Roger's Cup dilly-dally - friendship

By Terrance Gavan

GAV IS ASSUMING THE THINKER POSE
DON'T FALL FOR IT - HE AIN'T

   The short shinnied steps, stuttered between the myriad squeaks of rubber on DecoTurf are almost imperceptible to the eye.

   We know they’re extant, because those high pitched squeals of rubber sole reverberate off the stadium seats.

   Roger Federer, Andy Murray, Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic are the top four tennis players in the world.

   This year all four advanced to the semi-finals – with glowering Scot, Murray and Fed Ex meeting in Sunday’s final of the Canadian Open last weekend. Murray won. Deserved it too did the staunch descendant of William Wallace. 

   I was there for all three matches.

   It doesn’t happen often.

   Top four seeds advancing.

   But all four were here in Canada sneaking a jump start on the final major tennis tourney of the year.

   The pop, pound and power of the strokes rebounding round the Rexall Centre Oval at Toronto’s York University are graceful; like watching a pair of gazelles performing Swan Lake.

   Ballet in $359 sneakers and titanium wings.

   It was a nice weekend of tennis.

   Part birthday present and part reunion with my best friend Johnny E who flew in Saturday morning to catch the action.

   The tennis was good.

   But the time spent with a good friend was better.

   Not just any friend.

   John saved my life back in March of 1998.

   He gave me a phone number.

   Suggested that I call it.

   “I’m not supposed to do anything but give this to you,” he said.

   “I’m just supposed to hand it to you and tell you to ask for Dr. Corner. He’s the physician at the AFM (Addictions Foundation of Manitoba) on Portage.”

   We met at the University of Manitoba, John and I. Writers on the Manitoban newspaper.

   Andrew Coyne (Macleans national editor and CBC At Issue panelist) was the managing editor and Jeff Blair, (Globe Sports) the Sports Editor, left the staff that year to join the Winnipeg Free Press.

   That was back in the late seventies and early eighties.

   Johnny came to my wedding in Ottawa.

   We’ve played a lot of tennis together. Enjoyed the occasional late night junket. Including one memorable trip from the UMZOO pub at closing directly to a Winnipeg Jets vs. Calgary playoff in Cowtown. That required a late night phone call to my wife saying that we’d be back in a coupla’ days.

   We made a pact to meet yearly at the Grey Cup - along with an entrenched group of cronies from the U of M.

   John and I played at the Beaches and the Kew Park Tennis Club on the lake last Monday.

   It was the best part of my weekend.

   Because John remains an enigma.

   He is loath to take credit for steering me toward the enduring epiphany that ended up saving my life back in March of 1998.

   The words he spoke that day were important.

   He was coached by a duty counselor at the AFM hot line desk.

   John phoned the facility on seven or eight separate occasions.

   On that last call he told the counselor that I was alcoholic, down to 135 pounds, sporting a lovely sunflowery pallor, and a distinct case of the shakes (DTs).

   The counselor (Peter), who I came to know quite well during my 72-day all expense paid vacation at the Willy Wonka Chocolate factory on Portage, simply told John: “Your friend is dying.”

   Then he said: “All you can do is give him the number. He’s got to want to come. If you care about this guy, give him the paper and suggest he call it.”

   I had an endoscopy – GI scope - on the 18th of March - after my final St. Patrick’s Day binge spent at the Osborne Village. Dr. Duffy phoned John’s parents in a rush with results that afternoon. Varises – swollen sacs - were visible high up the esophageal  track. Any breach of any one of those varises could cause a massive bleed. 

   I was recovering at John’s parents on the next day. John rolled in for a visit from Beausejour. He’s still a teacher and union rep for the local Frontier School Division. He and his lovely wife Heather, and their kids Maddie and Sarah know me today only because of a gentle push and proffered sheet.

   I made the call.

   My only thought – a moment of clarity: “This guy is trying to save your life – you idiot.”

   Never had an urge to drink from that day forward.

   A guiding hand at the right time.

   I watched my father die on Christmas Day in the early 70s - a GI Bleed at the Ottawa General.

   I had, despite my best efforts to avoid it, become my old Da’.

   That was 12 years ago.

   Some things don’t get said.

   John likes to avoid any credit. I’ve tried many times. He just tells me to eff off.

   So here it is buddy … like it or not.

   Thanks John.

   See you in Edmonton. Go Bombers!