Every athlete, parent and chain smoking alcoholic has huge plans for 2011. Even those of us who sleep at Casinos because our gals won't even let us sleep off a cider binge in the spare room are signing up for whatever 12-step program applies to their pathological disorder, or neurological in my case. My particular brain chemistry demands a certain level of toxicity to function the way most normal humans do.
Luckily I am a semi-single man,nearly divorced from a banking investor with a blood lust for cash and a sinful taste for removing my furniture every time I vacate my country palace in Odessa. The few filaments that keep me attached to reality are not expensive sofa beds and oak tables but rather my trusty laptop and my spanking new Montreal Canadiens coffee mug. Whatever deviance and bodily fluids are staining my old couches is neither here nor there. Having essentially missed Christmas with car woes, I embraced my 2010 Christmas presents on New Year's Eve with the priceless female who currently tolerates both my writing style as well as my penchant for hitting the cider on occasion. Her thoughtful purchases proved to be an ominous changing of the polar magnetic fields and it translated into a rare victory for my hockey team.
It seems the Habs just needed to give Cary Price a night off before he woke up looking like Darren Pang. I guess I spoke too soon, they are on another losing streak and have some resolutions to make.
I'll never drink from another mug as long as I live and plan to bring it along to the various dining emporiums that still allow for my bawdy behavior. The fact that I often scream at their big screen TVs while I type and take advantage of their WIFI connection only gives me more room to work and flourish at these columns.I am not alone in the world when it comes to tipping the odd cocktail while I watch my favourite teams and I thank my lucky stars my "career" in sports journalism seems to blossom in a modest state of intoxication.
I used to love to watch professional sports on television with friends until my favourite teams won so many championships I became ostracized, as if I was born with a predilection for cheering only for winners. I might have lived in the Bronx or Montreal in previous incarnations folks. I come by these blessings honestly and make no excuses for having one entire room dedicated to empty champagne bottles.
Phil Kessel's hair loss has slowed now that he has begun to score and his hopes for 2011 do not include post-season play, but success comes to those who persevere. He has renounced Rogaine and budgets for sunscreen as the bright lights of the Air Canada Centre scorch his dome.
Derek Jeter is working out like he sees father time in the rear view mirror and is chomping at the bit to prove he's worthy of such a princely salary.
Mike Weir plans to learn to golf the right way, right handed and re-emerge as a contender in the PGA. And, on the topic of golf, Tiger Woods is spending more time with his swing coach than with Hollywood swingers.
It's hard to fathom being washed up at such a young age, but Roger Federer's 2011 resolution to run for office and then invade Spain seems pointless.
Ray Lewis has been cleared for so many criminal offences that his 2011 New Year's resolution is to go the entire calendar year without killing anyone, on or off the field. Fellow NFL felons are currently behind bars hoping their good luck continues and that their laundry duty gets them out on good behaviour. I remain puzzled over why millionaire athletes feel the need to shoot up nightclubs when they could just sit in the corner and drink heavily.
We all hope for Anthony Calvillo's return to health so that we can put him out of commission in the fashion that most QBs exit a professional league.
Whether it be someone clinging to youth or hoping for a third chance - may your own 2011 bring you as much happiness as mine already has.
I have discovered an Australian winery has launched a lively bubbly and that its effect on my reflexes and motor controls is subtle to the point that I opened yet another bottle. Who knew bringing in the New Year playing a board game with your sweetheart could keep your mind off the World Junior Hockey loss to Sweden?
Drinking champagne out of my new Habs mug seemed so appropriate that I will sign off and toast you all with the same vintner's crazy approach to carbonating a perfectly fine Shiraz and wash down yesterday's pizza.
Life is good in the slow lane and hope is not beyond the reaches of even morons like Milan Lucic, who is suddenly scoring enough to quit with the cheap shots. I hate his guts, but he would be mayor of Montreal if my guys could swing a deal for him.
Hug your kids and spank your wife - just make this year the one where you pay off your debts, count your blessings even though you're missing some furniture and let the past lie where it belongs - in the basement with the Maple Leafs.
