O Canada? No thank you

Spring Break is marked by the annual pilgrimage of college coeds to the southern shores of the U.S. to partake in what will be considered the most Godless seven days of their lives. Twenty-somethings in search of the perfect tan spend their vacation drinking and aimlessly exploring the sun-covered paradise in which they’ve found themselves.

Of course, then there are those of us who are broke.

We go north, my friends. Most of the time to Windsor, ON, a little place where the temperature drops upon entry and visitors take in a beautiful view of one of America’s most beautiful and vibrant cities...um...Detroit?

Okay, so it’s not as perfect as Florida but at least it’s not home. Besides, perhaps I could partake in a few drinks with friends and maybe even watch some sports. (When one goes into sports journalism they have unknowingly invited sports into every aspect of their lives. Even vacation. It’s actually kind of sick and these are the types of things about which I’ll have to warn my son.)

Upon checking into the hotel I flicked on the TV, just to check on some spring training games and to get the NFL’s latest free agency news. As it turns out, Canadian television doesn’t carry ESPN. After the spasms in my left arm subsided, I was able to find the Canuck’s supposed replacement and sat down to watch a little of the suspiciously titled, Sports Central.

I patiently sat through twenty minutes of hockey highlights, fifteen minutes of curling recaps, and five minutes of Canadian Football League news before I suddenly realized that I was, in fact, in bizarro America.

In this sadistic excuse for a country the pros and cons of NFL transactions aren’t debated as they are announced, but rather nonchalantly scanned across their own version of the bottom line...never to be discussed again. I never thought I’d see the day where I yearned so badly for Sean Salisbury to call John Clayton a nerd or some variation there of.

As far as baseball is concerned, it might as well be non-existent. Once one crosses the border, America’s pastime is discarded faster than a latex glove after being used by an over-zealous border patrolman. In fact, for a country that just beat us in the World Baseball Classic, they didn’t even seem to hint at gloating and instead refused to acknowledge the game’s very presence.

“No big deal,” I thought. I could overcome the addiction that most American men deal with everyday. I could break loose from the proverbial chains placed on us by 24-hour sports coverage and up to the minute scores on everything from laptops to cell phones. Right?

Day one started off simply enough. Dinner and drinks with friends while talking about our lives and telling stories. Not a single thought on whether my beloved Cleveland Browns had signed anymore free agents or if my Pacers were holding their own while battling against the worst luck ever to be bestowed upon an NBA team. Not a one. Until we went to a bar.

Fighting my way to the front of the crowd just to get a glimpse at the scrolling text that rolled along the bottom of the screen to find out if anything of stateside importance happened while the Sports Central anchor rattled off a veritable cornucopia of hockey information. His name was Craig. He was looking more and more smug by the minute. I continued this routine, only stopping to acknowledge the waitress that was making rounds and selling tequila shooters. (Another thing about which I’ll have to warn my son.)

It seemed that the only time she came around was when the all-knowing text-scroll was about to announce which squad had recently signed LB Julian Peterson to a six year contract. Just missing it every time, the only thing I could gather was that the team’s name ended with an “S.”

The next two nights went along the same line until the group decided to hit a place that touted their multiple giant projection screens with 24 hour sports coverage. My hopes suddenly shot higher than they had been all week. After arrival only one thought ran through my mind: I should have known better.

They had five giant screens, this was true. Each one of them, however, was graced with the visual spectacle that is women’s curling. All five of them. Was this some sort of sick joke? Too make things worse, this particular channel didn’t even have a bottom line. The patriot inside me wept.

Here we were, just across the river from where Superbowl XL, the epitome of the American dream, took place no more than forty days ago and I couldn’t even find out whether or not if Bud Selig had read enough of the latest best seller to make a decision on the suspension of Barry Bonds.

I suppose, if anything, it just goes to show how things can change when you step into another culture that you might have to let your guard down and experience things you never thought of before. Maybe this is just the first step of many our society has to take before we can truly consider ourselves a globalized society. I believe it was Plato who said that we...

What’s that? What do you mean GEORGE MASON beat UConn?! That’s it. Close up the border. I’m never going back.

Jess Mosser is a columnist for Atomic Sports Media, writes for The Post at Ohio University, and is currently burning his passport. You can reach him at jesse.mosser@atomicsportsmedia.com.

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