BMO’ning a workplace accident in Toronto.
TORONT-OWWWW! — l have a lower-body injury.
I hurt my left knee at BMO Field, where the Saskatchewan Roughriders defeated the (please note correct spelling) Toronto Argonauts 27-24 on Oct. 7.
This roving correspondent was seated between Ian Hamilton (senior writer, riderville.com) and Murray McCormick (Roughriders beat reporter, Regina Leader-Post).
To my left, below desk level, was a well-concealed and, I must say, lethal divider.
Every time I pushed my chair forward, the left knee would collide with the divider, causing me to throw a pen, a fit, or a pen and a fit.
This happened six times during the game, football being a contact sport.
Then came unlucky seven. Perhaps 20 minutes after the Canadian Football League game, in the fine company of 20 reporters and their laptops, well, you can probably figure out what happened ... (Thump.)
(“CENSORED!”)
Oops. Sorry.
I had not felt such excruciating pain since watching “The Love Guru.”
It felt like someone had stuck a hot knife in my left kneecap.
Hence the screaming, followed by the profuse and sheepish and noteven-remotely-sincere apologies.
I said sorry to Murray. (Ian, to his credit, had left by then.)
I approached Justin Dunk of 3DownNation.com, meekly introduced myself, and then apologized — audibly enough for everyone to hear, but not nearly as loud as “CENSORED!”
At that point, I became introspective.
Why is it, I wondered, that my impulsive reaction is to scream a bad word, such as (never mind), as opposed to emitting an anguished but inoffensive “ow!”?
And then I started writing my column, hoping that everyone in the press box would expunge any memory of my painful presence from their memory banks.
No such luck.
“Post-game entertainment at BMO Field,” tweeted Sean Fitz-Gerald, one of the truly sensational people in the media biz. "@robvanstone has smacked his knee on the pressbox desk at least twice, screaming in pain both times.”
Sean added: “I am submitting a request to MLSE to have that divider bronzed, with an inscription made to remind future generations of what happened here.”
Heroically, I shrugged off the agony and completed my column. I then inspected the damage, marvelled at how I could hurt the same knee seven times over, and limped out of the press box — to the immense relief of its occupants, their ears still ringing from the sheer horror of it all.
The entire, sad spectacle was an aberration, considering that I have generally behaved with (burp) decorum since I began covering the Roughriders in 1996.
OK, there was one other time ... In the late 1990s, the Green and White was in the midst of another hopeless game. I should have been nominated for a National Newspaper Award simply for being able to remain conscious.
In those days, I was not far-removed from the years in which I sat in Section 204 and watched the games strictly from the perspective of a fan. Admirably, at least by my appraisal, I managed to leave the “fan” in 204 and cover the team with objectivity.
But it did reach a point, just once, where I couldn’t take it anymore.
It was second-and-forever and the Roughriders were, of course, trailing. So what was the call?
A screen pass.
To a fullback whose clocking in the 40-yard dash typically included interval times.
For the type of advance that would ordinarily be associated with a centipede.
My response was more explosive than the Roughriders’ offence.
“What kind of call was THAT?” I shrieked, before taking my pen and firing it against a press-box window. (The pen travelled further than the pass!)
All heads turned.
Everyone gave me a disapproving look.
And there I sat, my face red due to anger and the sheer embarrassment of it all.
Ummmm ... sorry?
My press-box demeanour has been consistently composed since then.
Yes, I tell too many bad jokes. (Did you hear the one about ...?)
Yes, I talk way too much about the Denver Broncos with Marc Smith of DiscoverMooseJaw.com. (So sue me.)
Yes, I cannot resist any opportunity to exchange wisecracks with CKRM’s Mitchell Blair.
And I really like to irritate Ian, such as when I gratuitously mention him in this column.
But as far as volcanic eruptions, there hasn’t been anything since I screamed and threw a pen at the window.
So concludes my riveting story of The Pane ... and The Pain.