:: Chips and a Coke ::

On Friday afternoon, needing a junk food/caffeine rush of some kind to get me through the last few loooong hours of work, I walked across the street and bought a Diet Coke and some Doritos. And as I walked back with these two items in my hand, I was for some reason reminded – out of the blue – of my Grade 8 gym teacher.

I am, as you are likely aware, not in the greatest shape. Sure, I'm not 288 pounds like I was in my Alberta heyday (I'm a svelte 227 now for those scoring at home), but I'm not about to go run a marathon either. Or wear anything slim-fitting, for that matter. 

But during the early days of high school – before what I'll call the Pizza Hut Era – I wasn't yet The Fat Kid. I was just a regular-sized guy. And my Grade 8 gym teacher was Mr. Bergen. He was a gruff no-nonsense guy, but he always got along well with the jocks – pretty standard for all gym teachers everywhere, I'd guess. He was likable enough, as far as most were concerned. But I never really liked him. To be honest, I thought he was a bit of a pompous dick.

So that's probably why I never paid much attention to anything he said, and it's also the likely reason I quit the Grade 8 basketball team halfway through the year. But more on that in a bit. 

One thing – possibly the only thing – I ever remember Mr. Bergen telling us in class came during a little speech he gave about the importance of being in shape and all that stuff. His point was that a healthy, active lifestyle was actually pretty easy to keep up. (His ulterior motive was to get us to sign up for the basketball team. He was the coach.)

"It's easy to stay fit, but it's all about choices," he told us. "When you go home from school today, for example, you can do two things. One, you can grab a basketball and go get some exercise in the driveway or at the school. Or two, you can go sit in front of the TV and watch cartoons with chips and a Coke."

Obviously, I eventually chose to align myself with the chips and Coke option. But it may surprise you to know that this wasn't my first choice. 

My first choice was to actually get some exercise. So I signed up to play basketball. Which wasn't really a stretch for me – I knew how to play, had a modicum of athletic ability, and I loved sports, so why not?

But aside from the 7 a.m. practices before school, the other thing that dissuaded me from the game – and made the chips and cartoon option look pretty sweet – was what I quickly noticed about the rest of my new 13-year-old teammates.

They were all douchebags.

Of course, at the time, I probably didn't think of them as "douchebags" but I know that I didn't like their attitudes one bit. They were mostly from James Kennedy Elementary – which was the elementary school hoops powerhouse, if there was such a thing – and I just thought they were, much like the coach, pompous dicks.

(Turns out my suspicions were correct – by Grade 12 they had all turned into your typical douchey jocks. You know, the kind of guys who all shave their heads to look the same, and say "Bro" a lot. So in retrospect, I'm glad I recognized it early and got out when I did.)

I was a mediocre player on the team. I played a few minutes off the bench, don't remember scoring much if at all (the latter fact also describes my early 20s) but I do recall being a pretty good rebounder, which was shocking for a kid who was barely five-feet tall. But basketball interfered with my weekend hockey schedule, and because hockey was more important and less douche-infested, I quit the basketball team after about a month. 

And that was really the beginning of the end for me, fitness-wise. I suffered through two years of miserable gym classes, where the pompous teachers spent most of class-time trying to act cool around the jocks while not really giving a shit about the regular kids, while the token one-year-older-because-he's-a-retard-and-failed-gym bully spent his time making life hell for the younger kids.

By Grade 10, my knees and head (concussion) were pretty sore from hockey, so I got a doctor's note to exclude me from my last year of mandatory high school gym. Sure, I probably milked it, I could've toughed it out, but by then I'd just had enough of all that high school gym class entailed – the asshole teachers, bullies, dumb jocks, etc...

And thus began my long, loving relationship with the Coca-Cola company.

Now, I'm not blaming douchey high-school basketball kids for putting me off the road to fitness and down Dorito Boulevard. I've become what I've become because of my own choices, and to be honest, I don't necessarily regret it. I'd rather be fat than an asshole. 

Just makes me wonder what might've been, is all, had I stuck with the whole basketball thing.

Maybe I could've played pro. Or at least been a gym teacher.

:: Tiger ::

Perhaps by now you've heard, but a few Fridays ago, Tiger Woods crashed his Cadillac into a tree and a whole bunch of women fell out.

And as one might expect when scandal hits the world's best golfer, richest athlete and sports' up-until-now Golden Child, there's been plenty spoken and written about the situation. But for any of you living buried beneath a sand trap, here's the quick breakdown as far as any of us can tell:

Rumours of Tiger cheating with some broad come up in the news. Wife Ellin (editor's note: She's the only woman in this story who doesn't look like she's been rode hard and put away wet. Tiger, what were you thinking? If you wanna cheat, that's your business, but c'mon pal - pick better) gets angry and the two have a fight. Tiger leaves the house. Ellin chases after him, and smashes the back window of the Caddy with a golf club. The incident then causes Tiger to crash into a fire hydrant followed by a tree.

Cops come. Rumours and stories swir. Enter TMZ.

And then all the ex-mistresses come out of the woodwork. Now, there's plenty of angles to tackle in this story - starting with the fact that one of his ladyfriends kept 300 voicemails and text messages simply so she could sell them to US Weekly (like this wasn't her plan the whole time), or we could debate the privacy vs. celebrity debate that's raged ever since Eldrick pleaded via his website for people to let his family deal with the situation in private.

However, I'd rather write about something that's been bugging me every since the alleged cheating stories came to light. I have a real problem with those people who are eulogizing this moment as the end of humanity, as if Tiger was the last bastion of Good in the world of sports, and their lives are now lesser because of Eldrick's wayward use of his putter. (Or maybe it's a Driver, you'd have to ask Rachel Uchitel).

I'm talking to you, GolfChannel.com.

Rich Lerner writes about it being an "end of an era" and how there is now a grieving process for all of us, when in reality, I think the only people grieving is the Woods family and likely the Golf Channel itself, since Tiger is its bread-and-butter and if not for the massive spike in popularity golf has enjoyed since Tiger arrived, the channel doesn't likely exist.

So grieve for your ratings, sure. But this isn't going to affect the common person's life. And if it does, well, I feel sorry for you.

Tiger Woods is not your brother, best friend or personal deity. He is a golfer on TV. And if he makes and mistake, well, that's too bad of course, but it probably should not affect your outlook on the world. He's just a man. A sometimes people make mistakes.

I had a quick conversation with Lanette the other day about this very situation, because she thought I was pinpointing her as one of these "oh-no-the-world-is-ending-how-will-I-go-on-now? types. But I'm not. Lanette, like thousands of others, simply like Tiger a little less now. And respect him less, too.

And that's fair. He deserves that, I'm pretty sure.

But my point, aside from the fact that the world is not in fact crumbling all around us, is that this doesn't affect Tiger the athlete. Unless his personal life gets inside his head so much that he suddenly starts shanking every tee shot, he's probably going to go out there and win 7 tournaments and at least one major next year, and the year after that and the year after that. Because Tiger Woods, when it comes to golf, is a robot. He's the best player on the planet, and that hasn't changed in the past 10 days.

And for all the Pollyannas out there who are crying into the hot dogs they bought at the turn, well, I hate to break it to you but sports hasn't been pure and untainted and good for about 15 years, at least.

(Some quick examples off the top of my head: Barry Bonds, Tom Cable punching his fellow coach, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire, Todd Bertuzzi, the whole Tour de France, Charles Barkley, Michael Phelps and oh, and in a near-exact situation as Mr. Woods is the man who was the World's Greatest/Richest Athlete before that mantle was Tiger's - Michael Jordan.)

To hold Tiger to a higher standard than other superstars isn't exactly fair. I mean, how is he different? He's a guy who made a mistake, and though some people will forgive him (as if he actually needs the forgiven of strangers, instead of just his family) and some will not, I doubt very much that, six months from now, when I see him birdie 18 to win the Masters, I'm going to shake my head in disgust and turn to somebody and say, "Yeah, that was a pretty good round, but remember the time he slept with that chick in New York?"

No, I'm much more likely to say one thing and one thing only:

"Nice putt."