Today's Gospel reading

Today's Gospel offers one of the most poignant events in Scripture. Jesus asks three times asks St. Peter, "Do you love me?" The greatest of the Apostles must reaffirm his love of Christ each time. The Gospel of John describes Peter as distressed at this; you will recall that earlier he had jumped into the seas from his fishing boat to greet the Lord happily.

I think perhaps we all appreciate such feelings. Sheer joy at recognizing a great friend, soon to be dashed, somewhat, by such pointed dialogue. Why might Christ do that?

Part of it, I suppose anyway, is that a certain balance needed to be restored. Peter had denied Jesus three times; he must then reaffirm Him that often as a sort of penance. It is after through humility that we grow.

And I believe that is the real message, for the rest of us even more than for Peter. Yes, it was also to set up Christ's prediction of St. Peter's martyrdom. But the immediate point was that we must in humility succumb to Christ. And He was using St. Peter to signal that that humility is required of us all.

Yet is also demonstrates that His glory is offered to us all. We simply need the right attitude.

Thursday night curling

I think the boys I played with earned this one. They played solid all season, we caught a few breaks, and we end up winning the 3-4 game to claim the (figurative) bronze medal.

Bronze is a nice medal to win. You finish first and everyone says, 'Gold Medal! Way to go!'

When you bronze they say, 'All right! You medaled!'

Yet when you win the silver it's like: what happened? What went wrong?

That's not to disparage this year's silver medalists. They're a great team. They win more often by far than they lose. Often significantly. They certainly deserved to finish ahead of us.

But that's how it goes. And it isn't fair. And we take what we get.

And they won silver. And they deserve better. My congrats are to you boys.

Three more and out the door

It's coming: the end of the 2015-2016 curling season. A game tonight, a game tomorrow, and a game Saturday. Three more and out the door.

The season wasn't the best. But it wasn't the worst either. We should have done better in the Monday night men's league, but so it goes. Tonight, we play for third place in the Thursday Competitive league. We finished fourth last year, so no matter what happens we won't end up worse. In the Friday mixed league we play for the second half title but we need help. We must win, and the current first place team lose. Either way, okay.

Then curling wraps up Saturday with a 'swing and sweep'. That's where you both curl and golf, the scores are somehow tabulated (not by me; math makes my head hurt) and a winner is declared. It doesn't look as though the weather will cooperate; it may end up too cold and wet to hit the links. Either way, golf or not, then the hard part of the year begins.

We have to wait until October to curl again.

White lips

I love salt and vinegar potato chips. They make your lips pucker in such a delightful way, and are another reason I love Canada. I discovered them there. I also love sports. One day the twain did meet.

My oldest son was about two and a half years old, and I was trying to watch the Stanley Cup playoffs, and I did not want a distraction. So I sat in my recliner eating salt and vinegar potato chips as I was also supposed to be watching Charlie.

He played with his toys as I watched the TV. Regularly, he would toddle to my perch, and I would give him a couple chips or let him grab some from the bag I held on my lap to keep him at bay. It was a divine match. We both got what we wanted; he could play, and I could watch hockey. Cool beans.

After an hour or so of this, Charlie, again, lumbered to my recliner for more chips. And I gave him more. Only this time I turned to look at him. And his lips were white. White as sheets, white as ghosts. And it occurred to me that the vinegar was causing that.

So I let him have two more chips and I put the bag away, hoping his mother would not notice the change in his facial anatomy. But I think he likes, or did like, salt and vinegar chips himself. I wonder if he still might.

No one craves protein

A friend of mine, he's a vegan. There's nothing wrong with that, of course. Vegans, vegetarians; I could care less what you eat, so long as you don't condemn what I eat.

Still, I must admit to curiosity about that culture. This lead me one day to ask my friend, 'Do you ever want to eat meat?'.

He said no, but added, "Well, I crave protein." And I said something like, ah. And I let it stand at that because I'm that type of guy. I try to be courteous towards all, especially when I'm the one who intruded by broaching the subject.

But that is not what I thought. Might I share what I really thought?

It was something like, 'Shut. Up. No one craves protein. What the Hell does that even mean?'

People crave steaks and chops, chicken and fish, brats and Italian sausages. That's what they crave. How the Hell do you crave protein?

No one, and I mean no one, thinks, I'm going to the restaurant for a thick, juicy rare protein. No one asks for protein tartare. No one says I'm going to throw some protein on the grill, come on over. No one says that I'm going to stop by Mom's house and hope she makes her famous Southern Fried Protein. No. One. Does. This.

You have to do better than that to make me think I should change my eating habits. Far better indeed.

Mistaken Identity

I certainly hope this post comes across as innocuous. That's my intention, just to write a fun post based on something that actually happened.
Last week I found myself needing a valve stem for an old sink. When I say old, I mean sixty to seventy years, if not more. Fortunately I knew where to go for the stem. There's a place called Tenny's Plumbing in Hazel Park, and they specialize in old, hard to get parts. They've helped me before, and I highly recommend them.
And they did have the part I needed. But before paying, I had to take a call, so I stepped back from the counter and dealt with it.
When I apologized and returned to the counter Mr. Tenny was there. He looked at me and asked, "You're Cosgriff, right? Bill Cosgriff?"
"No, he was my dad. He passed away a couple years ago," I answered.
He coughed and said, "Sorry to hear that. But Cosgriff was a black guy, wasn't he?"
"No," I replied.
"But he had two black guys working for him?" Mr. Tenny pressed.
"No. Just my brother and I."
He studied me more closely and ventured, "Your shop is across from Murray-Wright High School, on Rosa Parks. Just after a green house, back from the street."
"That's right," I said.
Tenny just kinda shook his head and said, "But Cosgriff was a black guy. He had black guys working for him."
"I'm afraid not," I responded. I even showed him my license, just so he'd know I was me. He then shrugged his shoulders, and I paid for the valve stem and left. It was all on good terms, and he just seemed to have a mental block about it.
And I think he still thinks we're black guys. Ah well. No harm no foul, right?

A great curling match

Well, it weren't the most satisfying curling match I ever played in. That distinction belongs to the game where me friend Ron threw a triple kill lose the shooter which won us a league title. But it was a grand match just the same.

We caught some breaks last night and found ourselves up by 4 after two ends. An 'end' in curling lingo is vaguely related to an inning in baseball. They aren't really the same, and all analogies ultimately fail. But this one almost fits.

Then our opponents, great fellas themselves, they begin to chip away at that margin. They score one in the third end, and we caught a huge break that they did not score more. But they continue the pressure, and steal a point in the fourth end. It's a 'steal' when you score at least one point without hammer, which is the last rock thrown in an end, just so's ya knows. We blank the fifth end (an end where there is no score, no rocks being left in the house, the scoring zone), which means we chose not to score in order to keep hammer, the last curling stone of the end, in our control.

Then the blokes go off and steal the sixth end. Bastards. But they played the end well and won it, hat's off to them. That's as it should be. You make the shot, you merit the accolades. But now were're only up one.

Then our vice, throwing skip rocks (the last two rocks of the end; I called the game but threw vice rocks) makes a great hit with peel weight (peel meaning a stone thrown rather fast attempting to get many rocks out of play) and we score in the 7th end to be up by two points. The game appears to be ours.

But despite some great shotmaking, we surrender two in the Eighth end. The score is tied. Now we gotta win the 9th, the Extra end.

There are not many extra ends at our level of play. As it were, four of five league games went the extra end last night. A true rarity. Yet for our game we had the advantage of shot stone, the last rock of the end in play.

I tried to call the line wrong. You see, last night we did something different. I called the game but threw third, the five and six stones. My good friend Mark threw skip rocks. And he hit just right with the last stone of the game, so that we score two and win.

It was a grand game. It's why I curl. Thanks, boys.