‘Tis the delightful season to be jolly — a jolly sports fan, that is. Especially an unabashed sports addict (like myself), what with the Stanley Cup playoffs into their final week, the Blue Jays finally bringing their starry youth brigade up to the major leagues, and the Toronto Raptors enrapturing the country with their dynamic, pulsating run to the NBA finals on the shoulders of one of the most quietly disposed superstars of any sport I can ever recall watching.
Wonderful stuff.
I’ve gotten a regular dose of goosebumps listening to the bells and whistles of the hockey broadcast opening with the legendary Foster Hewitt’s introduction of: “Hello, Canada, and hockey fans in the United States and Newfoundland,” a reminder to mainland Canadians and, in fact, to the youth of this place, that our existence as an independent nation is not some piece of ancient history, and why most of us still think of ourselves as Newfoundlanders first, Canadians second, a status confirmed by every poll I know to have been taken over the years.
Now, I still have to mute the introductory phase of the broadcast when I hear Ron MacLean’s foot-shuffling attempt to take on the role of hockey’s poet laureate or when he plays sycophant to Don Cherry’s inane ramblings.
But with all these sports — baseball, hockey and basketball (and NFL football in the fall) — as enjoyable forms of escapism they all happen to be, I also have a nightly gagging fit before and after the games as interviewers and athletes engage in the most phony exchanges you’d see or hear anywhere.
Just once, I’d love to hear a player in any sport say what’s really on his mind; no more of the public relations bull, the emphasis on platitudes and false modesty. “That’s a real fine team over there, talented in so many areas, and we’re gonna have to be at our very best to match their skills.”
Instead, how about this sort of honest declaration? “We hate those guys. They’re a bunch of crybabies, and we’re gonna drive it down their throats and run up the score so bad their goalie will have a sunburn on the back of his neck from all the times that red light goes on when we score a goal.”
But it’s not only sports where feigned sincerity and basic dishonesty are displayed for all to see; another area of phony language that’s always in need of a transfusion of straight, honest talk has got to be politics, and most especially the election night routine of nice guy (or nice gal) congratulatory speeches.
Ches Crosbie was torn to shreds by holier-than-thou fellow politicians, media pundits, political scientists, columnists and assorted letter-writers for daring to say exactly what was on his mind…
I’d be rich enough to buy a new truck yearly if I had a dollar for every occasion when I heard a politician deliver the type of so-called gracious speech, in victory or defeat, when I knew damn well he or she was seething deep down and wanted to share that anger, that disappointment, that bitterness, with the electorate. Why not let ’er rip, I’d often think to myself.
But look what happened when we were treated to a rare display of honesty and unambiguity during that recent election night in Newfoundland: Ches Crosbie was torn to shreds by holier-than-thou fellow politicians, media pundits, political scientists, columnists and assorted letter-writers for daring to say exactly what was on his mind, namely that he would use the results, a minority government situation, to take down Premier Dwight Ball.
Good god, you wouldn’t know but Lucifer himself had written the speech, that Ches the Moose Man had committed one of the most dastardly political crimes in the history of Newfoundland, so much so that he was forced a week or so later to come crawling before the media (and thus, the province), with his tail between his legs, practically begging for forgiveness.
Well, from where I sit, the Ches we saw on election night was much more transparent (the latest buzzword in political discussions), candid and refreshing than the Ches of a week later.
For sure, it was classless on his part not to thank the voters in his district (and his backroom boys and girls for their efforts during the campaign). But I thought there was absolutely nothing wrong with saying how he felt, and confirming what every voting soul from Gooseberry Cove to Goose Bay knew to be the truth: that, if given the chance, he would force Ball from power. Even the saucy crack about Judy Foote, the former Liberal politician, strutting around as the lieutenant-governor in her old district during the campaign was fair game.
Say what you want about Joey Smallwood, but he was “right on,” as Snook would put it, when he offered the view — in that uniquely repetitive style of his — that the “first responsibility of a politician is to get elected, that the second responsibility of a politician is to get elected, that the third responsibility....”
Ches Crosbie wants to be premier. That’s why he got into politics. He still wants to be premier.
And if that means taking advantage of Ball’s precarious political status, then that’s what he’ll do.
What politician wouldn’t? Any who wouldn’t should apply for unemployment. Or join a convent or a monastery.
Ches Crosbie’s problem was that he laid all his cards on the table on election night, hurt feelings be damned.
Then, under pressure, he wimped out, he folded.
He scored one week and missed an open net the next.
Bob Wakeham has spent more than 40 years as a journalist in Newfoundland and Labrador. He can be reached by email at [email protected]
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