Originally published at crisis magazine
Since before I can remember, I have been obsessed with sports. As a youngster, I did what virtually every Canadian kid does: I played hockey and dreamt of playing in the NHL. That didn’t pan out, but I eventually fell in love with football and rugby.
I was what you call a “husky” kid; you know the type—not “fat” in the colloquial sense but not a string bean like so many eight- and nine-year-olds. I hated long-distance running, and when we were forced to run cross-country, I remember hoping that I could be diagnosed with asthma so I could be exempt. I was naturally awful at distance running, and it felt like torture. If humans could be categorized into types of horses, I would qualify as a natural Clydesdale.
My parents always told me, when I was being teased by kids who were literally half my weight, that one day I would grow up to be big and strong, and it would all work out in the end.
Orthodox. Faithful. Free.
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Well, they were right. By middle school, I shot up a few inches and thinned out a bit, but I
