It’s an honour to become a part of this esteemed franchise, and although I may be a little bit older than some of my teammates, Magic Mike expects to make an impact with his hustle, grit and smarts. And if I need to be a father figure to some of the team’s emerging, young organizational depth, so be it. Magic Mike is a born leader. I know where all the good steak houses are. I know where to get a safe tattoo at 4:00 am. And, goddam it, I know what a fair price for a prostitute– regardless of where the sex worker might be on the gender spectrum– is. Magic Mike can help this team grow up, and Magic Mike can help this team win. I will be making no further statements today so that I can best concentrate on preparing myself, Magic Mike, for the big game tonight. Oh, and please visit my website to purchase merchandise:

The crowd outside the stadium in TO is wild! Can you hear the cheering?

I could not hear it, but I could hear the occasional whoop coming through the open window as people made their way up or down the street.

Sitting in the dark, listening, it felt like a blackout had washed the city free. Everyone was experiencing the same thing. Everyone was happily displaced, vibrant.

In the wake of the victory some of the broadcasters have been anointing the Raptors Canada’s team, but I’m not sure that’s the case. The Raptors are Toronto’s team, reflecting a sensibility in league, sport and composition that is unique to the city. The players in the NBA, much more partners than faceless subordinates, are a revolution unto themselves. And in Toronto where the culture wars seems to burn so much brighter and hotter that the ROC, the Raptors embodied not just the demographic of the city they worked in, but the aspirations of the people who lived there, too.

For awhile now, particularly amongst people younger than me, the Raptors have served as connective tissue, the casual language spoken at parties and bars. This is not your father’s corporate sports team. This is something else. It’s youth, it’s velocity, it’s progress. The Leafs and Jays were institutional legacies passed on from bygone eras, but the Raptors were not, they were the living present of the city.

And last night there was such joy and hope. People were experiencing things they would never experience again. Their lives were being written, histories formed. They were young and beautiful and united, and the world was changing not just before them, but from within them, and everything was cresting, limitless and glowing.

I used to spend an awful lot of time in taverns.

Typically, I’d take my place amidst a stretch of solitary men drinking at a long bar. The conversation was a slow background rumbling, almost like distant thunder, and it lasted all night.

Sports.

The weather.

Women.

TV.

The past.

Strangers who had no expectation of seeing one another again, with little in common beyond the drink in front of them, making a conscious effort not to be alone, to try in some way, to connect. These conversations were beautiful to me, and I’ve come to miss them.

As a substitute, I’ve taken to listening to Sports Talk radio at night. The other day was a call-in show out of Toronto. Lacey from Oshawa had a few things to say about the Blue Jays. She was stubbornly defending third baseman Josh Donaldson:

“ Josh is far and away the greatest Blue Jay, and just because he’s injured the team shouldn’t quit on him! He’s given them everything, and now they just want to abandon him? That’s just so crappy. You can’t treat people like that. It’s wrong.”

The voice was familiar, and as I listened I realized that I knew her. Lacey from Oshawa was part of a group of patients I did pulmonary reahb with at a facility in Toronto. She was so thin then, and so angry, and every single day she wore a Blue Jays jersey with Josh Donaldson’s name on the back.

Her path had been difficult, and the heavy veil of sadness and pain that shrouded her was rarely lifted. Maybe at Bingo, if she got a line, she might allow herself a thin, bitter smile, but that was about it. She simply could not bring herself to socialize, and what we found out about her was through observation and hearsay, all of which reduced to this: when she fell ill and became incapacitated her husband left with their young son. That was how her life had worked out.

As I listened to her on the radio, hearing her speak more than I had in the two months we shared at rehab, I heard a stronger, braver voice. She was– with this phone call decrying a lack of loyalty to somebody doing their best in the face of physical limitations– making a conscious effort not to be alone. She was reaching out, and it felt like a miracle that I got to witness this, that I got to imagine her recovered and at home, fully herself now, and fighting for somebody she loved.

So far his short career has been pretty mediocre, indistinguishable from countless other players who quietly fell short of the expectations set before them. There’s an obvious poignancy to this, I think. The consensus was that Manaea was going to be a pretty great, and throughout his entire life he’d probably been even better than that. Every time he stepped on a field, all eyes would have fallen upon him. He was the single-combat hero of whatever school, town or city he came from. A transcendent athlete with limitless horizons unfurling before him, he’d likely never encountered an appetite his talent could not slake.

And then, once in the Big Leagues, he just wasn’t very good anymore. Other players were better. The axis of his life had shifted, and now he was the kid who couldn’t get anybody out, rather than the unblemished golden boy.

He’d fallen.

He was no longer the best.

He’d become like the rest of us.

Because of my involvement in Fantasy Baseball, I had watched a lot of his starts over the years. There’s something really intimate in that, to be so closely focused on another person. I saw parts of him he couldn’t keep hidden.  I saw how disappointment revealed itself on his face and then crept into his body and effected his game. I saw him battle that. I saw how he responded to incompetent teammates and punishing heat, I saw victories and uncertainties, and eventually I felt like I actually knew him, as if he had grown up just two doors over.

In spite of that, I fell out of the habit of watching his games, and then, about a month ago I happened upon one by chance late one night.  He was pitching against the Boston Red Sox, which is like saying he was pitching against a nightmare as their batters are so overwhelming  and intimidating.  It was maybe the 6^th inning, and Manaea looked good. Really good. In fact, he had not given up a single hit.

And from this point forward, as he pursued a no-hitter, the tension just ratcheted up. The camera was trained on him so tightly you could see beads of sweat forming and then rolling down his face. Everything became quiet and important, and each step closer to the no-hitter was a miracle in itself, and these miracles kept piling up until finally the game was over and the inconceivable had happened, not a single player had been able to get a hit off of Manaea.

His teammates, child-like and abundant, jumped all over him. Manaea, as happy as he was amazed, had a rollercoaster grin on his face. He was in paradise, everything bright and spinning and timeless. He had become the perfect version of himself.  And for those of us watching, it was as if something beautiful had been restored, and without even knowing it I had been pulled from the sofa, and alone and in the dark, I stood applauding something I had grown to care about becoming what it was always meant to be. 

As of this writing, I am on day 7 of a 6 week stint at a pulmonary rehabilitation facility.

Last night was an event known as “Coffee House.” It took place in a generic, over-lit cafeteria style room that was made all the more depressing by the tiny gestures of decorative cheer added by the well-intentioned staff.

An inspirational message taped to the wall.

A balloon tied to a folding chair.

Somewhere a Dollar Store streamer that wouldn’t stay in place, hanging limp as if injured.

All of us gathered there were quiet, standing around as awkward and vulnerable as children at a school dance. Those who were most profoundly ill, those for whom recovery was out of reach and who lived permanently in the residence, had been pushed up near a three-piece band that was getting ready to perform. These people sat in complicated, tongue-controlled wheelchairs, and at a casual glance appeared fused into the metal of their containers– their mouths open, faces rigid and untranslatable. The rest of us, those attached to oxygen tanks and those not, just looked lost and a little sad, like we’d long given up hope of being asked to dance. You felt what was missing rather than what was there—and it seemed as if in each breath we exhaled a shallow puff of loss, all then gathering together like a weather system to form a heavy, oppressive cloud that enveloped us.

It was heartbreaking.

The band, a kind of folk outfit that was comprised of a woman who looked like a community organizer on tambourine, a bongo player in a Toronto Blue Jays cap, and an electric keyboardist who tried to project energy by wearing a Hawaiian shirt, began to play. At first the music seemed like it was designed to be little more than sound, just a “something” to help fill the emptiness of the situation, but then the woman began to sing I’ll Fly Away. Her voice was beautiful and true, and everybody in the coffee house fell into it.

When the shadows of this life have gone

I’ll fly away

Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly

I’ll fly away

And that voice, that song, it seemed to come out of us, too. And for a few moments we were all living beyond our mortal cages, we were all soaring– everything effortless, everything weightless, everything beautiful.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MNM0OO_iVI

A father and his two young daughters walked by on the path beside me, and the dad commented to his girls that it was great that there was a baseball game on in the park for everybody. The youngest girl, the one who might have been four, looked at him like he was crazy, “Not really, you know you can only watch them play, right Daddy?”

A skinny woman somewhere in her 50’s jumped about behind home plate encouraging the Leafs. She had spiky, blonde hair and was wearing a two-piece Lycra workout suit that she’d pulled up over her paunchy stomach to the belly button. Her thing, it seemed, which may well have been her workout, was to trot off after the foul balls and return them to the coaches. It was clear that this wasn’t an official position, but rather a chosen one.

Not far from her was a guy in a lawn chair with opinions.

He thought that the strike zone was too big.

He couldn’t believe that a hotdog stand existed without Rob Ford at it.

The second baseman couldn’t catch the flu.

When the spiky-haired woman ran off after another foul ball, he piped up, “I can’t believe they’re so cheap that they make you give the balls back!”

The woman seemed almost insulted by this and turned toward him, her hands on her hips, and in a chippy, defiant voice said, “The game’s for free, they don’t make no money and they’d go broke if they were giving away the balls!”

Lawn chair: That’s crap, you gotta think big, you gotta think marketing! If they gave the balls away this place would be packed and they’d have sponsors all over the place!”

Spiky-haired woman: You just want something for nothing.

Lawn Chair: When I was a kid they gave ‘em out for free!

Spiky-haired woman: Well, this ain’t the 60’s!

Lawn Chair: Jesus, I’m not that old! (But he looked like he was) That just shows you don’t know shit!

Spiky-haired woman: Yeah, you are too that old, and you know what? The reason you’re griping about the balls is because you ain’t got none!

And then the second baseman booted the ball and the guy in the lawn chair used this distraction and started to shout at him, “Goddamn it, can’t you guys do anything right!” and as he yelled the spiky-haired woman kept looking right at him, satisfied that she’d protected her turf.

has done his time on reality TV, served as a columnist for Vice Magazine, has been to jail, shares all his late night “inspirations” on Twitter and completely loves cars. In short, he is a 12 year-old boys idea of what the American dream could be, and for a moment that dream was to become mayor of Toronto.

Last week as Canseco was Tweeting his New Year’s resolutions, which included, “Fight Shaq in MMA cage match,” and “ help people getting screwed wherever I can,” he also enthused about running for mayor of Toronto—the city where he hit 46 home runs for the Blue Jays back in 1998. This was pretty much the best thing that I had ever come across on Twitter, and I immediately Tweeted back to Canseco in an effort to help.

@josecanseco: Don’t worry about any Citizenship issues in Toronto mayoral bid, I will gay marry you!

@josecanseco: But first you should try to become one of the Beauties on The Price is Right—they are now accepting men!

@josecanseco: It would make our union credible and be good PR!

@josecanseco: Secure the downtown Grinder vote.

@michaelmurrayca: Jose swings for the fences, not with other dudes!

@michaelmurrayca: I am having my people look into citizenship issues.

@josecanseco: But weren’t you in prison?

@michaelmurrayca: I called it Jose’s Castle, and I was in charge.

@josecanseco: Got it, I hear you!

@josecanseco: I have some campaign ideas for you, I am an idea factory!

@josecanseco: The Ikea Monkey will be your campaign signature, always standing on your flexed bicep– like a fetish.

@josecanseco: Open up Jarvis Bike Lane and make the Ikea Monkey municipal symbol.

@josecanseco: Ikea Monkey everywhere!

@michaelmurrayca: Ford too much trouble to be effective. Gotta fix budget, traffic, get new $ not from taxes, get more businesses, and help schools.

@josecanseco: The only thing that can help schools is a casino!

@josecanseco: A monkey themed casino!

@michaelmurrayca: I’m listening. Contact my assistant.

@josecanseco: And forget about Shaq, you must challenge mayor Rob Ford to an MMA fight. All proceeds to go to the monkey casino for the children!

@josecanseco: Ford is slow and easily confused.

@michaelmurrayca: I will throat punch him.

@josecanseco: He will die if you do that!!!

@josecanseco: Hey, did you ever have sex with Madonna? I bet she was pretty aggressive.

@michaelmurray: Just heard from my assistant and I can’t run for Toronto Mayor.

@michaelmurrayca: Will now just work harder on my anti-aging drink Ponce de Canseco.

@josecanseco: Nothing gonna keep you down! You are my hero. Can I have an autographed photo?

@josecanseco: You remind me a bit of Fred Flintstone, but in a good way!

Shortly after this stunner was completed, the Jays signed Melky Cabrera, thus transforming their team into serious contenders to win the American League East.

Canadian sports teams have long had a hard time persuading foreign-born players to sign contracts here, as many players know very little about Canada, fear the taxes and imagine that they can make greater endorsement money in the United States. As such, the Toronto Blue Jays send a letter to all new players in an effort to familiarize them with their new environment, hoping to ease the transition and help teach them everything that they might need to know in order to prosper in Canada and more specifically, Toronto. This is the letter that the Blue Jays sent out to their most recent acquisitions:

Welcome new Blue Jays!

Let us first say that we’re absolutely thrilled to have you as part of our organization and are looking forward to a great year that will hopefully see us all working together to win the World Series!

All trades are disorienting experiences, especially when they involve moving to a new country and so we want to tell you a little bit about your new home to make your life as a Toronto Blue Jay as easy and fun as possible!

Canada is a geographically large country with over 30 million inhabitants and 3 million lakes. That’s one lake for every 10 people in the nation! You might think that Canadians would be expert swimmers or subsist on a strictly fish diet, but this is not true at all. Canadians have a diet very similar to Americans and are good at hockey, a sport that involves skating on frozen water. However, baseball is very popular here, too, and as young, rich professional athletes you will enjoy every opportunity you might expect.

There is Internet in Canada and you will find plenty of sexual opportunity here. Rape and sexual assault are considered serious crimes, and although we will have teams of lawyers helping you out, you are not allowed to grope or have sex based on a vibe. You need consent, but rest assured almost all women will willingly want to have sex with you, so this shouldn’t be a problem at all.

This brings us to another point. Many men will also want to have sex with you. Toronto is a very large (5 million people) city with a lot of cultural and ethnic diversity, and some of this diversity includes gay people. Gay people like to have sex with members of their own gender. But remember, what is true for a woman is also true for a man, (Canada is a land of equality!) so a gay man cannot rape or molest you unless they have your explicit permission to do so. As repulsive as this may be to you, it is important that you do not go out of your way to insult the gay community in Toronto, so beating them up or making slanderous comments comparing opponents to fags is strongly discouraged.

Unfortunately Pit Bulls are banned and you will not be able to bring any of your warrior-pets into the country. In general, dog fighting is frowned upon in Canada and people treat dogs almost as if they were small children instead of extensions of an individual’s masculinity. You are welcome to bring in other, deadly breeds, though, just not the Pit Bull.

Many Americans consider Medicare to be an attack on their civil liberties. Canada does have a free health care system for all of its citizens, but you are under no obligation to use it. Buffalo is very close to Canada, and you are welcome to go there and pay for all of your medical needs and abortions.

Real Estate is expensive in Toronto, but as you are wealthy this should not pose a significant problem.  Many players like to simply rent a luxury suite at the Rogers Centre where we play baseball, and keep a home with their wife and children in another country. This is an excellent strategy for maintaining strict separation between mistresses and families. Veterans on your team will guide you on this matter.

List of Toronto Strip Clubs:

The Brass Rail

701 Yonge Street.

This is a very well known strip club and although you can expect special service, you will very likely be recognized.

The Landing Strip

191 Carlingview Drive

Out near the airport, this one has a little bit of edge. The women are generally less attractive but they are inexpensive.

Club Paradise

1313 Bloor W.

Very popular with people of colour.

The Lounge

1820 Dundas Street East

This features male and shemale strippers. Do not make a rookie mistake!

Contrary to popular mythology, Bigfoot sightings are still very rare in Canada.

Welcome to the Blue Jay family!

One of the people who escaped the mall on that day was Toronto Blue Jay third baseman Brett Lawrie. This is what he tweeted to his more than 125, 000 followers:

“pretty sure someone just let off a round of bullets in the eaton center mall…Wow just sprinted out of the mall…Through traffic…”

“ People sprinting up the stairs right from where we just were…Wow wow wow”

These are some other eyewitness reports:

“Everybody panicked and ran as fast as they could. We sprinted up the escalator and people were falling on top of one another and I was very scared I was going to get trampled or shot in the back. It felt like America not Canada.”

“My wife jumped on our kids and protected them. She pulled my youngest out of the stroller and laid herself out beside her. She sang songs to her and pulled out her breast so as to comfort her. It was an amazing and beautiful thing to do. She’s a hero.”

“I knew something was wrong when I heard two different groups of people screaming and crying as they ran past. I was frozen, not knowing what to do.  An Asian woman stopped to tell me what had happened. She had a tattoo of a man standing in front of a tank on her wrist, and when I saw it I knew it must have been inspired by Tiananmen Square, and I wondered if I was feeling the same sort of terror that they felt on that day. I was still stunned, but the woman tugged me on the shoulder and then I began to run, too

“ When I heard the shots and all the yelling I couldn’t help thinking that it was my mother’s birthday. I just kept saying, “I can’t die on my mother’s birthday, I can’t die on my mother’s birthday,” and I just ran with the mob until I hit the street.”

“Ever since I was a child and I saw the Columbine shooting on TV, I’ve had recurring nightmares about this sort of thing. I’d always been waiting for it to happen, I guess, and there it was, happening. I should have been scared, but I wasn’t, I was calm, thinking that I had a role to play and had been summoned by God to be present on this day.”

“I’d just bought a new high definition TV and I didn’t want to drop it. I worried about people running over it. But I did drop it and then I ran like hell.”

“Me and my friends come down to hangout at the food court all the time. There’s a girl who works at the Dairy Queen I’ve always wanted to talk to, but she’s so pretty I get too nervous. When the shooting started I thought of her. I didn’t want her to be scared. I wanted to save her, but everything happened so quickly that I don’t even remember running. Suddenly I was standing outside on the street and I knew right then that I wanted to marry her. I hope to tell our grandchildren that story one day.”