The internet may brim with iconic images of goalies, but nothing gets to the soul of it like Ralph Morse’s photo of Terry Sawchuk in LIFE magazine.
Take a minute to let that image sink in. (It will become hard for you to walk down a dark alley without seeing Sawchuk’s face in the cracked asphalt.) The accompanying text informs readers:
This face belongs to Terry Sawchuk, a 36-year-old goalie for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Re-created here, by a professional make-up artist and a doctor, are some of the more than 400 stitches he has earned during 16 years in the National Hockey League. Sawchuk has sustained other injuries not shown here: a slashed eyeball requiring three stitches, a 70% loss of function in his right arm because 60 bone chips were removed from his elbow, and a permanent “sway-back” caused by continual bent-over posture.
Last year there were only six NHL goalies, but games had to be interrupted so regularly for spot surgical repairs that a new rule was passed requiring every team to carry a spare. The bloody ordeal has bred a special kind of man — half commando and half human pincushion — and it is not surprising he has special problems. Continue reading
This shot from the Bolshoy Ice Dome after Finland upset Russia may have just replaced the poutine Google search as Vladimir Putin’s greatest photo op. This is the kooky power of sport. That it can silence, if only for a moment, the world’s most powerful dictator.
Putin and Medvedev watching a little hockey. (Sasha Mordovets)
Given the subject’s penchant for elaborately fake photo ops, there is a delicious irony that the photo was actually taken during a Russia/Slovakia game earlier in the tournament.
Sharp salesmen understand that a customer doesn’t buy drills, but holes. And their psyche doesn’t feed on gin, but the emptiness it forgot it had. This is how intoxication works.
You want to review a glass of wine, begin with hue and stench, then the legs, then the tango it performs up and down the tongue, the way it sticks in the throat, at which point—the exact point the show should really begin—the tasting notes invariably end. Gullet to gut, blood, brain, liver, porcelain—when we talk about wine, why are the qualities of its intoxication so rarely referenced?
Is the buzz instantaneous? Supple? Will a third glass make us giddy or violent? Does a glimpse of God await us in the fourth? Professional wine critics never outline the demons that might sneak up on us after the fifth because professional wine critics spit out every sip they taste. Continue reading
In lieu of recent blog posts, here’s a Vine video of our cat Oscar getting ready for Christmas. We promise to do better in 2014.
Walt staggers into the lab, falling onto the cold cement floor, where he sees Jesse’s last batch of baby blue. He knows this is the greatest batch of meth ever cooked. And as the life drains from his body, he is struck by one last idea. With his final guilty breath, the scientist takes his first hit of the substance that destroyed the world around him.
FADE TO BLACK.
In his new memoir, the disgraced Liberal leader captures perfectly the preternatural life wisdom that can only be acquired from inside a taxi cab:
As I got into his cab, he pulled his rear-view mirror to get a closer look.
“Are you who I think you are?”
“I am,” I said.
“I voted for you.”
“I’m glad somebody did.”
Then he shrugged and said, “It’s politics.”
It was if he was saying, “Look, this is how the world is. You did not know it before. You know it now.” As we talked, I learned that he was from Lebanon and had been in Canada for 20 years. He combined a cabbie’s shrewd grasp of the democratic politics of his new country and a sardonic memory of the brutal confessional politics of Lebanon. I began to see that “politics” was the word he used for the baffling combination of will and chance that determines the shape of life. The way taxi medallions are awarded in a city, for example, was politics. The way dictators continue to rule poor countries was politics, the way Lebanon was carved up by the civil war was politics and, he was saying, the way well-meaning innocents get beaten was politics. When I paid my fare and left him, I wanted more than anything to write about this politics, this brutal game, this dramatic encounter between fate and will, malignity and nobility that fascinated him as much as it fascinated me.