HAMILTON— July 2004 isn’t the beginning of my story; it’s just the point where everything changed. The reason why there is a story to tell at all.   

   If my path continued on as it had before that summer, there would be nothing more for me to say. But life has a funny way of taking us on a different path. Through those changes we are sometimes given things, and just as often, we have things we care about taken away from us.

   As many men and women wiser than I have noted, we tend not to take notice of the things we have until they are gone. That is most certainly the basis of my story.  My hope is that if I never forget what I lost, I will one day be able to find it again.

   I have always loved sports, though in the beginning, they seemed terribly distant. The idea of being able to be a part of something bigger than myself, to fight for a common goal, always appealed to me.

  As a boy however, I was a loner. I was not at all athletic, I was socially awkward, and painfully shy. Being part of a team was a dream that seemed truly out of reach.

   My family was not wealthy. My parents made ends meet through the kinds of heroic efforts that we never appreciate until we are too old to properly say ‘thank- you’. This had the dual effect of providing me an excuse to avoid trying out for sports (who could afford pads or skates or a good glove?), and also keeping me remote from professional sports — of which we certainly could not afford the luxury of experiencing.

   It was the kind of chance; a tiny accident that only occurs in the normal lives of normal people in places like Hamilton (or Stoney Creek to be precise), that first brought me through the gates of Ivor Wynne Stadium.

   I was engaged in my most frequent of solitary activities – delivering newspapers for the Hamilton Spectator – and in so doing, I won a contest. I don’t recall to this day what the contest was, but the result was four tickets to a pre-season game. I also don’t recollect who came with me (other than my mother), but I remember sitting in the south stands, looking over the field, and thinking that I had never seen anything so wonderful, yet terrifying, in my life.

   Imagine being the kind of boy who never wanted to be looked at, who wanted badly to be the centre of attention but was also terrified of what that would mean. And try to understand how it felt to see a place where thousands upon thousands of people loomed above men whose names, whose every move were broadcast. The idea of upwards of around thirty thousand people cheering (or booing), my every move made me week in the knees. The sheer power of it was terrifying, but also addicting. One pre-season game, and I was hooked.

   In the years to follow, I did whatever I could to return to that place; to immerse myself in it’s glory.

   I saved up enough money from my paper route to buy a ticket to the icy, bitter cold playoff game where Ozzy booted that miracle field goal. I did the same to be at the game that would end up being Matt Dunnigan’s last in the CFL.

   I traded skills – like yard work or hooking up a computer - with my neighbours in exchange for their tickets, so that I could see the Tiger-Cats play now-forgotten teams from Las Vegas and Baltimore. The lessons I learned watching those games, were the lessons that I needed in order to grow up.

   I learned that preparation and perseverance are the universal qualities of success; I learned that being tough doesn’t mean being a bully, but rather getting up off the ground after the bully knocks you down, and going back for more. I learned that being part of a team means both relying on others, and letting them rely on you. Maybe most importantly, I learned that no matter how big the odds, no matter how remote the possibilities, victory is never impossible to achieve.

   Through the tough times our team has had to endure, while some concentrated on the surmounting losses, I concentrated on the unlikely wins. I had to focus on the comebacks and upsets, because in a strange way, the Tiger-Cats became my cultural teachers.

   Like the Tiger-Cats, I was the underdog. I had to fight for everything. The wins were few and far between, yet spectacular all the same; even if only to me.
  

   Along the way, I fought hard to come out of my shell – aided in no small part by the vocalization lessons (aka yelling and cheering), that I received from my fellow Tiger-Cat fans. Eventually, I learned to talk to people and make friends.

   I worked part-time jobs from the time I was 14 years old, even after my parents fought our way out of poverty. I busted my butt to become one of the best students in my high school, and dreamed of becoming the first person in my family to graduate from university. That dream started to become a reality when I entered my hometown school, McMaster, in ’99.

   I could focus on the negatives, including the low point of my high school graduation. Despite my grades and volunteer work, I won no scholarships as they were monopolized by the only two students above me in grades — also both athletes of which I still was not.

   I accepted that I would have to work my way through school like everyone else. My role models were Joe Montford; too small for the NFL, Paul Osbaldiston; whose appearance belied his talents, and Darren Flutie; small, unassuming, and overshadowed by his famous brother. 

   Following their example, I knew I would succeed. After all, the fact that the 1999 Grey Cup came in the same year that I started to learn about the wider world and become an adult, seemed like no coincidence to me.

   That was just Hamilton; just Steeltown to me. Always overlooked, never given an advantage, but showing up to fight none the less. Many people overlooked me in favour of other students, but it wasn’t them I was fighting for anyway.

   Through it all, I never missed a game. I had talked my family into buying four season tickets – one each for my parents, one for my older brother, and one for myself. Our seats in Box J were like a temple to me. No matter how stressful, confusing, and challenging the rest of my life became, I knew that I would return there and it would all make sense. Even as the team began to unravel, both on the field and in the owner’s box, I was there. Faithfully.

► Continued on FB6