racingmeridian.com

Recent works by Globe and Mail columnist Stephen Brunt have had the nutritional value of a pop tart. The doyen of sports writing in Toronto, Brunt has penned a series of indifferent summer columns. Here’s a summation; “Phoenix losing money..Gretzky overpaid..Bettman lying..Balsillie a phony but I can’t tell you why..here’s some CFL stuff that no one will read and I can barely stand typing..see you in two days”. Today’s piece in the Globe has the Bruntmeister General back in form with a weighty and thought provoking piece on the current status of the Toronto Blue Jays. It’s the best piece on the Jays I’ve read all year. Brunt explains why the demise of Ted Rogers has combined with the world economic slump to move the Jays into treacherous waters. An interesting point, one of which I was unaware, notes the NFL does not allow its franchises to be owned by corporations. A singular focus on shareholder value, it is felt, can prove detrimental to the on field product. Nice to have the Hamiltonian cum Newfoundlander recover his groove…at the end of his NFL career John Elway had difficulty negotiating stairs. Dan Marino turned down a big money opportunity (ironically enough it was from the Minnesota Vikings) to play an extra year and cited the wear and tear on his body. Troy Aikman staggered out of his life as a professional athlete and would not entertain a comeback. In this context, it is nice to finally find an admirable side to Brett Favre and the recent Viking drama. Despite the chance to join a team with serious Superbowl prospects this year, and one which would have placed minimal expectations on his prowess (instead simply asking him to run the high powered running attack and be more competent than the bumbling, stumbling Sage Rosenfels), Favre opted to retire. The aches and pains coursing through his knees and ankles gave Favre the impetus to turn his back on millions. A proper and rational evaluation of Favre and his place in football can commence in earnest now, with the shortcomings of his painful stint in New York not a part of the dialogue…so, basically, American Michael Phelps will continue to compete as long as he can win. If he can’t win, he’ll take his bong and American flag and head home. Inspiring stuff…thoroughbred owner Jess Jackson is proving to be the Buzzkill of the 2009 racing season. First Jackson opted to keep his three year old filly superstar Rachel Alexandra out of an eminently winnable Belmont Stakes. Now he has squawked off again on his absolute refusal to consider the Preakness winning filly for the Breeders Cup. Jackson attributes his colt Curlin’s loss in the 2008 Breeders Cup Classic to the plastic surface at Santa Anita. (Nope, Jess. Curlin was an overrated runner at the end of a long campaign). Racing is in desperate need of promotion. A mouth watering throw down between West Coast queen Zenyatta and Rachel would energize racing fans and potentially generate attention in the mainstream press. Jackson appears bitter and silly. Racing appears ragged and impoverished. Ultimately the sport is a collection of the decisions and actions undertaken by its guardians and decision makers. While the shallow and self serving remain entrenched in power the long term health and viability of the sport will remain in question…choosing a local (an Irish expression referring to a warm comfortable establishment wherre one may regularly consume alcoholic beverages whilst in the comapny of folks one likes and respects)can be the most important thing in a man’s life. Yes I am serious, and no, I’m not married. A couple of unfortunate closings, a couple of rough moments, and this drunken version of Caine in Kung-Fu set out along the highways and byways of Toronto in search of a pub to call home. My journey proved time consuming and frustrating. A local must, first and foremost, allow a man to be himself. If you want to read, be left alone, cry hysterically, roar and shout, party, whatever, the local should have the flexibility to accommodate. Well, brothers and sisters, in my travels I found bars that served swill from filthy lines, staff that were rude and haughty, owners who were liars and thieves, bouncers who preyed on those trained to cower by their high school bully, sumptuous bars suffocating on their indifference and taverns swallowed whole by the callow and vile swine posing as patrons. Brothers and sisters, I was lost and I spent months, months, in the wilderness, simply trying to find a place I could call home. When the night seemed darkest, when hope was as elusive as a phat spliff at a Shriners convention, I stumbled upon my oasis…you’ll note, firstly, an absence of the phony effusiveness found in generic, cookie-cutter chain establishments. Prove your worth, homeboy, or you can head elsewhere. Second, you’ll find a great owner and incredible staff. Third, of course, magnificent beer. And, as a considerable bonus, the best damn burger in the Big Smoke. Rails and Ales at Pape and Danforth, brothers and sisters, enough to make you say Amen!, and enough to bring the Meridian’s long journey to an end…(and, uhh, last Friday, best   party   ever. Still haven’t sobered up)…