International Baseball Madness

I am incredibly pumped for the World Baseball Classic game tomorrow. USA vs. Canada. A rematch of the game. I have no idea how I am going to watch it, but I definitely will try.

The game is of course the Canada vs. USA World Baseball Classic game in 2006. I was still on the U of T campus when the game began, and didn't know the score until I got into my dad's car for the ride home. It was only then that I found out about the ridiculous lead that Canada had built, in Arizona no less, from the FAN590 (the local sports radio station). Needless to say, I was shocked. Remember, we are talking about baseball here. America's national pastime.

Unfortunately, none of the radio stations was actually playing the game, and so I remained at the mercy of the FAN590 and their game updates. Considering it was still early in the game, the car ride only got more and more nerve-racking, even as the Canadian lead kept growing. Could they actually pull off the upset?

When we finally arrived home, I bolted out of the car, into the house, and to the nearest available TV. We arrived joyously to see the Americans were still down by 8 runs.

However, Adam Loewen, who was the starting pitcher for Canada, had to be pulled from the game - despite having handcuffed the US for the first few innings. With the departure of Loewen, the Americans started to mount an incredible comeback in the 5th inning, much to my dismay.

After having already put up 6 runs in the fifth so as to pull the game back to 8-6 Canada, the Americans loaded the bases with two outs and set the stage for Chase Utley, the American second baseman.

At this point, I was terrified. Not only had the Americans clawed there way back, but we had some pitcher I had never heard of on the mound, and he was pitching to probably the best hitting second baseman in the game. And just as expected, the pitcher threw a beachball right down the middle of the plate that Utley was more than willing to crush.

All I could manage to do was slump over in my chair in agony. The game had gone sour. The momentum had completely changed in favour of the Americans. Even worse, Canada's pitching staff was essentially cobbled together from whomever they could find, and so I did not believe that they could keep the Americans from running away with the victory.

The game was essentially over and I knew it. So did Chase Utley, who made the moment so much more devastating when he allowed a smarmy grin to creep onto his face. He even raised his fist in triumph before the ball had left the park, a moment I expected would haunt me in my sleep. But then Adam Stern happened.

Adam Stern was/is a middling prospect who, at the time, had played a handful of games at the Major League Level, and has hardly played any more since. But this was his day. He was batting ninth, and yet somehow managed to collect 4 RBI's which included this glorious piece of work. Just watch that clip. The announcer didn't even know who he was.

Most importantly, Adam Stern was not about to let Canada lose this game.

I wish I could find a video of the ensuing play. All I remember is the ball sailing off of Utley's bat, headed to the bleachers behind centerfield. Both Utley and I assumed it was a homerun, but instead, Adam Stern came out of nowhere to make a ridiculous leaping catch right by the wall. As he fell into a heap on the ground, I leaped out of my chair and screamed in joy. The inning was over. Canada still had the lead. We could still win this game!

Sure enough, the scrubs that together formed Canada's pitching staff somehow managed to hold on for the win. Canada 8, USA 6. IN BASEBALL! It was one of the most satisfying sports victories I could possibly imagine.

The rematch of this game goes down tomorrow at the Roger's Centre in Toronto. I wish I could be there, however I am in Edmonton. But I am proud to hear my sister is keeping the faith and attending. If you enjoy baseball (particularly if you are Canadian, or even just mildly approve of Canada), you should make every effort to go.

If you do go, give the team (especially for Adam Stern) a standing ovation. And when you are done, give them a second one for me.

A Good Day

Yesterday was a busy one, and I was actually quite productive, particularly considering it was a Friday. I even missed lunch (which is atypical) because I really wanted to get a few proofs written, proofread, and emailed to a prof before a group meeting I had to attend in the late afternoon. I finished some other work after the meeting, and then, in the evening I went out for drinks with some friends.

As our crowd dissipated, I headed over to another friend's home for some poker. We ended up playing dealer's choice (in which the dealer decides at the beginning of each hand what variant of poker, from any in existence, we will be played for that round) well into the night. After finally losing my $5 buy-in hours after we had started, I decided to head home.

So it is 3am, and a friend of mine and I decide to walk instead of call a cab. Well, I should mention that I wouldn't have minded taking a cab (it was 3am), except my friend kept insisting that the walk could be done in 25 minutes. Stubborn old me was more than willing to humour his delusions just to prove him wrong (which I did quite successfully).

In any case, it is February in Edmonton and after an absurdly warm winter thus far, the weather has finally started to become more typical for the season. That means our walk is accompanied by -20 to -25 degree Celsius temperatures. Both of us were well-equipped for this particular situation and so we just shrugged off the conditions and entered into a lengthy (much longer than 25 minute) discussion about how the cop-win number of an arbitrary graph is bounded by a function of the graph's genus.

Now, I don't expect you to have any idea of what that last line means. As it is, I barely do. But I bring it up to make the following point: in grad school, no matter where you are, what time it is, what shenanigans you have just engaged in, or what weather is being thrown at you, science is never that far away.

Caffeine in the Morning? I'll Stick with Sugar, Thank You

The other day, I was at the supermarket browsing the aisles when I passed by a box of Pop Tarts. I immediately giggled to myself as I remembered the sugary goodness of this breakfast treat. Since I couldn't remember the last time I had easten one, I picked up the box to have a closer look and saw the following:
SALE: 24 Pop Tarts for $8

At this point, the bargain-hunter in me took over. How could I not buy them at that price? 24 Pop Tarts for $8? That is fantastic!

It is a definitely a satisfying feeling to be financially responsible about never growing up.

Number 13, Mats Sundin

In the early and min-nineties, I was quite the devoted fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs. I used to set up shrines to the team in my room when they made the playoffs, and I still hold a grudge against Wayne Gretzky for high-sticking Doug Gilmour in 1993 (don't let anybody in Edmonton know).

However, my interest in hockey started to wane as I became frustrated with the way the game had evolved, specifically the omnipresent hooking and holding which slowed the game down. It didn't help that the Leafs continually stumbled when trying to develop the team: overpaying past-their-prime free agents; continually trading draft picks and prospects for ineffective veterans; and, not giving their own young players any opportunity to develop.

I still followed the team, but perhaps not with the same intensity as I did before. I didn't watch as many regular season games, but I did keep abreast of all the happenings and goings on.

Along came the lockout which brought with it many rule changes that I was happy with. However, the salary cap meant that the Leafs could no longer cover their mismanagement by throwing money around.

And then I moved to Edmonton, and for the first time, the fan of a visiting team. Surprisingly, this has revitalized my interest, at least in some part because I am no longer inundated with Leafs news at all hours of the day. I actually have to put effort into my fandom, and better yet, I don't have to hear about every tiny little nugget of irrelevance even tangentially related to someone on the team.

And maybe that is the only reason for this blog post. Perhaps my distance has allowed me to escape the Mats-fatigue which I'm sure has descended on quite a few Leafs fans.

But then again, that was quite the standing ovation last night, particularly considering the circumstances under which he left.

Through all my trials and tribulations with the Leafs and hockey in general, Mats was the one constant. I would argue that he was so consistent, that Leafs fans took him for granted until perhaps the last few years of his tenure.

In some sense, Mats was a puzzle. He was a huge body whose presence on the ice was always felt. And yet somehow he did so in an unassuming way. His goals were rarely of the spectacular variety, even as they kept piling up. And when he or someone else on the team scored, he merely flashed a smile and raised his arms - and sometimes, not even that.

Mats' consistency was remarkable. From 1995-2008, he scored between 72 and 83 points all but one time (the 94 point 2001-2002 season). He did this by making his teammates better, even when he had absolute scrubs playing alongside him.

And nobody kept their emotions in check like Mats. He made sure that personally, he never got too caught up in the highs and lows of the moment, and the team followed his lead. I always identified with this aspect of his personality, and cherished his steady hand steering the ship.

But the fiasco in the last year was concerning. I bought his line about not wanting to be a rental player, and the importance of being with a team from September to June. At the time, I thought it made perfect sense. It has to be slightly bittersweet to win a cup as a rental player. Sure, your blood and sweat will go into finishing the job, but you joined the team when they were on top - you didn't have to put up with the ups and downs of the marathon that is the season.

I imagine it is similar to the difference between a fan who has put up with years of hardship only to see their faith rewarded, versus a bandwagon fan who jumps on for the last leg. The bandwagon fan will enjoy the experience, but to whom will it taste sweeter?

But then Mats hemmed and hawed for a long time, and joined Vancouver midseason. Suddenly, I was forced to question the words and the character of a person whom I had admired since I was eleven or twelve. He said that his time in Toronto meant a great deal to him, but could we take his word?

As everyone knows, last night he returned to Toronto as a Canuck, and while all week I tried to pretend it was no big deal, yesterday, around 6:30 eastern time, I started getting nervous. As the big guy came out onto the ice, I dare say I pacing in my apartment. I'm not sure whose reaction I anticipated more: the crowd, or Mats'.

A smattering of boos whenever he touched the puck was not unexpected. Neither was the standing ovation when they played the video tribute. But the visibly emotional Mats was.

I did not know what to expect, but his reaction did mean a lot, even as brief as it was. His time as a Maple Leaf did mean as much to him as it did to the rest of us, if not more. Nevermind the history of the franchise, and the cliched nonsense about "what it means to have that logo on your sweater". Simply put, even if the city of Toronto was reluctant at first to accept their Swedish captain, by the end of his tenure, he had connected with the community. That meant something to him, and it meant something to us.

I love the story of how during the ovation he asked the linesman to drop the puck because he had had enough. The chink in his armor had been revealed, but it was time to refocus and get back to business. His new team needed him to steady the ship because they had a game to win. Typical Mats.

I look forward to the day when Sundin's 13 will be hanging from the rafters.
And since the Leafs are pretty much done, I think I might have to throw in my support for a Vancouver cup run this year.

The Greatest Ski Boots Ever

This past weekend, I went to Fernie, BC for a ski trip with some friends. In order to save time at the ski hill, I rented my equipment in Edmonton.

Anyways, here is a picture of the ski boots I rented:

At first glance, they look pretty ordinary. But let us take a closer look at that red strip in the front.That's right, ladies and gentlemen, my ski boots can travel through time.

In this week's episode: The Evil Luggage Carousel

I wanted to mention one other aspect of the suitcase losing ordeal - specifically how the luggage carousel at the Edmonton Airport is designed to maximize frustration in the event of lost baggage.

The luggage carousel at the Edmonton airport is split in half by a wall. On one side of the wall, the airline passengers have access to the baggage on the carousel. On the other side, the airline employees presumably (and ideally) place the baggage onto the conveyor belt. To get from one side of the wall to the other, the conveyor belt (and luggage) must pass through openings in the wall, which are curtained with black rubber blinds that shield us from knowing the terrifying truth about what happens on the other side of the wall. These curtains are only pushed aside by luggage passing from one realm to the other.

Each suitcase then takes the following voyage. To make this description more entertaining, I suggest you assume that this journey is accompanied by Raymond Scott's Powerhouse (see this link for the full composition). First, the suitcase is placed on the conveyor belt by an employee. The suitcase then passes through the opening and is available to be retrieved by the passengers. The suitcase is then either claimed, or it is taken by the conveyor belt to a second opening which leads back to the employee side of the wall. The suitcase then continues this journey until it is removed from the carousel by an employee or an airline passenger.

After most of the crowd has collected their luggage and moved on, us unlucky few are left to stare agonizingly at those black rubber blinds that cover the entrance to the passenger side of the wall, endlessly waiting for it to our turn to skip to the conveyor belt, collect our luggage, and merrily be on our way. And every time those blinds begin to buckle so as to allow some suitcase to pass, you momentarily have some hope. "It might be my bag this time," you think. You even manage to convince yourself that you are finally going to get to leave this miserable place.

But of course, it is not your bag that peeks through those black rubber blinds. It is that same stupid hard-plastic neon pink suitcase that has already made at least 30 trips around the carousel while you have been waiting. The few of us who have not already taken our frustration out on some poor airport employee are left to sigh in disgust and wait until our spirits have been fully broken by the next appearance of that hideously cruel bag.

I really hate that hard-plastic neon pink suitcase. I really do.

A Waste of Good Lasagna

It seems everyone has had some sort of experience with an airline losing their luggage. I have always been extremely lucky in this regard - especially considering how often I have been travelling by plane in the past year and a half. Well today, my personal percentages starting tipping back towards the mean.

I should have known I was in for trouble when I found Toronto's Pearson Airport in a state of chaos, with all the lines for those who checked in on the web, those who were late, and those who checked in on spot (and seemingly tagged their own bags), all jumbled up. I believe the line I was in actually got re-purposed while I was in it, without my knowledge.

I'm not going to bore you with (many of) the details, because you've heard the same song and dance before. What distinguishes this story from the others (or at least some), is that my missing bag (I did find one of them) contained frozen lasagna.

It has been family tradition that my Nonna cooks a massive plate of lasagna for Christmas. Since the following day is my birthday, and lasagna is my favourite pasta, I inherit what is left over. The significant portion that was not consumed either on Christmas or during the holidays, was then to be brought to Edmonton, where I could keep it frozen, and eat it from time to time.

Well, I have yet to receive my bag and having been almost 24 hours since I took the lasagna out of the freezer, I think it is safe to say that my plans have been foiled.