Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 23/2/2010 (4261 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.
To: Cheryl Bernard
From: An Armchair Olympian
Re: You didn't have the hammer, so you stole my heart
Dear Cheryl: I know you're pretty busy leading our Olympic women's curling team to a gold medal, but I have something urgent to tell you.
I think my wife is starting to suspect something.
She knows I've never been a big curling fan, so she's starting to wonder why I'm spending so many nights in our den, alone, in the dark, making moony faces at our new big-screen TV.
I've tried telling her I've developed a sudden fascination with ice-dancing, but I don't think she's buying it.
None of this makes sense to me, Cheryl. I've said some terrible things about curling in the past. Like how it combines the thrills and chills of playing shuffleboard at the Legion with the gut-wrenching drama of watching the janitor sweep up at your local high school.
I can seen now, Cheryl, I was a fool.
What I'm trying to say is: I've fallen for you and this crazy little game. Fallen hard. You and your nifty little curling broom have swept me off my feet. You've rocked my world since the Olympics got underway.
I don't know exactly when it happened. I think it was that night I saw you dismember those nasty Norwegian curlers in their punk-style schoolgirl curling skirts.
It was a magical moment. I was on the couch, with only my dogs for company. It was getting late. It was dark. As I sat there, I watched as you glided gracefully down the ice, slowly, ever so slowly releasing your grip on the stone.
I stared at the action on my TV screen, looking deep into your fierce, determined eyes, which my wife refers to as "cat's eyes." I'm sensing she may be a bit jealous.
"HARD!" you yelled, and it felt like you were speaking directly to me. "HURRY! HARD! HARDER!"
I'm not ashamed to tell you, Cheryl, I went a little weak in the knees at that moment. A lump rose up in my throat. What is this strange, exotic, sensuous game they call curling? I asked myself.
With each passing day of the Olympic tournament, my obsession grows. I shed manly tears when you lost to the Chinese team in the wee hours the other night. The truth is I've become mesmerized by your out-turns. Captivated by your in-turns. Inflamed by your double-raised takeouts, if I am using the correct curling analogy.
I realize I'm not the only one, Cheryl. It seems male journalists covering the Vancouver Games have been writing a great deal about the "sexification" of curling and which curler is the "hottest." Sure, there are a lot of cute blonde Scandinavians running around the ice in Vancouver, but they mean nothing to me.
I only have ice for you, Cheryl. I know the figure skaters and ice-dancers wear flimsy costumes consisting of a couple of handkerchiefs and a sprinkling of sequins, but they don't look nearly as fetching as Team Canada's crisp curling outfits.
Your uniforms are certainly a lot more flattering than those creepy skin-tight, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination stretchy suits I saw the bobsledders wearing Sunday night. They looked like they had dead squirrels stuffed in their leotards if you catch my drift. If you don't, never mind because this is a family newspaper.
The point is, Cheryl, it's getting harder and harder for me to hide my true feelings from my family. I've even started waxing the kitchen floor to a high-gloss shine and attempting to slide cans of soup into coloured rings I made using my daughter's old crayons.
My big worry is the kids will find out about my infatuation with you and what probably should be our national sport. If they wander into the den when I'm watching curling, I discreetly switch to the Sex Channel, where, oddly enough, you hear people yelling the same sort of encouragement they shout in the heat of a curling match.
I just glanced at the calendar, Cheryl, and I see the Olympics are almost over. So we don't have much time left together, you and I. Maybe, while you're fighting for the gold, you could find a spare moment to let me know how you feel.
Really, I need to know. My wife is threatening to make me watch something called the Nordic Combined. So please, Cheryl, hurry. Hurry hard!
Don't take me for granite,
I'll be in the den,
Doug has held almost every job at the newspaper — reporter, city editor, night editor, tour guide, hand model — and his colleagues are confident he’ll eventually find something he is good at.