one tree shaking in its boots. Right there. The fur on the back of Elskin’s neck stands right up and she starts growling – a pistol, that dog. She was. Kristjan starts running faster,yanking Elskin along – she stopped right there on the path and started growling and snapping at the air. And that’s when it happens. This bear comes slinking out of the bush. And isn’t it always a Jesus surprise when you see a bear – do you remember that bear that walked into the backyard when we were having your birthday party, just like he’d been invited, the saucy old thing?
‘So sure enough, a bear walks out onto the path, right in front of Kristjan and Elskin, a giant bear, bigger than any we’ve seen, kiddo. Likely about ten times the size of Grandpa. Maybe more. Just huge, with paws the size of your head, and teeth the length of your hand. And Kristjan stands there with Elskin still growling beside him. Remember, he’s just small. And the bear staring them both down. Kristjan – he’s thinking of everything everyone has told him to do at this moment. You know, play dead, cover your neck, clap your hands, make yourself big. And he doesn’t have much time, he can see the bear’s eyes turning red and his neck tensing up like a spring, and so, in that second, he just does it. He’s small, but he makes himself big. He raises his arms out like this and thinks himself big, and something happens. He grows tall, up and up until he’s looking down on the bear. And he sees the bear’s scared, trembling. Bear’s the one thinking now, How do I get out of this alive? He’s met his match. So he takes a swipe at Kristjan, real quick, and hits him on the shoulder before he disappears back into the bushes, whimpering like a little pup. Kristjan had a scar after that, looked like a sliver moon hung there on his little shoulder. And he was different in other ways too, I’m telling you.
‘Next time he plays hockey, couple days later, he’s still small, smaller than you, but he’s playing big, he’s playing gigantic. He’s the star of the team now, no one can believe it. They start calling him the Norse Giant. And then that’s all they call him. On the ice – “Norse! Norse!” And he really is giant. He’s huge out there. Something of the bear in him after that day, I’d guess.’
T ipsy Cups: one table, longish. Ten plastic beer cups in total, the cheap kind but not too flimsy, five lined up on each side of the table.Three inches of beer in each. The first people on each team do a cheers, then chug the beer. Empty cup is placed face down on the edge of the table, a fraction of the cup’s rim hanging over the side. Using your pointer finger, lightly flick the cup upward. When the cup lands upright, the next person chugs. Flicks the cup. Lands it. And on down the line. First team to finish wins, obviously. Winning was the point – it was the point for most things when it came to the team. Eating, drinking, pranks. And hockey.
I mounted these details in my mind with the urgency of a physics student about to take a pop quiz. I watched Boz’s technique carefully. The placement of the cup on the table. How much rim hanging over. How light the flick.
Boz’s basement apartment was an amber-filled cave. The kitchen walls surrounding the Tipsy Cups table were painted dark orange, round lanterns of yellow paper hung in the corners, dribbling out muted light. On the wall above the crooked pyramid of beer boxes across the room: a framed painting of an African woman in a colourful dress, grinning and barefoot. On the adjoining wall, a huge poster of Mario Lemieux. A trophy towered in the centre of the table, complicated scaffolding of flaking gold leading to a bowling man. A piece of masking tape with the title
Rookie of the Year
taped over the nameplate on the trophy’s base. Boz assured our group of dubious, slouching rookies that this title didn’t rest on the outcome of Tipsy Cups. The trophy was present instead, I
‘So sure enough, a bear walks out onto the path, right in front of Kristjan and Elskin, a giant bear, bigger than any we’ve seen, kiddo. Likely about ten times the size of Grandpa. Maybe more. Just huge, with paws the size of your head, and teeth the length of your hand. And Kristjan stands there with Elskin still growling beside him. Remember, he’s just small. And the bear staring them both down. Kristjan – he’s thinking of everything everyone has told him to do at this moment. You know, play dead, cover your neck, clap your hands, make yourself big. And he doesn’t have much time, he can see the bear’s eyes turning red and his neck tensing up like a spring, and so, in that second, he just does it. He’s small, but he makes himself big. He raises his arms out like this and thinks himself big, and something happens. He grows tall, up and up until he’s looking down on the bear. And he sees the bear’s scared, trembling. Bear’s the one thinking now, How do I get out of this alive? He’s met his match. So he takes a swipe at Kristjan, real quick, and hits him on the shoulder before he disappears back into the bushes, whimpering like a little pup. Kristjan had a scar after that, looked like a sliver moon hung there on his little shoulder. And he was different in other ways too, I’m telling you.
‘Next time he plays hockey, couple days later, he’s still small, smaller than you, but he’s playing big, he’s playing gigantic. He’s the star of the team now, no one can believe it. They start calling him the Norse Giant. And then that’s all they call him. On the ice – “Norse! Norse!” And he really is giant. He’s huge out there. Something of the bear in him after that day, I’d guess.’
T ipsy Cups: one table, longish. Ten plastic beer cups in total, the cheap kind but not too flimsy, five lined up on each side of the table.Three inches of beer in each. The first people on each team do a cheers, then chug the beer. Empty cup is placed face down on the edge of the table, a fraction of the cup’s rim hanging over the side. Using your pointer finger, lightly flick the cup upward. When the cup lands upright, the next person chugs. Flicks the cup. Lands it. And on down the line. First team to finish wins, obviously. Winning was the point – it was the point for most things when it came to the team. Eating, drinking, pranks. And hockey.
I mounted these details in my mind with the urgency of a physics student about to take a pop quiz. I watched Boz’s technique carefully. The placement of the cup on the table. How much rim hanging over. How light the flick.
Boz’s basement apartment was an amber-filled cave. The kitchen walls surrounding the Tipsy Cups table were painted dark orange, round lanterns of yellow paper hung in the corners, dribbling out muted light. On the wall above the crooked pyramid of beer boxes across the room: a framed painting of an African woman in a colourful dress, grinning and barefoot. On the adjoining wall, a huge poster of Mario Lemieux. A trophy towered in the centre of the table, complicated scaffolding of flaking gold leading to a bowling man. A piece of masking tape with the title
Rookie of the Year
taped over the nameplate on the trophy’s base. Boz assured our group of dubious, slouching rookies that this title didn’t rest on the outcome of Tipsy Cups. The trophy was present instead, I
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