Board wild

I hit the hill for the second time this year on Wednesday, and damned if I'm not still sore.
That 20 pounds I gained in the last month and a half - yes, that's right, 20 pounds - was just as sore as the other 215 I was already carrying. Snowboarding is a great workout for the quads. And if you board like me, it's also a great workout for your ass.
I tried the new "park" at Big White, which is full of jumps, halfpipes and railslides. My first encounter with a rail was a memorable one. The words "metal enema" spring to mind when trying to describe it.
We spent most of the day on the Gem Lake side of the mountain, riding what is the longest vertical chairlift in North America. Or so the aussie guys sitting next to me on the lift told me on one of the many trips up the hill.
At lunch, me n' my buddy Aaron were trying to figure out how many runs we could get in after eating, when he doused his fries in some Super Hot Red Hot Chili Hot Burn A Layer of Skin Off Hot sauce.
I joked: "I guess we'll get two runs in. One fast one, then one REALLY fast one when that shit hits your gut." We both laughed.

And, as it turns out, I was right.

We covered about five kilometres of run in about five minutes, and he bee-lined straight for the lodge's bathroom, where he stayed for the next 15 minutes. I made another run in the meantime.
I had to work later that afternoon, so we took off after that. "That was some good chili sauce," Aaron remarked.
Crazy.

Anyways, it's the night before New Years, and the snow is blowing like crazy outside. And it's cold, too... Perfect partying weather. I'm supposed to be hosting a New Years BBQ, which I plan to do unless I blow up my house trying to light the barbeque hung over. If you don't hear from me, that's what happened. Don't fight over my DVD collection when I'm gone.

I'm looking forward to hearing all of your crazy party stories, 'cause I have to live vicariously through my friends. And sister, too, occasionally.

One love... PEACE

A Time For Reflection

It didn't quite smell like death, but it was close enough.
The pallative care ward of White Rock General Hospital had to be the loneliest place on the planet around the holidays - someone's mom, dad, grandfather or grandmother, all lying silent and grim in their own tiny dark rooms, with no family there to wish them all the best. I guess it was too depressing for them.
And after visiting a man who had become a grandfather to me over the past 25 years, and hearing him tell me of the terrible pains wracking his body, seeing the IVs plugged into the few veins left that were capable of holding a needle, and smelling the sickly sweet odor of his colostomy bag, I can understand why they didn't come.
Understand it, yes. Agree with it, no.
"That's the thing about young people these days," said Harry. "They just don't seem to care about our lives, what we've done. I guess it isn't important to them."
Here was a man, who, in his 96 years, had lived through both great wars, a few smaller, less important ones, and seen the world transform before his eyes. He saw the moon landing, he remembers life without TV, he remembers learning to drive at the age of 13. I was happy to talk of these things with him in the short time I had to visit on Christmas morning, as his time on this plane grows short.
But Harry is tired of living. He told me so.
As hard as it is to hear someone you love say that, it's all part of the cycle of life.
Though his grip is still firm, and his eyes still sparkle, he is clearly fading. It's his time.
And in 70 or so years, after a hopefully full life, I hope there's someone there to talk to me when it's my time.

Ho, Ho, Holy Cow I can't believe I'm at work

When my mother started dancing like a drunken Korean sailor, that’s when I reached for the wine bottle. The first wine bottle. Followed by many more.
Alternating between slamming back a mug-full of mead and dabbing the blood trickling from my eyes — bleeding from the sight of watching my mother, the woman who gave me life, rub and touch herself in places that she should NEVER do in front of her children — I reflected on the meaning of the holiday season: memories.
While my mom finished telling her tale of some south Korean sailors dance suggestively in front of her at a bar to the dinner party, and I dabbed up the rest of my blood with the napkin, I realized that we had indeed added another thread to the tapestry of Holidays at Home.

Highlights of the Victoria Trip
— There's a new addition to the family: Raven aka. Rave-On Bling-Bling Kleiman, my mom's five-month-old Portuguese Water Dog. She's black, shaggy, hyper-active and adorable. She also eats anything. And I mean ANYTHING. . . even my grungy-ass socks. There's a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle that won't get finished because 10 per cent of the pieces have been turned into chewed-up wads of cardboard. Or, in some extreme cases, turned into something you find on the bottom of your shoe.
— Dinner at the Kools: Long-time friends of the family, a great deal of time was spent on the topic "Stupid Things Jake Did as a Kid," including the episode "Hotel Arizona: The Blazing Inferno," (those of you who know are still sworn to silence), or the equally entertaining "Plaster of Paris Kitchen Floor Sculpture." Oh, yah — it was loads of fun to hear about all that stuff. The evening ended, for me, at least, with my mom's (excuse me for a sec.... gggAAAAAAGGGGGGG) Korean Sailor Striptease.
— The Reuniting of the Three Musketeers: For the first time since college probably, me, Jeremy and Greg all hung out together, and it was like we were still 18 again. Literally. Things got a little crazy, a little wilin', mostly due to our good friends, Captain Morgan and Mary Jane. And somewhere, hungry and alone, a man is wandering around downtown Victoria without his chicken pita and diet ice tea. (Note to self: do NOT eat anything smothered in hot sauce and onions, unless you enjoy the feeling of said condiments trying to burn a hole through your chest.) The day after, with me feeling more hung than Ron Jeremy, my mom took my sister and I to see Pulse: A Stomp Oddessy. MMmmm... just what a nauseous, head-throbbing idiot needs to have inflicted on him — a six-storey high IMAX movie about DRUMS. Ever seen an IMAX movie while hung over? Don't.
— Lots of Other Stuff I Don't Have Time To Get Into: I'm at work while I'm writing this, and I'm on an early deadline. So it's the crib-notes version. Apologies.

I'll get into the whole White Rock Experience tomorrow, but for now, I've got a sports section to get out. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

No one can say...

I don't get into the holiday spirit... lol ... So here they are, the infamous "Ugly Sweater Party" pictures ... I have to say that I would make a DAMN good gay guy... Look at that pose, that fashion sense, the ease of manner around women ... ;) OK, maybe not.
Anyways, I've hit the road for the holidays. First up, a trip to Victoria for a reunion with my moms, big bad jumbo, the supremely tall Gregster, and whomever else I might run into. After a few days there, it's back to the mainland for Christmas Eve and morning at my dad's house. And then, lucky me, I get to WORK on Christmas Day. I get overtime, so I'm not too choked about it, but the thing that upsets me is I won't be able to see the Lakers take on the Heat in the first game between Shaq and Kobe. I was all excited to see the Big Aristotle lay a lil forearm philosophy on Kobe "Don't talk to my wife" Bryant ... Oh, well ... there's always highlights.
See ya'll later...

sweater
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

Me n' the girls ... My woman felt her sweater wasn't ugly enough, so we switched... I wore hers, she wore mine ... But I proved to be the HIT of the party... lol

sweater2
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

Dude with his arm around me ended up passed out in an alley later in the night. During the party, he nearly whipped his Mr. Bojangles out, but we all put a stop to that REAL fast ...

My memory genes I get from my dad

We arrived at Big White about 10 a.m., with me already grumbling about not being able to find my good gloves, and having forgotten my tuke.
The skies were a brilliant cobalt blue, and I'd seen plenty of fresh powder on the drive up, so I thought my day on the hill might actually turn out to be a good one.
"Pass me my boots," I say to Carmen, getting ready to hop out of the van.
"Boots?" she frowned. "Where are they? I don't see them."
Oh, yes. This was turning out to be a GREAT day.
No boots. No tuke. No sleep. And now, with six inches of fresh snow on the ground, I had to trek to the lodge to shell out money for some cheap-ass rentals.
In my flip-flops.
Two soaked socks, $17.83 and 20 minutes later, Carmen, Peter and I finally head through the village to the lift. The two skiers skate on ahead while I fumbled with my bindings - hey, it was my first day of the year, after all - and disappeared into the distance. I half skated, half stumbled, then baled on my ass the first time I put my foot on the board.
Oh, yes. This was turning out to be a GREAT day.
And, in fact, it did. Eventually.
After a morning of Carmen cracking jokes about an unfortunate comment I made in the past - I might have said something to the effect of "I beat off five guys at the bar", trying to sound macho and sounding rather gay - the mid-morning turned great.
The few clouds dissapated, the fog blew off the top of the hill, and the sun began to shine like it was summer. Fresh snow, sunny weather ... I can't figure out why I procrastinated about boarding all this time.
The best part of the day was constantly blowing by Carmen - her cries of "yoouu baaassstaardd...." fading away behind me, and just flatlining it down the hill. Friday, I'm going up again. I mean it. And this time, I'm bringing my boots.

My Vegas Adventure....

My grandmother, bless her soul, wanted me to write down my recollection of our trip to Vegas for her 90th birthday party because, it seems, I am a professional writer.
Somehow, it turned out more like a sports article — a long one, at that — than an essay. But without further ado, here it is:

Grandma's Excellent Vegas Adventure

The dynamic duo
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

My grandma Molly and Uncle Connie chill in the back of the limo... it was my gram's first ride in a limousine â?? and she's 90...




By JJ Adams (aka Jacob Kleiman)

BAM!
I got an ace. Then, BAM! I got a king.
Then just like that, my luck changed. . . but was it luck, or a supremely aggravated blackjack dealer?
“You’re not from Nevada. C’mon Shelly, tell me the truth. You’re from Guam, right? GUUUAAAAAM. You can’t be from Nevada. And I don’t believe you’re from Laos. You must be from Guam. You look like you’re from GUUUUAAAAAAM. GU-GU-GU-GU-GUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!”
And then — BAM! A six. BAM! A seven. BAM! A king.
I was busted, and watched my $25 disappear into the coffers of the Sahara Casino and Hotel. Beside me, my aunt Devra continued her filibuster interrogation of Kelly, our Laotian blackjack dealer, who staunchly denied her Guamese heritage until her shift’s end. While I found my dear auntie’s antics incredibly amusing, our dear dealer Kelly — who, upon hindsight, did look slightly Guamese — was not amused.
While the weekend was a celebration of Molly’s 90th birthday, and Connie's 88th, we all left with the gift of family anecdotes to be shared for years to come.
Teaching my aunt the intricacies of blackjack is one story I’ll be telling until my 90th birthday, and I’m sure we all have our own from the weekend. So I guess we can say not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
Just my money.

The Arrival
Those of you who know my mother are aware of her legendary organizational skills. My entry into the hotel was no exception.
Since I had lived with my father since I was a peach-fuzzed, bare-balled pre-teen, all of my identification listed my surname as Adams. It precipitated a lengthy conversation with the front desk clerk upon my check-in (where my mom had arranged a room for myself and my sister), and went something like this:
Me: “There should be a reservation for me. The name is Jacob Adams.”
Clerk: “Nope, nothing under that.”
Me: “Umm, J.J. Adams?”
Clerk: “No, nothing there, either.”
Me (scratching head): “Ok, lessee here, uhhhh ... James Adams?”
Clerk (eyes narrowed in suspicion): “Are you really a guest here?”
Me: “Yes. I’m sure. My whole family should be here.”
Clerk (a large I-don’t-believe-a-word-you’re-saying smile on his insincere mug): “Are you sure you’re at the right casino?”
Me: “This is the Sahara, right? Listen, try under Jake Kleiman.”
Clerk (into phone): “Security to the front desk... we have a problem.”

OK, so that last part didn’t happen. It could have, though. If I could read minds, I’m sure that’s what he would have been thinking. But I digress. . .
So after dropping off my bag in my room, I wandered down to the casino to begin the search for the Kleiman clan.

WHAAAAAZZZZUUUUUPPPPP!
I don’t think it was by coincidence that I ran into the force of nature that is my sister first. A hurricane of hair extensions and barely-contained energy blew across the crowed casino floor, and we embraced in our usual touching, emotional, and loving manner.
“Whaaaaazzzzupppp,” I exclaimed, like a cat coughing up a furball. My sister replied in a likewise manner, and we cavorted, arm in arm, to the Pai Gow table, where I saw (GASP) my own mother playing — and betting money, no less — poker. It was as strange to me as seeing a middle-aged jewish lady try to rap with a sidewards-sitting baseball cap. But then again, my mother did that, too, so I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Michael Kleiman, much as I had done with my Aunt Devra, was explaining the fine points of the game to her. She must have been a quick learner - or smarter than me by staying away from the tables - because she finished the weekend up $5.
Me, on the other hand, well . . . et’s just say everyone is getting a Happy Meal from McDonald’s for Chanukah this year. It’s Kosher, right?
It wasn’t too long afterwards that I saw the woman of the weekend, grandma Molly, in company of Devra. Where else would she have been but the slot machines? It had been a long time - probably over seven years - since I had last seen my grandmother, so wrapped up in my own life I had been. She looked elegant, in a silk blouse and matching skirt, and rocked a lil “bling” with a tasteful gold chain.
I don’t know if it was the thrill of gambling, or just the megawatts of neon glowing everywhere, but grandma looked full of energy. Me, on the other hand, I was fading fast. It was going to be a looong weekend if I got out-paced by a 90-year-old. But that little fact too, would stay in Vegas.

The crew
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

Inside the dopest limo in Sin City... the Kleiman (and Phillips) crew cruises the strip ...



Blasts from the Past
Living where I do, far up in the frozen wastelands of the Great White North, it’s not often I get to see my relatives - especially those on the East coast. I don’t think I’d seen Michael Kleiman since grandpa Sid’s funeral when I was 13 - a span of 15 years. Uncle Connie and his trio of sons I’d seen more often, usually at passover over the years, but it had been a long time since I had seen them, as well.
I’d chanced to have breakfast with my uncle Chaz in San Francisco when moving my sister to L.A. three years ago, but that brief meal was about all the contact we had had for many years.
On my way down to one of my many trips to the casino floor, I caught the elevator, and found myself face-to-face with Michael and Charles. A brief nod to Michael, and I walked in and stood beside Charles, who had not recognized me. Being the practical joker I am, I stood close. Uncomfortable close. He gave me a bit of the side-eye, than shuffled slightly to the right, opening up a bit of space between us. I shuffled with him, then draped my arm around his shoulders somewhat nonchalantly. I’m sure he’s not homophobic, but the reaction was predictably, ummm, expressive - until that flicker of recognition flashed through his eyes.
“Shoot,” he said, (Or something like that, but this story is P.G., remember) and gave be a hearty hug.
But it showed me what this weekend was all about - bringing together family that had been fractured and apart for too long.

And so it begins ...
There were two MIA for breakfast on Saturday - Michael and Chaz, who stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, honing their Pai Gow skills. It was nearly three AWOL, but I managed to stumble my bleary behind in just as their food was arriving.
It was the first chance I had to see Uncle Connie in three years, where he was holding court (sorry guys - bad pun) with the Phillipesesesss. In the booth just across from them sat grandma, Devra, Ian, Elise and daughter Gen, my mother, and Susan. Dave made his grand entrance about a half hour through breakfast, having driven down from L.A. that morning.
After toying with the idea of ordering ham and eggs with a side of bacon just to see what kind of reaction I would get from my kosher-concious relatives, I reined in my mischievous side and got some toast and OJ.
The family split up for the day, with Devra and Susan leading their posse of speedwalkers for a hike down the strip. Mmmmm Mmmmm... Nothing like exhaust fumes and smog to wake you up in the morning.
My sister and I, meanwhile, took grandma shopping for a dinner gown. While I wandered through the ladies’ wear section, doing my best to appear nonchalant and as un-stalkerlike as possible, my sister managed to speed-shop two prospective dresses for Molly. It only took about 20 minutes, including a brief modeling session by the woman of the weekend, for us to get in and out.
We ran into the speedwalking crew outside the restaurant, and after a brief kibitz, bought some wine for dinner and heading back to the Sahara for an afternoon of gambling.
Grandma Molly headed up to her room to recuperate, then came down a few hours later, re-energized to hit the slots once again. My mom told me Molly had asked for some money from her kids to gamble with as a birthday present, and Charles came through with a $200 donation to the Molly Kleiman Slot Machine Birthday Fund.
And, contrary to popular belief, she didn’t lose it all, and in fact broke even after hitting a $348 payday on one of the nickel machines.
Meanwhile, my credit card was on an IV, as I continued to hemorrhage money. . .

the crew Pt II
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

Outside Roy's restaurant in LAS VEGAS, BABY!!!




A ticket to ride
I can remember the times when my sister was awkward, unsure and a little gawky, and it’s still a little surreal some times, watching the way this savvy urban Hollywood director woman operates sometime.
A few well-chosen words to the bellhop, a little greasing of the palms, and she arranged the surprise of the weekend for Molly — a monster SUV limo, with room for the entire family.
It only took grandma 90 years to finally get a ride in a limousine, and when she did, her grand-daughter made sure it was a doosy. A 10-speaker soundsystem, disco lights, a wet bar, leather seats . . . as my 60ish mother is fond of saying these days, “It was blingin.
That same ghetto-fabulous mom of mine arranged the birthday dinner at Roy’s, including a glassed-off private room where the other diners enviously gazed at the frivolous and raucous fun we were all having. Or maybe it was because the last jewish black guy seen in Las Vegas rolled with Old Blue Eyes and was called Sammy Davis Jr....
I don’t remember much from dinner, having donned the photographer’s hat for the evening — my mom seems to think I’m a professional because I have more than one lens for my camera — though I do recall having a fun chat with Ian about Life, the Universe, and Everything. Fran made a valiant attempt to show me how to “play” a wine bottle, but every time I blew across the top, it just sounded like an asthmatic giving a breathalyzer test.
After dinner, we all dispersed throughout the city to various destinations. And that flattering stuff I said about Anya being able to get a cab? Forget it ... We must have waited 40 minutes for enough cabs for everybody, and then I was FORCED to share a cab with Eli and Rae, who delighted everyone in the cab by reminding us what we had for dinner — the olfactory way, if you know what I mean.
The cabbie kicked us, errrr dropped us off on Fremont Street, where we watched Eli do the limbo with a street performer, took in a funky light show, and watched Devra and Ian do some graceful (wink wink) dancing to a jazz quartet.
After that, it was back to the Sahara for more blackjack — with a stop at the ATM, where my credit card was becoming very familiar with the bank machine.

Flight of the Valkyrie
Sunday morning, despite a bad combination of Red Bull and vodka the night before — I figured my Russian genes needed a workout — I dragged myself to the breakfast buffet.
I think I know now why there is such an obesity problem in the states. Super size me? My god — there was enough fried food to clog the arteries of every third-world nation on the planet.
So naturally, I had the fried chicken for breakfast. And then some eggs. And pancakes. And sausage.
But I finished it off with a bowl of fruit, quelling any pangs of guilt my conscience might have tried to needle me with.
The highlight of the breakfast, which was celebrating Connie’s 88th birthday, was the operatic rendition of Happy Birthday by the horn-wearing valkyries from San Francisco.
Apparently, one of our party had shared an elevator with them on the way to breakfast, got chatting, and wound up having them sing for us. It was a very . . . interesting birthday breakfast. I still want to see those pictures.
It was the final meal for some people — well, those of us who had real jobs and responsibilities — and a few jetted home after the meal.
But not me, Rob, his kids and Anya ... No, we decided to be real intelligent and ride the NASCAR roller-coaster right after eating.
This ride has the distinction of being the fastest amusement ride on earth. Electromagnets propel the carriage to 75 mph in two seconds flat, fires you along the rails for 192 feet — including a brief subterranean stint — and up a massive tower.
And then it does the whole thing in reverse.
Needless to say, I swear I will never eat fried chicken for breakfast again EVER.

The Wind Down
With a lot of people gone, Sunday was a very relaxed day. I spent part watching 14 different football games with Uncle Connie, and talking sports betting with Susan (who apparently managed to send a bookie into fits because she was still new to the game, and didn’t know all the “lingo”).
The Platters were playing later that evening, so I took a nap before the show, which I intended to see with Devra and Ian.
I guess the combination of Red Bull nights, losing money at the blackjack tables, and losing my breakfast on the aptly named “Speed: The Ride” was too much, as I slept too late.
Instead, we had dinner ... somewhere. It’s still a bit of a blur. More gambling, more losing, and trying to keep Shelly the dealer from throttling my dear aunt.
I managed to win a little back in the morning — on one big hand, actually — so I only left Vegas down a few C-bills. Charles and Michael had a big of luck, too, playing in a Texas Hold Em Poker tournament on Saturday, with Charles making it to the final 11, before finishing just out of the money.
I spent the week after I got home trying to regain the hearing in my left ear, after coming down with something I swear was a strain of Ebola, leaving my head completely clogged and my throat sore and raw. That’s what I get for eating airline food, I guess . . .
But it was a great weekend, in all. Vegas CAN be family-friendly. But I guess we’ll get to see in two years, when we all head back for Connie’s 90th.
Brush up on your blackjack, Devra. I’m saving up for it now.

Christmas Tree giveaway

Christmas Tree giveaway
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

Like the antlers, don't you?

Christmas coal for everyone

I had such good intentions for today's post ... I was ready to tittilate and amuse ya'll with stories of snowboarding, or the strip show I went to see (with my GIRLFRIEND, no less) on Tuesday.
But no, I'm going to complain. Bitterly.
You see, I got up this morning with big plans — go to the doctor, play a little ball, and get my car fixed. (OK, so the plans don't sound very big at all ... ;) But the Almighty threw a monkey wrench in my plans. Or my truck. Something like that.
It was just supposed to be a tune-up and a wee little brake job. Nothing serious. No major surgery on the innards of my truck.
Yah. Right.
That's when I get this call...
"Hi, JJ? It's Art down at the shop ... uhhh.... We need to talk."
Those last four words are the most dreaded words a man can hear. But usually they come from a woman. Now, when they come from someone with a Y chromosome, you KNOW there's trouble.
It seems my 4Runner is all Guns N Roses... as in, my Axel just ain't that rosy... Oil from the differential started leaking into my rear brakes, meaning — let me get technical for a second here — the potassium seals on the defibrillator have become fused, which in turn have ratchefied the calipers.
Seriously, there is oil from the diff in my brakes, and they could have seized up any time. And since I had the foresight to buy an import, that means only Toyota can do this particular repair.
I won't try to astound you with the amount of this repair bill, but the labour for just the axel alone is 7.6 hours. And with mechanics making about the same as the GNP of New Mexico, let's just say everyone is getting mandarin oranges for Christmas.
Or, at least my family is. All the rest of you are getting Christmas Cards written on the back of my credit card statements.
And I'm sure I can look forward to lots of great presents myself, like the ones I get from my folks. What was it last year? Oh, yah - BOXERS WITH LADYBUGS ON THEM! Just what I always wanted ... Sheesh... I'm 28 years old. I think I can buy my own boxers by now.
Little rocketships are WAY cooler than ladybugs ...

And this time, I mean it ...

I am declaring it, for the world to hear, that I am INDEED going snowboarding tommorrow... screw the chores that need to be done, the bills that need to be paid, the women that need to be loved. It's about time I hit the hills, and DAMMIT, that's what I'm going to do ...
The weekend was its usual messy self, with some rather embarassing pictures from an "Ugly Christmas Sweater" party sure to surface on the internet rather soon. All I can say is, I was drinking. You'll understand ...

Wednesday (My Monday)

Here I am, back at work. Oh, joy. Can you feel my enthusiasm?
Today was the start of the high school volleyball provincials, so my mood was swayed slightly by the prospect of seeing high school girls running around, but alas, the groupies were few and far between. Mostly parents (no MILFs) and grandparents.
I guess it's better than curling, though.
Anyways, one of the stories I had to work on was an update on the autopsy of a football player who died here. The Coroner's office, in their glacial pace, still had nothing to report after nearly three months. We think it was an aneurysm, or blood clot in the brain, but nothing has been released.
I knew Jeff quite well, and it was a truly difficult thing for me to do, writing about his death. Here's what I wrote back on Sept. 1....

Me n' Halvy
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

“Pale death, with impartial step, knocks at the poor man’s cottage and at the palaces of kings.”
— Horace

Dave Simpson cradled his friend’s head in his hands, trying to infuse life back into the still body by force of pure will alone.
While Jeff Halvorson’s body, with sightless eyes staring towards the heavens and skin taking a purplish tinge, was still there on the Apple Bowl field, his spirit had departed.
“When he collapsed, I just tried to be there and hold his head,” said Simpson, his stoic features betrayed by the emotion in his voice and eyes.
“It was so hard, because he was always a fighter, and when he was down, you just expected him to get up.
“And when you don’t see him get up, it’s . . . it’s . . . It was definitely the scariest thing I’ve seen in my life.”
Simpson, a fullback, and Halvorson, a running back, were close friends. In fact, you wouldn’t be able to find a member of the Okanagan Sun who didn’t consider Halvorson a friend. That’s what made his collapse, and subsequent death, at practice on Thursday so terrifying.
They watched coach Shane Sommerfeld and trainer Dave Willoughby perform CPR on Halvorson for five long minutes until the paramedics arrived. They watched as the EMTs coaxed his body back to life for a minute, only to see him pass into the beyond again. They milled about in a trancelike state in the emergency room of Kelowna General Hospital for an hour, desperately waiting for news that Halvorson had made it, that he was alright, that he would once again strap on the pads and don number 34. Finally, they had to look each other in the eyes, unable to believe their friend was gone.
“We’re all asking the same question: ‘why?’ But nobody has that answer,” said Perry Stang, a minister and the team’s counsellor.
“Not even a sparrow — those grungy little things eating fries outside of McDonalds — not even a sparrow falls that He doesn’t see. Jeff was not alone.”
Halvorson’s tragic passing — how words seem inadequate to describe just how unjust this was — has left an entire community in shock. How does an incredibly fit 21-year-old man, married just six weeks, with one infant daughter and another due Dec. 23, just drop to his knees and die before he hits the ground?
There are whispers of steroids or performance-enhancing substances from some people, but those invariably spring from the lips of those who have never met Jeff Halvorson. He was mature beyond his years, a genuine soul who wouldn’t pollute his body — or mind — with a shortcut to physical fitness.
“I’ll remember him for his attitude. He was an inspiration to everybody,” said Simpson. “He could do the 8-4 job, then come here to practice, and get the job done here.
“There are no words to describe him. He was unbelievable. He had respect for everybody. He never put anybody down, never singled anybody out. We were lucky enough to see him off the field. He was an amazing guy.”
And he was the same “whether he was on the sideline or on the sidewalk,” said Sun coach Jay Christensen.
“If you knew him, you’d know he had the same impact on this team, from the top to the bottom, whether you were on offence, defence, or whatever. Jeff made you feel like part of the team.
“It’s going to be something that’s going to take a long time for these young fellows to get over.”
Halvorson’s strength of character was matched by his talent on the field. The provincial 100-metre champion his senior year in high school in Grande Prairie, he was even invited to an Olympic team tryout. He was on pace to shatter all sorts of CJFL records this season, and would have been pulling on the pads for a living once his junior career was over.
“He had everything. He had incredible speed, vision, and a sense of where to go with the ball,” said Christensen. “But the biggest thing was his work ethic. You could tell Jeff to go do everything, and he would do it for you. He had an understanding of the game. He was probably the best player I’ve ever coached.
“The sky would have been the limit for him, had he decided to go on with his football,” added the CFL veteran. “I don’t think there would have been any barriers for him. Family was very important to him, but if that was something he chose to do, there’s no question in my mind he had the ability.”
Perhaps the greatest tragedy is that his children will only have a fistful of clippings, some faded home movies, or a closet-full of trophies to tell them what their father was like. His daugther, Cheyne, is just over a year old and too young to remember him. His other child isn’t even due until two days before Christmas.
Simpson and teammate Jeff Swaan stayed with Leah, his wife, on Wednesday night, and have pledged to be there for her as long it is needed.
“Something like this, that can happen so fast, shows how valuable life is,” said Simpson. “We just have to be thankful that we were touched by his life.”
Just days ago, Halvorson was talking about spring flyfishing and snowmobiling with his friends. Now, they’re talking about how to get to Sylvan Lake, Alta., for the funeral on Tuesday.
“I’ve never had a brother,” said Swaan. “I’ve had friends who have been like one . . . but he was closer to me than any of those other guys.
“It was just too soon,” he whispered.