Never mind Tie Domi's divorce squabble which is back in the news; what about TSN divorcing themselves from him?Domi (all together now, Oh, Domi) is having his name dragged through the mud. Granted, these are divorce allegations, and you can probably believe only one-third to one-half of what his ex Leanne Domi is saying about the wrath their children are supposedly facing from their former enforcer father. Still, if this stays in the news, and embarrassing details surface which paint Tie Domi as a poor husband and abusive father, you really wonder if TSN could justify keeping him on the air, especially since his TV work hasn't been very good.
The unacknowledged part of this is the rough adjustment many ex-pro athletes go through after they have the game taken away from them. Domi seems to be having a worse time than most moving into middle adulthood. The Cult of Tie Domi and the old boy hockey establishment can only prop him up for so long. Dude needs some help.
Hey, maybe Rory Fitzpatrick should have been an all-star.As Jason Botchford of the Vancouver Province notes:
"The Canucks were 12-13-1 before they started wearing Rory T-shirts. They are 15-6-1 since. In their current 10-1-1 run, the only game they lost in regulation was when Fitzpatrick was scratched.
"And for those who complained that Fitzpatrick received any all-star votes, here's some food for thought:
"The Canucks are 20-10-2 with Fitzpatrick and 7-9-0 without him."
HOMETOWN BREAKDOWN
Yippie-ki-ay -- on their final try of the regular season, the Kingston Frontenacs finally won at the Ottawa Civic Centre, doubling up the 67's 4-2. (Ottawa 67's blog was there.)One could point to Fronts coach Bruce (Butch) Cassidy being honoured by his old team before the game as part of the 67's year-long 40th anniversary celebration, little Peder Skinner's two goals, goalie Daryl Borden (pictured) making 21 of his 44 saves in the third period or a star effort from captain Chris Stewart (two assists and a fight with Ottawa's Joe Grimaldi), but you know what the real difference-maker was? Yours truly having to work and being unable to go to the game, or listen to it on The Team 1200.
I refuse to beat myself up over this, but I am a damn jinx for Kingston teams (the Frontenacs' annual New Year's Day matinee notwithstanding). The Queen's football team has a seven-game losing streak when I'm in attendance.
That's all for now. Send your thoughts to neatesager@yahoo.ca.
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Rain is beautiful after dust and heat. I watch it trickle down the narrow lane and listen to the clatters along the rooftops. I watch from inside as it trickles across my window pain. It gushes and struggles from the throat of the overflowing spout. It pours and pours; like a river down the gutter roars the rain. Swift and wide with a muddy tide. I welcome the rain.
The sick man from his chamber looks at the twisted brooks; he too can feel the cool breath of each little pool. The beauty of the rain is the fact that you can actually feel the earth growing calm again. We breathe blessing on the rain.
Down the road the neighboring school lets out. Here come the boys with more than their unwanted noise. Now commotion comes down the wet streets. They pretend to sail their mimic fleets, till the pool engulfs them in its whirling, pattering turbulent ocean of raindrops.
Imagine that on every side, where far and wide, like a leopards tawny and spotted hide. Stretches the plain, to the dry grass and the drier grain. How they all must welcome the rain.
In the furrowed land the patient toilsome oxen stand; lifting the yoke encumbered head, with dilated nostrils spread, they silently inhale the sweet clover scented gale. The vapors arise from the now well watered and smoking soil. For now there is gentle rest. Their large and lustrous eyes seem to thank the Lord more than the man's spoken word.
Near at hand, from under the sheltering trees, the farmer sees. His pastures, and his fields of grain, as the bend their tops to the numberless beating drops of the incessant rain. The farmer he counts it as no sin that he sees therein only his own thrift and gain.
These, and far more than these, the poet sees! He can behold aquarius of old,walking the fenceless fields of air; and from each ample fold of the clouds about him rolled scattering everywhere the showering blessing of the rain. But the farmer he just sows his grain.
But I can behold things magnificent and bold that have not yet been told to man. The secret has never been sung or said. My thoughts follow the water-drops down to the graves of the dead. Down through chasms and gulfs profound, to the dreary fountain-head. Lakes and rivers under ground I see them when the rain is done, on the bridge of colors climbing up once more to heaven, the raindrops ascend once more.
I am the Seer, with visions clear. I see forms appear and disappear in the perpetual realm. Mysterys and secrets I keep. Be they from birth to death, from death to birth, from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth. Of all things, unseen before, unto these wondering eyes reveal the universe as an immeasurable wheel turning forever more.
I Am The River Of Time
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