. When'd you wash this getup though? You smell like you were swimming in rum all night.'
    'These were Caplan's, actually. Once they get even a bit sweaty they stink.' I explained. 'A little farewell gift from my brother.'
    'I take it he liked the sauce.' said Mal.
    'Among other things.'

    A chilly autumn breeze blew some of the browner leaves off their branches and slowly towards their final resting place on the ground. I felt goosebumps invade my arms and legs so I rubbed my hands over them for warmth. Mal, well dressed for the season, looked again at how underdressed I was and pulled another cigarette from his pack.

    'Smoke?' he offered.
    'No thanks.' I said.
    'So what'd Boller talk to you about when you were in there?' asked Mal.
    'She showed me my name on a list. There were six names at the top crossed out, then maybe eleven below that weren't. It was the expulsion list. I was the fifth name of those eleven.'

    Mal let out a large puff of smoke, which swirled in the cool breeze as it faded from his lips and into the orange and brown trees around us. He looked half amused and half vulnerable, like a child who had pulled off a brilliant prank and now waited for the ramifications.

    'Yep. I'm that first name.'
   
   
    (xiii) --- Wellesley to Lansdowne

The Worst Streets To Bike On In Toronto

If you've rode a bicycle in Toronto for any extended period of time, you know that the difference between a good street to ride on and a bad street is extreme. Some roads are laps of luxury: brilliant scenery and historical sights as you zoom by on smooth pavement. Other roads have you clutching your handlebars desperately as you ponder whether this next spoke spin will be your last. Today we're going to look at some in that second category: the worst streets to bike on in Toronto.

                                         (photo credit -- bolds.net)

Eglinton Avenue West

Three words: nightmarish fun house. (Without the fun)

Eglinton is a high traffic street and is hilly, which automatically makes it unappealing for cyclists. It is also extremely wide and yet often has on street parking, meaning a rider will have to dodge parked cars and high speed traffic zipping past them on the left. There are also several treacherous potholes while you go up or down the hills, several TTC buses that use Eglinton, oh and did I mention the hills? The one between Caledonia and Keele will have you wishing Scotty would just beam you up already. Once you get west of Jane there's actually an excellent bicycle trail that runs along Eglinton almost all the way to the airport, but you have to be brave/lucky/crazy enough to get that far. Cycling on Eglinton West is like riding a loopy roller coaster, that is if the other rides in the amusement park could run into you while you do it.

Best stretch: Jane to Renforth
Worst stretch: Bathurst to Dufferin/Caledonia to Keele
Danger rating: 9
Hill rating: 10
East or West? Neither, both are equally hilly and dangerous

                                       
                            (photo credit -- bellsondanforth.ca)

Danforth Avenue

Bicycling any portion of the Danforth is at least moderately hazardous, which is a shame since there are so many attractions and things to see along the way. There are always columns of parked cars, waves of traffic zipping past you, jaywalkers oblivious to the crossing just ten metres away, and plenty of intersections where turning vehicles must be taken into account. Further east Danforth widens a bit and so there's at least more space, but then you have to deal with drivers who aren't used to bicycles so it's still not ideal. Danforth is fantastic if you're a pedestrian but avoid it if you are cycling, especially in daylight.

Best stretch: Woodbine to Main
Worst stretch: Broadview to Pape
Danger rating: 8
Hill rating: 1 (a slight one before Woodbine)
East or West? East (the road quality is better)

                                          (photo credit -- dundaswestbia.ca)
Dundas Street West
 
Biking on Dundas West is actually fascinating because it's almost like a urban cyclist's video game. You've completed Level Five: "Pothole Party" now for Level Six: "Traffic Troubles!" In other words, each section of Dundas West presents it's own challenges for brave cyclists. Whether it be the high traffic between Yonge and University, the narrow road and unalert (I'm being kind here) pedestrians of the Chinatown stretch, the deadly streetcar tracks of Bathurst to Dufferin, the streetcar squeeze bonus levels, the confusing intersections of Dundas/Roncevalles or Annette/Dupont/Dundas, or the parking lot that is the Junction section of the trip. I've played this video game many times but I have to say I've never gotten past Level 12: Royal York Bridge Binge.

Best stretch: Runnymede to Scarlett
Worst stretch: Lansdowne to Ossington/Grace to Yonge/Clendenan to Annette
Danger rating: 8
Hill rating: 4
East or West? West

                                       (photo credit -- wikipedia)
Dufferin Street   


Now admittedly, I have not once biked on Dufferin anywhere north of Roselawn (just a bit north of Eglinton) so my impression of it is incomplete. However, I feel secure in saying Dufferin is overall an awful street for cyclists because one: most major Toronto streets only become harsher for cyclists the further north you go and two: even if Dufferin north of Eglinton is passable or even a cyclist's paradise, what's south of Eglinton is so bad that it hardly makes a difference.

The worst thing about Dufferin is road quality. Some roads have bad stretches that last for maybe a block or two, while on Dufferin smoothness is the exception. The potholes have potholes. If you're ever going south and you've just passed Dundas, either take the sidewalk (I know, I know) or grip those handlebars for dear life because otherwise you're gonna take a high speed downhill spill. Speaking of hills, south of Bloor they aren't much of a factor but the more north you go the worse it is. Between St. Clair and Eglinton you're essentially watching one tidal wave hill give way to another until you wonder if this is all a very bad dream.

Best stretch: King to Saskatchewan Road
Worst stretch: Queen to Dundas/St. Clair to Eglinton
Danger rating: 8
Hill rating: 9
North or South? South

That concludes this installment. Next time we'll look at some of Toronto's better streets for bicycles. Thanks for reading!

Steckland Russ -- (Chapter IV.ii)

   
    (xii) ---



    I'm writing this during what we call "Reading Period", a twenty minute break before our last class of the day when we are supposed to read a book but most of us socialize instead. I figured this was a good chance to recap this day so far for you, Future Steckland. It has been an interesting one.
    As is now probably clear, today I have finally gone back to Highview. I got dressed and I found myself strongly wondering how my classmates were doing, and realized I missed being a part of their lives. I missed their faces, their smiles, their haircuts, their laughs. Imagining certain people, some were not as vivid as before and I'd had enough of that feeling.
    I snatched as many textbooks as would fit in my knapsack and sprinted out the front door to my bicycle. I was late for my second class, Drama, but fortunately Mrs. Seddington seemed more surprised than annoyed to see me.
    Several of my Drama mates asked me where I had been:

    'Were you like, away on a trip or something?' -- Sunnie Woom.
    'You're still alive! Nice!' -- Sam Peavy.
    'Steckland! You missed this awesome time when Kim was doing a pie-in-the-face gag for a reherseal, but Coreteto hit her in the shoulder! By accident of course. Where were you??? -- Bellamy Wondumas. (note, I feel the best way to capture how Bellamy asks questions is with extra question marks)
    'Stecky! I missed um, we missed you!' -- Natalie Lee.
    'Did you die? We were sure a spaghetti monster got you. I was checking obituaries for people strangled by tomato sauce and noodles.' -- Len Barker.

    After Drama was a strange Film Studies class. Normally our teacher, Ms. Weiss, is very still: often she is an anchor latched upon her desk in the corner. Today however she was pacing the classroom from the start of the lesson onward, constantly looking over her shoulder or at the back row students with mistrust. At last after she struggled with pronouncing our names on the attendance sheet (she is usually exceptional at this), she took off her thick framed glasses for the first time ever and explained herself.

    'Have any of you seen Mulholland Drive?' she asked us.
    A few hands went up. 'Yeah, I have.' said Zack Herges, tangling his greasy long brown hair with his fingers. 'We watched some of it in Mod Lit.'
    'Well! Everyone, I've got to tell you.' said Ms. Weiss, slowly sitting on an empty desk. 'I'm a fan of David Lynch's work but I must say, that film just unsettled me. I watched it last night and well, bad idea!'
    'I've only seen the end, but it like, seems like a bad movie to see before bedtime.' chimed in Lucy Galoupos.
    'I wish I'd talked to you earlier! Oh my.' said Ms. Weiss, going back to her desk and putting her glasses back on. 'Well. Anyone who wants to write me a brief page on Mulholland Drive by the end of next week will get a bonus credit. One time deal.'

    As Ms. Weiss returned to her poise and regularly scheduled lesson, I thought about this optional homework. I've never seen or heard of "Mulholland Drive" before, but getting to watch a movie for extra marks sounds fun. A brief page? Easy.
    At lunch break I discovered I'd completely forgotten to make myself a lunch, or bring money to buy a lunch. Luckily I ran into Len and Bellamy leaving Highview and they were kind enough to chip in for a pizza slice for me.

    'It's a good thing you came back today, Steck.' said Bellamy, inbetween sips of her Pepsi while we sat in the pizza joint. 'Next class Seddington is assigning everyone into groups for the first big performance of the year.'
    'Yeah man. She probably wouldn't have let you join a group if you didn't show.' agreed Len. 'And that would not have been beans.'
    'Beans? What does that even mean?' asked Bellamy, annoyed. 'And why do you keep saying that?'
    'I'd tell you, but that wouldn't be beans either. Nope. Steck knows though, right Steck?'
    'Of course. Beans. Common knowledge among us Grade Twelves.' I said, not having the foggiest idea what he was talking about.
   
    After lunch was English where I currently sit writing this, for you see Reading Period takes place in whatever class you happen to be in at the time. Calsuco gave me a skeptical look as he saw me walk in, but handed me an assignment sheet he gave out last week without any fuss or drama. I took a different seat than the one I had before (some new red haired kid had claimed it) and pulled out some blank sheets of paper. Even though I missed so many of his classes, I knew Calsuco loved to write legions of notes on the chalkboard, most of them useful.
    It was then I remembered that "she" was in this class. My stomach stopped the digestion presses and my heart took a nap for a couple seconds. I hadn't seen her since that afternoon I so foolishly rejected her and that had been so many evenings at the Coxwell parkette ago that I honestly had nearly forgotten about her. I spotted her unmistakable hair two rows in front of me and trembled. Even though she cannot see me I do my best not to look at her now, in fear she might sense my eyes. Right now she chats with a short-haired girl named Pamela, drawing and doodling on bright yellow papers I would love to be a part of. I sincerely hope that you, Future Steckland, have become much more capable with girls sweet girls than I.



    (xii) --- Christie To Wellesley

   

Steckland Russ -- (Chapter IV.i)

    (xi) ---



    I think of all the people before and after me who at some point have and will write accounts of their lives. Each person is a story and a different one at that, yet when the retelling of our lives and experiences stop so does the story. We still live and experience life, but if we share it with no one then it is just a tree falling in a forest without being heard.
    This is why I have decided to continue my chronicles to you, Future Steckland. My desire to document my experiences is still strong, for life is a forest filled with many trees and I want to tell the stories of as many of them as I can.
    I realized this earlier today, this evening when I was riding the subway from Laurie's East End apartment to home. I had just passed Greenwood station when a familiar dark skinned face boarded the train and sat two seats away from me. It was Tom Northcliffe, alone and carrying a heavy knapsack surely full of textbooks and homework assignments I'd not bothered to discover.

    'Tom! Over here!' I called.

    Tom looked around, confused. Eventually he saw me, and a smile appeared on his face: somebody genuinely pleased by the surprise of seeing me. The smile on my face reflected that thought.

    'Steckland! Hey! How's it going?'
    'Okay I guess.' I lied. 'You?'
    'Fine, fine.' nodded Tom. 'Where you been lately? Haven't seen you in World Politics or Film Studies for a while. Did you drop them?'
    'Been sick with a bad flu.' I lied again. 'Feeling better recently though. Have I missed anything?'
    'Nah. Foxwell is still screwing with us. The test on Thursday is apparently worth fourty percent of the final mark. Impossible of course, since the final exam isn't even worth that much! Otherwise, no. Things are pretty much the same.'

    Deflating, as I suppose I'd expected the gears of the school to grind to a halt without me.

    'Anything else interesting?' I asked.
    'Nope, not that I can think of.' replied Tom.

    We sat for a few moments not speaking, both of us just looking off at the fascinating subway car ads. I was reading one about a ninety year old guy claiming he was still sexually active when I noticed we had arrived at Chester station. I was ready to say goodbye to Tom but to my surprise he stayed in his seat.

    'Hey, I thought you lived around Chester?' I asked.
    'No, no. My parents moved almost a year ago.' said Tom. 'We're all the way at Royal York and Eglinton now, one of those new condos there.'
    'Geez that's far.' I commented.
    'Yeah. Nice area though. We're on the twentieth floor too, so the view's great for when I've got really tough biology homework.'
    'Sounds sweet. Hey, remember that time when you had me over at your old place, and your brother kept trying to defend Star Trek Enterprise?'
    'Oh my! Yeah!' exclaimed Tom. 'Russell kept saying it was the best Trek series and we didn't understand it! We just laughed and laughed and he got so upset. I felt bad about that but he sorta deserved it. Enterprise? Inexcusable.'
    'Man, we watched so many episodes that day.' I said. 'We should do that again some time. If you're free.'
    'That would be fun. As long as I don't have too much homework.' said Tom.

    It was this moment I noticed a strange man at the end of the train. His hair was long, tangled and unclean like his clothes, and on his foot was a black hackysack that had been so worn down it rested flat against his shoe. I watched him jump around for a moment until a question popped into my head.

    'How's your brother doing, anyway?' I asked.
    'Quite good,' Tom replied. 'He's just finishing up Junior High this year. He'll actually be going to Highview next year!'
    'Really?'
    'Yep!' said Tom, smiling. 'Funny how I'll have left Highview the same year Russell will be arriving there.'
    'Well you can always go back and visit him.' I suggested.
    'True, but so much of that depends on where I end up. I've been reading about universities and the ones I like the most are in other cities. McGill, UBC, McMaster. I'd miss him and my parents terribly but I can't miss the opportunity, right?'
    'No. Of course not.' I agreed timidly.     
    'Man, these are the good times, right Steckland?' said Tom thoughtfully, watching the departing station through the train window. 'Right now we don't have to worry about paying for education or finding employment or any of that. No fifteen thousand word university essays to write, no rent or bills to worry over. There's lots of hard work ahead, lots. I don't know if I'm... yeah I dunno.'
   
    I fiddled with my loose shirt buttons while Tom Northcliffe dwelled in his silence. Through his eyes I could see the sprockets of his mind turning, demanding more concentration and focus and results at any cost. Christie station, which is my stop, came soon after this, though I suspect this mental absorption of my classmate could have continued past Kipling.

    'Hey this is my stop.' I said, standing up.
    'Oh! Well.' said Tom, snapping out of his trance. 'I'll see you in class tomorrow, if you're feeling better?'
    'Yeah, hopefully.'
    'It was good to run into you. We'll talk soon.' said Tom.
    'Of course. Take it easy.'

    I left the train and through the sides of my eyes watched it shrink into the westbound tunnel.

    ***   

    When I arrived home my father was in his usual place: sitting on the couch in front of the television, a generic beer and remote control casually held in either hand. He nods me hello as I take off my shoes, his eyes unmoving from the flashing screen.

    'Message for you. Someone called from school.' he grunted.
    'Do you know who?' I asked.
    'I dunno. Something about a "bowler." Are you on the bowling team?'
    'We don't have a bowling team.' I said sharply.
    'Oh. Guess not then.'

    My father returned his attention to the flickering television while my attention went towards my bedroom. I shut the door behind me and surveyed the condition of my room: a laundry basket overflown onto most of my floor, several plates of mostly eaten meals sitting upon my dresser, school textbooks stacked in a corner with a very fine layer of dust atop them, my bedsheets twisted into a sculpture upon my bed, and my baseball glove resting on Caplan's smelly gym shorts. I sat myself on the floor beside my bed, threw off my socks and tried to fall asleep in this uncomfortable position.
    My mind drifts to the guy with the hackysack I saw on the subway. I remember the people sitting nearby trying their best to either ignore him or glare their annoyance at him, yet he was oblivious to all of it. The guy kept hopping around in the subway car, completely engrossed in kicking up the sack. His eyes were red and hazy, his balance slightly wobbly and his jeans and sweater torn, yet there was nothing that could distract him. I wonder what it must be like to be so engrossed in something that nothing can bother you.
                    

    (xi) --- Greenwood To Christie

Five Thoughts On... The 2013 Toronto Blue Jays Competition

Over the next week, West Collier Street will be previewing the upcoming Toronto Blue Jays season in a feature called "Five Thoughts On..."

The last installment here will look at the competition the Blue Jays will face in trying to complete their dream season:


1. New York Yankees

Doubting the Yankees hasn't been this popular since Don Mattingly wouldn't trim his sideburns. Sure, they're missing their starting first baseman, shortstop, centrefielder and the highest paid player in the history of the sport, and sure they're relying on the likes of Vernon Wells, Lyle Overbay, Juan Rivera, Kevin Youkilis and Travis Hafner to produce runs, and sure their shortstop is 38 years old, their right fielder 39 and their best relief pitcher 43, but these are the Yankees and... um... wow. That is sad.

Nope, I'm not buying it. The Yankees still worry me because throughout all these injuries their pitching staff has remained mostly intact. C.C. Sabathia is still monstrous, Hiroki Kuroda is still quietly excellent, Andy Pettitte can still put that put cut fastball wherever he wants and David Phelps is a guy who I think will really open some eyes this year. The fact is that the Yankees still possess a starting rotation good enough to keep them in games, and as long as that part of the team stays healthy I expect them to still be in the playoff mix come September.

2. Tampa Bay Rays

They lost B.J. Upton to free agency, but here's Desmond Jennings to replace him. They traded away James Shields, but good thing they still have David Price and Matt Moore and Jeremy Hellickson and, well it goes on. Tampa Bay is a team with such absurd minor league depth and if you're curious why look so further than the trade that sent Shields to Kansas City. The Rays got back an uberprospect in Wil Myers, a promising young arm in Jake Odorizzi, and a talented pitcher who has fallen from grace in Mike Montgomery. Not to say it's going to work out perfectly for the Rays (I sure as hell hope not) but these are the kind of moves they constantly pull off, and it seems there are more successes than failures. Also it's going to be very annoying if Kelly Johnson and or Yunel Escobar rediscover themselves this season for the Rays. Very annoying.

3. Boston Red Sox

It seems like the Red Sox plan this offseason was akin to a dart player grabbing ten darts and throwing them all at once at the board. A couple of them will probably hit the bullseye, but it's impossible (or at least extremely unlikely) that all of them land in the centre, and that's kinda what Boston is counting on. I mean sure, Jacoby Ellsbury could stay healthy and rediscover his 2011 form, Clay Buchholz and John Lackey could start pitching like it's 2010 again, but those are a lot of "coulds" and I'm getting very close to a run-on sentence here. The Red Sox offense likely will be dangerous (assuming good health, also a "could") but I really don't believe in that pitching staff, even with whatever magical pitching advice John Farrell was saving until his dream job became available.

4. Baltimore Orioles

There's just no way they can do that again. No way. I mean, last season they were like 1000 and 3 in one run games and 50-0 in extra innings and there's no chance they do that again. (I'm too lazy to look up the actual numbers) That being said, I still think this is a solid team, particularly in the bullpen, and there are enough interesting young players that could take a step forward. Guys like Manny Machado and Dylan Bundy sure look impressive, but I don't think this is the year they make a big impact. At the very least, the Orioles will be a tough opponent for our hometown heroes.

5. The American League West

If you look at the other American League divisions, the AL West certainly looks like where one (if not both) of the wildcard spots will be claimed. Much has been made of the Angels being a much improved team yet again, adding Josh Hamilton to an already formidable starting nine. The Rangers have lost some key players but still boast a deep lineup, strong starting pitching and a fertile farm system. The Oakland A's of course are the defending division champs, riding the emergence of several young arms they're certain to depend upon this season. Let's also not forget the factor of the Houston Astros joining this division, a team not likely to win more than a third of their games and thus adding a few more wins to each contending AL West foe. If the Blue Jays are fighting for a wildcard position down the stretch this season, one of these teams will be in that mix.

Thanks for reading my sorta kinda preview of the upcoming Blue Jays season. I'll have some more thoughts as the season goes but for now I have only one thing left to say: let's play ball!

      

Five Thoughts On... The 2013 Toronto Blue Jays Hitters

Over the next week, West Collier Street will be previewing the upcoming Toronto Blue Jays season in a feature called "Five Thoughts On..."

This, the second installment, looks at some of the hitters:


1. Jose Bautista

Man, hurting your wrist must suck. Seriously. If the injury is to your dominant hand, it would hurt to use a pen or play guitar or high five someone, or after you've looked at pictures in a magazine to... uh yes, back to baseball!
There's no denying the offensive force that Jose Bautista has been the past few seasons, but there is doubt about his future excellence because of the wrist injury he suffered last season. The wrist is a very delicate part of the body, with many fragile bones that once damaged may never heal properly. A good sign though is that Jose has been belting home runs again this spring. Sure, these might not be bombs off of the likes of Sabathia or Verlander but what's important is that the strength in his swing is still there to hit a pitched baseball that far. Even minor league pitchers still throw in the 80s and 90s, and for Jose to still have enough quickness (and hands are a huge part of that) to turn on these balls is a tremendously positive sign.
One more point I'd like to make is about what a smart baserunner Bautista is. He might not have speed like Reyes or even Melky Cabrera, but if you're a pitcher and you forget about him out there he will take that base from you. A great mix of aggressiveness and awareness.

2. Anthony Gose versus Colby Rasmus

Both players are enormous talents with perhaps larger flaws. Rasmus is incredibly inconsistent as we saw last year, going through stretches where he seems like the game's next great outfielder and other stretches where you wonder if he should seriously try curling instead. Gose is an electric player, possessing such incredible speed that once he gets on base you stop what you're doing, because you're likely going to see something amazing. Anthony's major flaw though is his difficulty making contact, and really at this stage if you gave him a full major league season he'd likely set the major league record for batter strikeouts, and it would be a very secure record. Yet many fans of the team prefer Gose over Rasmus and it's easy to see why: Gose still has that shiny prospect status that tends to cloud our judgement now and again, and he's such a dynamite defensive outfielder that people argue, correctly, he can help the big team now that way. With Rasmus, we think we know what he is and what he will be, but for Crying Out Lind the guy is only 26 years old, and many hitters haven't completely figured themselves out by then (see Bautista, J. and Encarnacion, E.) At this point in time I prefer Rasmus, though I do love Go-Go. (I really hope that nickname catches on) Both players have incredible potential, but Colby is more likely to fully unleash that potential (and thus help the team more) this season than Gose. Besides, the kid is only 22. What's the rush?

3. Adam Lind

I dunno. He had a great spring, but it's spring. He seems healthy, but he's seemed healthy at the start of every season. He can't hit a left-hander to save his life, but you know he's going to have to face more than a few this year. I'm probably wrong, but I think his back issues has been the poison to his swing. The team put the poor guy at a position he had never played professionally (First Base), and wanting to prove himself he pushed himself too hard to learn it. First base can be surprisingly harsh on the back, as you're constantly having to quickly bend down and stretch yourself out as far as you can. I've got no problem with him being on the team as long as they aren't throwing him out there against C.C. Sabathia in August.

4. Speed

Consider this possibility: the 2013 Blue Jays could have three 40+ base stealers this year. With good health, you have to assume Reyes and Bonifacio get there, the rest depends on how much Rajai Davis plays. Oh and that Gose guy will probably swipe a few bags at some point. As a pitcher in a hardball league I can tell you if given a choice between surrendering a home run to a slugger, or surrendering a station-to-station run to a speedster, I'll take the home run. A home run is quick and efficient: you have to stand around like an idiot while some jerk runs happily around you (I don't like giving up home runs), but it's over quickly and you move on to the next batter. With a speedster, once they get on base your whole approach to pitching changes. You start overthinking your delivery, knowing you've got to be quicker to home plate to try stopping this guy. Sometimes it's just an inevitability: the runner is so fast and so smart that he's going to find a way to get to second base and there's nothing you or your catcher can do about it. Speed is an invaluable distraction, at any level of baseball, and boy is it fun to watch if you're not the one on the pitcher's mound.

5. The Melkman

Melky Cabrera was the talk of baseball last season, for better or worse. His breakout season with the Giants was cut short and tainted by his positive elevated testosterone test and suddenly so much skepticism surrounded him. There were questions of whether his improvements the past couple of seasons were natural or enhanced by performance enhancing drugs. Once in line for a hefty payday, now any team that signed Cabrera would surely be in store for an unwanted media firestorm of questions upon questions and questions about the questions. Fortunately for Cabrera, the team he signed with happened to be the Blue Jays, who this passing offseason added so many high profile players that Melky wasn't the main focus of media attention. I feel like Cabrera has been the "Where's Waldo" of the 2013 Blue Jays offseason: he's there somewhere, and if you're looking for him you'll probably find him eventually, but there's so much else going on that it's easy to lose sight of him. As to what I think he'll do this year, I have no clue, (what am I, a psychic?) I will say though, performance enhancing drugs seem to give players a greater chance to succeed, without automatically guaranteeing success. The player must be the one to put the advantage to good use, for what that's worth.

That covers the hitters. In the last upcoming installment, the competition!

Five Thoughts On... The 2013 Toronto Blue Jays Pitchers

                                 


Over the next week, West Collier Street will be previewing the upcoming Toronto Blue Jays season in a feature called "Five Thoughts On..."

This, the first installment, looks at the pitching staff.


1. Ricky Romero

If you visit any Blue Jays baseball blog, the topic being constantly argued about these days is what to do with Romero. It seems to me though, and it hurts me to say this because I've always been a fan of his, that having Romero start the season in the rotation is likely to be a disaster. Confidence is so important as a pitcher, as you are throwing an object towards people who are trained and capable at hitting said object hundreds of feet away. You need to be focused and certain of your abilities, and yet understand that even at your best sometimes these sluggers will still get the best of you. Ricky cannot seem to remember that. Every time he pitches the slightest sign of imperfection, whether it be a leadoff walk or home run or wild pitch, he seems to completely lose himself both physically and mentally. He tries to overcompensate, get five outs with one pitch: he has to be perfect after all. No pitcher is perfect, not even a healthy Roy Halladay, and so flawlessness is an impossible standard to live up to. I believe Ricky Romero will rise again, I really do, but it will take a while and there must be signs of improvement along the way. Until then, a major league starting rotation is the worst place for him to rediscover his confidence.

2. The Running Game

The stolen base is an underrated weapon. Players who have that ability can turn leadoff singles or walks or whatever, into runs with just another single or a wild pitch or a sac fly or anything really. Offensively this will be a key for the Blue Jays this season, but it will also be a major factor for Toronto's own starting pitchers, as in their ability to neutralize the oppositions running game. RA Dickey is no slouch in this department, Remember his excellent pickoff move to nab a Dominican Republic baserunner in the WBC? Dickey has very quick feet (like Casey Janssen actually) a key component for right handed pitchers to hold baserunners at first. Brandon Morrow has also improved significantly in preventing stolen base attempts. (17 in 2010, 22 in 2011, only 5 in 2012). To my unprofessional eye, a simplified quick delivery to home plate has made a universe of difference for Morrow in this regard. That Buehrle guy seems to be good at it too.  

3. The Closer

There seems to be a fair amount of skepticism regarding Casey Janssen as the 9th inning man. Some folks clamour for Sergio Santos to close out games because he's got '"closer stuff", the evil slider and the upper 90's fastball which seem to excite people. Janssen doesn't have any of that, but I find him a joy to watch anyway. He seems to carve up the strikezone as he pitches, like a skilled chef in a kitchen full of cooked turkeys (Similes are not my strength.) Whether it be those precisely placed cutters or that slow curveball, Janssen can throw anything at any time, anywhere. Plus he does that twiddling his hands thing before every pitch, also cool.

4. The Forgotten Man

Remember that guy who, at the time of the Marlins trade, was considered the centrepiece of the deal? Remember that guy who's 28 years old, has a 56-37 career record, a 3.15 career ERA and is also a free agent at the end of the year? It seems that with Ricky Romero's growing malady, Mark Buehrle's saga for the dogs and the constant mystique of R.A. Dickey, Josh Johnson has seemed almost an afterthought during spring training. Spring numbers mean nothing of course (though Johnson's look sick, wicked and nasty) and the two questions on JJ remain: How will be pitch in a new league during a contract year, and can he stay healthy? As a guess to the first question, I would say pretty well. He'll be facing a bunch of hitters who have ever seen him before and the advantage usually goes to the pitcher there. Second, I think questions of his health while valid, are overblown. Three of the last four years he's reached at least 180 innings, while only two Blue Jay pitchers did that last season and neither are on the big league team anymore.

5. Depth

With Ricky Romero optioned to Dunedin (just hours ago as I type this, in fact) the depth chart for Blue Jays starters doesn't look as strong with J.A. Happ now in the rotation. Guys like Justin Germano, Dave Bush and Ramon Ortiz certainly have plenty of previous experience as big league starters, but none of them are guys you'd want to see beyond a spot start or two. This is why I believe it's such a big year for the likes of Chad Jenkins and Deck McGuire. Both are high draft picks coming off very disappointing performances last year (though I thought Jenkins looked okay for the Jays last year, small sample size sure) but an opportunity might arise if one or both of them are pitching well and the big club needs somebody later in the season. Tall lefty Sean Nolin is another one to keep an eye on, possibly as a September callup if all goes well.

That does it for the pitching staff. In a few days, the hitters!

Grading Toronto LCBOs By Beer Selection

As some of you know, I'm a bit of a beer aficionado (or snob) and I can be very selective about the beers I choose to spend money on. For this reason, I've decided to compare some of Toronto's different LCBOs (what we call liquor stores, for those of you outside of Ontario) and see how they stack up in terms of variety, availability and other factors. School grades apply (A to F)

Here are a few LCBOs in no particular order.

Danforth/Greenwood

When I first moved to the east end of Toronto this past September, my first trip to this location was actually exciting. (Yeah, I have a problem) Seriously though, I was delighted to discover many of my personal favourites here: Denison's Weissbier, Muskoka Cream Ale and Weihenstephaner. Bizarrely, the once plentiful options at this store have dwindled over the past several months. They replaced Denison's with Miller Light (yep), and they're almost always out of anything that isn't sold at sporting events. The space inside is rather compact, so I can understand the limitations coming from that. I just wish Canadian didn't have it's own damn shelf.


Beer Grade: D+ 

Leaside

The beer section is buried in the corner (seems that's the case with most locations, now that I think about it) but once you find it you're not likely to be disappointed. Seasonal beers and local microbrews are well represented, it seems like they hardly run low on anything, and perhaps best of all most of it is on a refrigerated shelf. The only flaws might be that international beers could be better represented (or chilled), and also Leaside is damn hard to get to without a car or a good bicycle.

Beer Grade: A- (Denisons Weissbier +1 bonus point)

Coxwell/O'Connor

On the outside, it doesn't look like much. Actually it looks pretty bad, like the liquor store you imagine your neighbourhood hobo would go to after scrounging enough change for some Laker Ice. On the inside, it looks dated. Blank walls, old shelves and windows, the whole place feeling kind of boxy and square. The beer selection though is excellent. The rare but delicious Wellington Imperial Russian Stout is usually there, along with a solid assortment of Ontario's well known craft breweries. My only complaint (aside from the asthetics of the place) would be that many of the beers aren't cold, so you'd have to wait for a bit once you get home.

Beer Grade: B (Denisons Weissbier +1 bonus point)

East York Town Centre

Yeah it's in a mall, and a kind of bland outdated one at that, but come on. There is almost nothing here for somebody of discerning or even ordinary taste. It's small, cramped, and you can probably count the number of different beers they have before you even approach the shelf. At least there's bowling nearby.


Beer Grade: F
 

 
Summerhill

If you haven't been, go. If you have, go again.

Beer Grade: A+++ (Denisons Weissbier +1 bonus point)

5 A.M, Sunday Morning

Wilburn became tired of cruising internet videos and the social media updates of his friends, demonstrating his fatigue with an extended yawn. He had smartly changed into his pajamas some hours ago, but not feeling sleepy at that time he had continued watching episodes of television shows long ago forgotten by passing time and networks. Now the sky outside was calm, the trees steady against the young morning breeze, the streets empty aside from a raccoon sniffing ways to break into Mr. Yensoo's garbage bin. Wilburn shut his computer and lay his head to his pillow. Another day would soon be upon him, another day of possibilities and perhaps, unseen opportunity.

Better Living Through Chemistry

        'Hurry up. We don't have much time left.'

        I fumble beside the bed for my jeans, peeking at her smooth naked back while I do so. Her left hand strokes my skin and it is with my best willpower I resist the impulse to throw myself back into her loving embrace.    
       My blue jeans are on the floor next to her lamp. I put my legs through while she fastens her bra with a set of clicks. My shirt is across the room and I go retrieve it, sensing her eyes watching me go. Our faces catch another glance and she smiles instantly, the kind my grandparents used to call a "Hollywood Movie Smile". On impulse I move closer so our lips can be reacquainted but a thunderous noise from outside interrupts us.

        'Too late.' I mutter. 'They're here.'

        I button my shirt and charge down towards the front door. After a hard breath I push it open and see exactly what I expected: hundreds of drone soldiers, all dressed in full rubber body armour and carrying grappling hook rifles. They have gas masks for faces, identical cybernetic helmets for hair and each stand in flawless formation with the exact same posture. How long ago they were once ordinary humans I'm not really certain, all that matters is their presence here and their immediate intentions towards us. I sprint back inside, locking the door tight behind me.

        'Is there a back way out of here?' I ask, arriving back in the bedroom.
        'There's a secret way through my bookcase.' She nods, doing up her belt. 'How close are they?'

        The sound of a smashed window rings throughout the house.

        'Very. Let's go.'

        She grabs hold of my hand and leads me through the bookcase, which spins forward and leads us into a neglected greenhouse. We rush out the doors and into her large back field, the sound of the drones bulldozing through her bedroom closely behind.

        'Into the woods! We'll lose them in there!' She shouts, leading towards some tall crooked trees ahead.

        Just as dozens of greenhouse windows shatter we slip into a thick part of the forest. We charge ahead, stumbling over twigs and rocks with only a full moon lighting our way. After several minutes of running we stop, completely short of breath. The glow of the moon gives just enough illumination for her light brown eyes to shine marvelously in the night. 

        'Is there anywhere we can go nearby?' I gasp.
        'Nothing within twenty kilometres.' She whispers. 'Our neighbours have all been compromised. Maybe down the road we can find---'

        Her words are cut short by dozens of bright orbs appearing in the woods, shining beams of light from every direction. The eyes of the drones, serving as flashlights, to better track us down and close in.

        'Let's keep moving!' I say, taking her hand.

        We rush forward past more trees but their beams only become stronger. She pulls me to the left just as one beam becomes so strong I swear a rubbery hand nearly swipes my shoulder. The lights are so blinding I can only stare down at the ground so to see anything. Somehow she leads me forward, changing directions at the right moments even while the orbs and beams keep doubling. 
        Suddenly we stop. Once my vision returns I see a river blocking our path.

        'Can we go around?' 

        Dozens of orb lights flicker behind us, some of the drones now visible just a few trees away.

        'There's no other way.' She says. 'We've got to jump in. Can you swim?'
        'In an emergency, sure.' I reply. 'On five. One, two... five!'

        Still holding hands, we leap in and hit the water with an impressive splash. The current immediately grabs and carries us rapidly downstream. After a fighting moment to keep myself afloat I find my legs and amateurly tread water, meanwhile she bobs along the surface effortlessly as though the ethnicity of "duck" had been passed down through her family tree. I admire her aquatic grace until a grappling hook misses her head by centimetres, hitting a bush along the river shore instead.
       Dozens of drones are along the side of the river, aiming their grappling rifles. Another hook lands in the water two metres in front of us, forcing us to swim apart from each other to dodge the onslaught. I grab a floating stick and hurl it at a drone about to fire at her, disrupting it's aim wildly onto the other side of the river. She dips underwater and emerges with a large stone, firing it squarely into the mask of a drone who would have hit me point blank.
       The water picks up intensity and suddenly we're both flying uncontrollably fast down the stream. Up ahead the horizon vanishes and my stomach sinks: this is the top of a waterfall. From this view I cannot tell how far down the waterfall goes but the drop looks increasingly fatal the closer it comes.
       A grappling hook suddenly strikes a lonely rock way ahead of us and stays fixed in place, the rope connected to the hook possibily within our reach in a quick moment. My first thought is to grab for it, but her tug on my hand stops me. Thinking how the rest of my life, our lives, will unfold by grabbing that rope: to be hopelessly captured and at the mercy of the drones, perhaps even forcefully becoming one of them. And so would go the rest of existence, an unthinking tool of a faceless machination. Yet we would still be alive, she would still be alive. I reach out for the rope.
       I turn to her face and again see those marvelous eyes, seeming so vibrant by the light reflecting off the water. Her hand grabs onto mine one last time, the grappling rope passes us by, and down the river we go until wherever we land.