March 23/2005

 

Reporter Discovers Curling Is Boring

Pat Savard-Walsh, The Muse (Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  

ST. JOHN’S, Nfld. (CUP)—‘All

right guys, I’m just going to need
your names and some ID.”

For a second, I froze. I looked
down to meet the don’t-mess-
with-me glare of a
60-something-year-old woman. A
moment ago, this woman offered
me a top-up on my coffee; now,
she turned on me like a beaten
dog. She was in position, pen in
hand.

Her jacket said she was a vol-
unteer. The souvenir pins on her
jacket said she was nuts.

I had to be careful—who knew
what kind of sicko I was dealing
with? She could be a volunteer
with trouble understanding her
position on the world’s ladder of
power. I expected my colleague
and I would end up in an unidenti-
fiable forced labour camp where
our journalism skills would be use-
less in our struggle for survival.
Clearly, I had to be cunning.
Unfortunately, the best I came up
with was:

“Well, my name’s Ryan Hoult,
but I didn’t bring any ID with me.”

Damn.

Obviously, my name’s not Ryan
Hoult. Obviously, no one gets in
without ID.

Obviously, ’'m cooked. Then
the unthinkable happened:

“Oh, that’s all right. I see your
name here on the list. Here are
your coupons.”

She gave us each a book offer-
ing a complete week’s worth of
food and drink, scuffling off into
the depths of Mile One Stadium.

My colleague and I stood
motionless; this doesn’t even hap-
pen in the movies. That
self-appointed officer of the vol-

unteer law just granted me full
access to a state-of-the-art sports
facility, free to mingle with the
nation’s top sports journalists. I
now had the right to casually con-

verse with—hell, downright
interview—Canada’s top female
curlers. And, it came with a bot-
tomless well of free food.

All this happened within 15
minutes at the Scott Tournament
of Hearts. Without a doubt, I was
ready to declare this the world’s
greatest event. I was already famil-
iar with the media lounge and the
free Tim Hortons’ products. I had
dined on fine chili, and relaxed in
the La-Z-Boys. I was star-struck by
CBC personalities just popular
enough to be recognizable. I was
even coming to terms with some
people getting paid to do this.
Now we had the volunteers on our
side.

And then I had to watch curl-
ing.

In all fairness, curling seems
fun to play, the way painting a pic-
ture is more fun than watching it
dry. But, there’s a reason Fox does-
n’t carry pro curling. If you caught
the coverage on CBC, you noticed
only three camera shots: the close
up of the shooters’ faces, the
release of the rocks, and the over-
head view of the house as it glides
in. Repeat this for 16 rocks, for 10
ends.

Granted, each curler only
throws two stones per end. But, at
the end of the broadcast, I’d still
been uncomfortably close to
Colleen Jones’s face 20 times in
one night. In some places, that
would be enough to grant a
restraining order. In this case, we
weren't so lucky.

There’s really nothing exciting
about curling. What’s exciting is
the event. The proof lies with this:
you can miss an entire game,
watch the last two stones of the
final end and not miss anything.
This hypothesis proved true down
to the final game.

In fact, the only thing stranger
than the game itself were the fans
at Mile One. An amalgamation of
die-hard curlers from across the
country, curious sports enthusiasts
from the streets of the capital city,
and confused individuals wonder-
ing where the hell their $30 went.

I won't lie; I didn’t even go to
any more games until the final.
There, I strolled the undergrounds
of the stadium, searching for
adventure. At this point, I thought
about whether this article would
have been funnier had I been on
narcotics, paying tribute to gonzo
journalism. I think I heard Hunter
roll over in his grave.

As I pass the media lounge, I
wonder how people would react to
discovering how many journalists
do their research with a TV. I
spent some time watching a man
from Sportsnet sit in his suit, eyes
glued to the screen, mentally
preparing his post-game analysis.
He looked like he had three lines
of coke for breakfast. This was my
first encounter with big-name
media. These are the people I idol-
ize, but they would probably envy
the freedom I have that lets me
write this garbage.

I make it to the ice in time to
see Jennifer Jones throw her
remarkable last stone, and I smile.
Didn’t miss a thing,

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