Andy Young: Who wants to be a Canadian millionaire?

By Andy Young

The primary purpose of the vacation I took earlier this month was relaxation. However, there was also some responsibility involved, since I believe providing some unique token of esteem for family members and/or special friends is a must. But everyone I’m close to already has all the coffee mugs, T-shirts, refrigerator magnets, baseball hats and keychains they need, so this time around they all got postcards with $1.75 worth of Canadian postage on them.

Andy Young in his Portland  Sea
Dogs turtleneck in 1999.
COURTESY PHOTO

Personal note: if you’re one of my special people and haven’t gotten your postcard yet don’t panic. It’s probably being held up in customs.

I also wanted to get myself something, but I don’t drink coffee, I don’t need new clothing, there’s no space left on the outside of my refrigerator, I’ve got more baseball hats than Sybil had personalities, and I have more keychains than baseball hats. For me a souvenir has to be useful. Fortunately, given where I was headed, I knew exactly what I wanted.

When I was employed by Portland’s professional baseball team, I represented them in public wearing some appropriate article of Sea Dog apparel. During the summer I’d sport a teal golf shirt; for winter speaking engagements I’d wear one of my two Sea Dogs turtlenecks, either the black one or the white one, each of which featured the face of Slugger, the team’s mascot, just above my left clavicle. I loved those two shirts nearly as much as I did my Wile E. Coyote turtleneck, which a good friend had given me some years previously.

Turtleneck shirts serve multiple purposes. They’re functional on social occasions or at work and are also handy for cold winter days when snow removal becomes a priority.

When I changed careers and moved into education, I took those still-sharp-looking Sea Dog turtlenecks with me, transitioning them into serviceable school shirts. Inevitably though, like the Wile E. Coyote model before them, they began fraying at the edges and ultimately just wore out.

None of the generic turtlenecks I currently own stands out, which is why I realized I needed a brand new one with “Newfoundland and Labrador” or “Nova Scotia” or “Magnetic Hill” embroidered on the collar. It’d be perfect: a new, useful shirt that’d simultaneously serve as a memento of a unique and memorable trip. And how tough could it be to find turtleneck shirts in places that are nominally even colder and darker during their lengthy winters than Maine is?

The answer: extremely tough.

There were no turtleneck shirts with unique logos on them in St. John’s, Newfoundland; Saint John, New Brunswick; or Digby, Nova Scotia. No professional hockey teams like the Newfoundland Growlers, the Moncton Wildcats, or the Cape Breton Screaming Eagles had any, either. I searched every tourist-driven establishment on Water Street in St. John’s, which looks exactly like every souvenir boutique in Portland’s Old Port, Kennebunkport, Bar Harbor, Newport, Cape Cod, or every other New England coastal tourist-friendly locale but came up empty.

Disappointed, I returned home and visited Hadlock Field’s souvenir store in Portland to buy myself a consolation turtleneck from the Sea Dogs. But they don’t carry them there anymore, either!

Did turtleneck shirts go out of style when I wasn’t looking? Were they always out of style, but no one told me?

If there’s a north-of-the-border edition of “Shark Tank,” someone ought to go on it and pitch the idea of selling turtleneck shirts with unique logos or names of places on them. They’d make millions of Canadian dollars, I tell you!

Or at least dozens of them, once I make my next trip up there. <

Andy Young: A fiendish wolf in friendly sheep’s clothing

By Andy Young

Like pretty much every person who wasn’t born blind, I know exactly how I look physically. I’m 6-foot-2 inches tall, with perfect posture, an athletic build, and a full head of lush, dark hair. I know this not only from memory, but also from the way I appear each night in my dreams, when I’m recording the final out of the World Series, foiling armed bank robberies, or rescuing damsels in distress from burning buildings (and subsequently sweeping them off their feet).

Andy Young

Full disclosure: I have, on several occasions, accomplished all of these Herculean feats in a single evening!

But recently my positive self-image has been shaken to its core, and what’s worse, the person responsible is someone I had previously considered a close friend.

Kevin and I have known each other since college, starting when he was the sports editor of the University of Connecticut’s student newspaper at the same time I was calling play-by-play for the school’s baseball, hockey, and soccer games on the campus radio station. His off-beat sense of humor seemed to mirror mine, as did his professed love of travel.

After graduation Kevin began a distinguished career as a newspaperman, while I continued functioning as a fulltime adolescent while nominally seeking a broadcasting job.

Some years ago the two of us took a seven-city, 10-day, freelance writing trip to some major league baseball parks together. Later we combined business with pleasure when we teamed up for a cross-country drive from Arizona to Connecticut. Kevin was unquestionably one of my closest and most trusted friends, which was why I was looking forward to the two-week trip the two of us were planning on taking to Canada’s Maritime Provinces early this summer.

After spending an evening at my home following his arrival in Maine late last month, Kevin and I headed north. The scenery in Newfoundland was as breathtaking as advertised, and the people there (and also in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick) bent over backward to make us feel welcome. We made some new friends, picking up a bit more useful wisdom along the way. Using his considerable photographic skills, Kevin snapped hundreds of pictures during our trip, capturing all the beauty and majesty of nature in the process.

But his photos revealed something else as well, which was that our whole relationship was a sham. Fraudulent. Bogus.

It turns out my close “friend,” who I’d have trusted with my life, was a total fake. Apparently, my ersatz chum had been waiting decades to undo my sense of self-worth, and when he saw an opportunity to take me down, he leaped at it.

Even worse, I wouldn’t have known of his craven doings had they not been called to my attention by an actual friend, who’d seen some photos of our trip Kevin had posted on his Facebook page.

Using what I assume is a magic, appearance-altering camera he acquired from the image-shifting department at backstabbers.com, my duplicitous “pal” had created images depicting me not as the matinee-idol handsome fellow I truly am, but as a frail, balding, doddering old geezer who resembles your aging grandfather’s wizened great-uncle.

Naturally Kevin professed his innocence when confronted with his treachery, but I told him to save his lame protestations. There’s no denying he’s responsible for those horrific photos depicting me as a haggard, shriveled old codger.

And how do I know for certain it was Kevin who used his diabolical technological know-how to alter the way others see me?

Because evidently the rat did the same thing to every mirror in my house the night he stayed there! <

Andy Young: Solving a cold case reveals a new mystery

By Andy Young

Last summer my oldest child and I traveled up to Newfoundland, where we camped and hiked in Gros Morne National Park; trekked up to L’Anse aux Meadows, a UNESCO World Heritage Site where Vikings established a settlement more than a millennium ago; and explored the town of Gander, which houses the airport where most of North America’s airplanes were grounded in the days following the tragic events of Sept. 11, 2001.

Our expedition was unforgettable for all the right reasons, save for one thing: the puzzling disappearance of a recently acquired family heirloom, the Yachats, Oregon (population 1,010) cloth tote I had purchased as a souvenir of a one-day visit to the picturesque Pacific Coast village a few summers ago.

I had taken it to Newfoundland not only for use as a handy, environmentally responsible shopping bag, but also so I could take a photo of it and myself overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and send it to the friend who, in addition to being the primary reason for a memorable luncheon in Yachats, is one of the town’s 1,010 most prominent citizens. My son snapped the desired picture on a clear, sunny morning on a cliff at Cape Spear, North America’s easternmost point. Mission Accomplished!

But then, tragedy struck. When I dropped my son and his gear off in Orono at the tail end of our journey, there was no trace of the Yachats bag anywhere. We tore through his belongings and mine but came up empty. Even the reassuring thought of my lost tote being used by some ecologically conscientious Newfie was of little consolation.

The mysterious disappearance of an item that was attractive, practical and likely the only one of its kind in the state of Maine was distressing, but thanks to the passage of time and also to two special angels, each of whom went to the trouble of obtaining a brand new Yachats tote bag and sending it to me as a gift, the palpably paralyzing grief I felt began to slowly recede.

What brought the Yachats bag to mind last week was my son’s cat, who currently has permission to live in my previously animal-free residence for as long as my son does, but not a moment longer. Normally a healthy eater, Marina seemed a bit reluctant to consume her supper one night last week, and a closer inspection revealed why – a swarm of tiny food ants, the type that seem to show up at this time every year, were scurrying around her bowl of kitty food.

Clearly steps needed to be taken, so I decided to temporarily relocate the couch that was adjacent to the cat’s food dish in an attempt to discover the source of the insect convention.

Thankfully there wasn’t a swarm of ants (or any other vermin) beneath that couch, which clearly hadn’t been moved in quite some time. There were, however, some dust curls, several sheets of poster board, and … the original Yachats bag that had disappeared in Newfoundland last summer!

While unexpectedly solving this particular cold case is equal parts rewarding and delightful, I now have an even more baffling mystery on my hands: how did an inanimate object that wasn’t anywhere to be found in my son’s effects, my own luggage, or in our car when we returned from Canada last June end up reappearing in the dust beneath a couch 11 months after it had seemingly vanished forever?

I may never learn the answer to this newly discovered enigma. But it’s nice knowing I now possess what are likely the only three Yachats tote bags in the state of Maine. <

Andy Young: Where do missing items go?

By Andy Young

I’ve lived just 10 hours of my life in Oregon, but two of them, which I spent having lunch with a friend in his hometown of Yachats, were so enjoyable that before leaving I purchased a cloth shopping bag with the town’s name emblazoned on it. Such washable carryalls are useful mementos, since they can serve as reliable containers of groceries, towels, or any reasonably-sized items that need transporting from one location to another.

I never leave home without a cloth shopping bag. There are several in my car, and whenever I go biking, I’ve got one in my backpack. I even take one when venturing out on foot, just in case I’m feeling public-spirited and decide to pick up some not-too-icky trash while I’m nature-walking.

No two of my cloth totes are alike. Several bear the name of a grocery store. Others are souvenirs from places I’ve visited. One features the logo of the Hardware City Rock Cats, a defunct minor league baseball team. The one from Seattle’s Pike Place Market features a mini-pocket that my niece sewed onto it to cover an unsightly hole. The big blue one came from UMaine-Presque Isle. Each of those bags conjures a pleasant memory.

I’m still grieving over a particular missing one, though.

This past summer my son and I spent two magical weeks exploring Newfoundland. When we got to Cape Spear, North America’s easternmost point, I instructed my offspring/companion to take a photo of me prominently displaying the Yachats bag as we were taking a hike overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The picture he took that sunny morning came out beautifully, so I texted it off to my Oregon connection. Mission Accomplished!

But tragically, only two of the trio that went to Newfoundland returned to Maine after our idyllic and unforgettable adventures. How, when, and where the cloth Yachats tote bag got separated from us is something I’m afraid I'll never know.

I’ve probably lost hundreds of items over the years, although my inability to remember most of them likely indicates that in the grand scheme of things they probably weren't all that important after all.

The only other loss of something tangible that I’ve never quite gotten over was a high school soccer jacket with my name stitched on it. My coaching mentor gifted me with it, either as a reward for my serving as his loyal assistant for several years, or because he figured out that I was too cheap to buy one for myself. The jacket instantly became the featured outerwear item in my sartorial ensemble; I sported it proudly everywhere I went. I donned it one frosty morning in 1989 prior to boarding a plane for a cross-country flight, taking it off at midday after reaching the west coast, where it was far warmer.

Several hours later when the bus I was riding to northern California started getting chilly, I decided to put my jacket back on. The problem: I couldn’t locate it. After a few moments of frenzied panic, I came to a sickening realization: I’d neglected to pick up my first and only personalized coaching jacket from wherever I’d absentmindedly put it down somewhere at the San Francisco airport.

Hopefully the black jacket with “Coach Young” embroidered just above the soccer ball on the left breast is still out there making someone’s life a little bit better. I’d like to think it’s keeping a needy San Franciscan who shops at Goodwill warm at night.

But I’d be even happier if the individual wearing it were carrying their modest belongings inside a cloth bag with “Yachats, Oregon” printed on it. <

Andy Young: A job I could do

By Andy Young

There are numerous professions that for a variety of reasons I’d be a bad fit for.

Most of these jobs require having skills and/or personal traits which I don’t possess. I’m no good at sitting still for long periods of time, which would make me an ineffective office worker. I lack the patience necessary to do work requiring significant care to detail, making me ill-suited for anything involving working with my hands, and thus disqualifying me from becoming a surgeon, carpenter, jeweler, electrician, tailor, hairdresser or plumber, among other things.

Performing the same task(s) over and over again, like working on an assembly line, would probably make me (and many of those around me) crazy. I’ve always steered clear of anything requiring me to be in, around, or atop water, which eliminates the possibility of being a fisherman, boat captain, or lifeguard. And since I prefer having solid ground under my feet, airline pilot is out, too. There are also certain lines of work I couldn’t execute due to self-imposed moral limitations, including tobacco purveyor, sniper, drug dealer, casino operator, lottery spokesperson, and reality TV star.

I’ve also never been wild about exerting authority over strangers, which means I’d make a lousy police officer. On a recent trip to Canada, I observed another job I’d be ineffective at. When my son and I crossed into New Brunswick last month, a stern-looking customs agent, after checking our passports, asked if we were bringing any alcohol, drugs, firearms, or explosives into his country. We responded truthfully that we were not and after looking us over briefly, he waved us through.

We were being 100 percent honest, but how did he know that for certain? Border guards clearly have skills I’d be unable to master. (Thank goodness he didn’t ask if I were carrying some old Canadian coins, because I was carrying quite a number of those.)

But thanks to a memorable trip earlier this summer, there’s a job I know I’d be great at: Director of Tourism for the Canadian province of Newfoundland and Labrador. I could go on for hours about how wonderful it is up there, and I probably saw less than one percent of what makes it so magical. True, getting there takes a great deal of time, and it’s probably less attractive in the winter. There are also a few smaller, trivial flaws which my conscience would require me to point out.

For example, every so often a moose wanders out into the path of a car going 130 kph down the Trans-Canada Highway, which results in the immediate demise of all involved parties. Also, no one accepts Canadian pennies there anymore, although that’s understandable, since the country stopped minting new ones in 2012, and officially took them out of circulation the following year. I also discovered one other imperfection, although it doesn’t impact everyone.

The American dollar is exceptionally strong in Canada these days and given the current exchange rate, I thought I might pick up a new pair of sneakers while I was there. But alas, I learned that either no one in Newfoundland takes a size 14 shoe, or the person who does had already purchased every available pair. I never saw anything above a twelve-and-a-half during my entire time in the province.

However, if what you’re looking for is natural beauty, fascinating history, and gracious people who’ll treat you like royalty, Newfoundland’s just the place for you. It’s got something for everybody.

Unless you’re looking for a pair of size 14 shoes, and planning on paying for them with a bag of Canadian pennies. <

Andy Young: The best thing (s) about Newfoundland

By Andy Young

I often have trouble recalling names, but I clearly remember those of the two hikers my son and I encountered during our 11-kilometer trek along the Green Gardens Trail in Canada’s Gros Morne National Park. We correctly assumed the other vehicle in the faraway parking lot was theirs, but its Nova Scotia license plates were misleading. The two women had flown into nearby Deer Lake from Toronto, then rented a car.

The Johnson Geo Centre is located beneath the Cape Spear
Lighthouse in Newfoundland and is North America's  
easternmost point. COURTESY PHOTO 

Jennifer and Jennifer were two highlights of our just-completed trip to Newfoundland and Labrador that was memorable for all the right reasons.

Only some of Newfoundland’s terrain is awe-inspiring; the rest is merely magnificent, spectacular, and/or breathtaking. From majestic mountains to lush forests to towering cliffs overlooking fjords to barren, windswept landscapes with soil too windblown and inhospitable to support any sort of vegetation, it’s not hard to imagine what the island looked like millions of years ago. Which, as we learned at the Johnson Geo Centre (located beneath the Cape Spear Lighthouse, North America’s easternmost point), is because the landscape has indeed remained, for the most part, unsullied by humanity.

And much of humankind’s impact on the island has been erased by the sands of time. Consider L’Anse aux Meadows National Historic Site on the northern peninsula. It wasn’t until 1960 that archeologists began uncovering evidence there of the first Viking (and oldest known European) settlement in North America.

All along the Trans-Canada Highway, the Newfoundland portion of which runs 928 kilometers (576.6 miles), there are enormous stacks of firewood which have been amassed for the coming lengthy winter. Some have clearly been there for some time, but no slithering intruders are lurking in those piles, since no venomous snakes exist on the island.

While Newfoundland may have a dearth of reptiles, there’s no shortage of insects, and the best place to learn about them is the Newfoundland Insectarium in Reidville. The tropical butterfly garden alone is worth the price of admission. It seemed like a great place to meditate, and in fact there was a young man doing just that on the day we visited.

We could have spent a month hiking in Gros Morne but given limited time and even more limited outdoor engineering skills, we swapped our rustic campsite for three nights in a cabin with no electricity or running water, but windows equipped with bug-proof screens. Making that upgrade was by far our best decision of the trip. Three solid evenings of sleep was well worth 300 Canadian dollars.

But even without L’Anse aux Meadows, Signal Hill, Gros Morne, the Insectarium, St. John’s, Cape Spear, Terra Nova National Park, Castle Hill, and the numerous other memorable sites we visited, the trip’s highlight was unquestionably the people. It was Marcella, the indigenous interpreter at the Gros Morne Information Centre. It was Lloyd, the proprietor of the Insectarium, and Weston, his youthful, enthusiastic, and incredibly knowledgeable assistant. It was Valerie, the future ecological policy maker working at Gros Morne, who clued us in about the Bonne Bay Water Shuttle, a 15-minute water taxi ride from Woody Point to Norris Point that saved us an hour drive (each way). It was the gas station attendant along a remote section of the Viking Trail who wouldn’t let us pay for the can opener he gave us, a vital item for two travelers with eight cans of soup they planned on using for campfire-heated meals, but no way to open them.

Jennifer was right when she said, “The best thing about Newfoundland is the people.”

Or maybe it was Jennifer who said it. I often have trouble recalling names. <

Andy Young: Preparing to witness history north of the border

By Andy Young

Here’s a fun fact: the last time a team fell behind three games to none in the National Hockey League’s best-of-seven championship final and then came back to win was in 1942.

The Toronto Maple Leafs dropped the first three games of the finals to the Detroit Red Wings that year but stormed back to win four straight and capture the coveted Stanley Cup. The score of the last game, which was played before a record crowd of 16,218 fans at Maple Leaf Gardens on April 18, was 3-1.

1942 was a long time ago. Gordie Howe’s 14th birthday had occurred 18 days prior to the Leafs’ Game Seven victory. Bobby Orr hadn’t been born yet. Wayne Gretzky’s dad-to-be hadn’t started kindergarten, and his future mom had just turned 7 months old.

Until this past Monday, the last Canadian-based team to win the Stanley Cup was the 1993 Montreal Canadiens. That was before the NHL's top two current Canadian-born superstars, Connor McDavid and Nathan MacKinnon, were born. 1993 was also the last time a team comprised of all North American-born players constituted a league champion. Three of Canada’s seven current NHL teams, the Winnipeg Jets, the Vancouver Canucks, and the modern-day edition of the Ottawa Senators, have never hoisted the Stanley Cup, not even once.

This year’s Stanley Cup finals began on June 8, when the Florida Panthers, the NHL’s southernmost franchise, beat the northernmost one, the Edmonton Oilers, 3-0. The Panthers won Games Two and Three as well, all but assuring themselves of the team’s first-ever championship.

The desperate Oilers staved off elimination by winning Game Four at their home rink in Alberta. They subsequently took Games Five and Six as well, setting up a one-game, winner-take-all finale that took place this past Monday in Sunrise, Florida. By happy coincidence, my son and I were nowhere near Florida last week. And by an even happier coincidence, we found ourselves traveling through the Canadian province of Newfoundland and Labrador.

Like seemingly everyone around us, we were caught up in the excitement, and decided to take in the broadcast of the potentially history-making seventh game amongst locals eager to see Canada’s long championship drought finally come to an end.

Here’s yet another fun fact: Newfoundland and Labrador weren’t even an official part of the Canadian confederation when the Maple Leafs staged their comeback from three games down against the Red Wings in 1942. It didn’t become an actual province of the Dominion of Canada until midnight on March 31, 1949.

My son and I went to the pub inside the St. John’s hotel where we were staying to have a late dinner, prepared to watch the game, which didn’t start until nearly 10 p.m. local time, surrounded by a slew of hockey-mad Newfoundlanders.

There were four other people in the place when we got there, all of whom were sitting at the bar. Only one of them was actually watching the game, and he was doing so in utter silence. When we finished dinner and retired to our room after the first period, the score was tied, 1-1.

The Panthers scored another goal midway through the second period to regain the lead. A couple of minutes later, struggling to keep my eyes open, I announced I was going to bed. My equally groggy son wordlessly shut the TV off and did the same.

We woke Tuesday morning to this final fun fact: the last time a team fell behind three games to none in the National Hockey League’s best-of-seven championship final and came back to win is still 1942.

Sigh. <

 

Andy Young: Why the Sea Dogs thrive, but the Pirates walked the plank

By Andy Young

Special to The Windham Eagle

Maine’s largest metropolis was home to two professional sports franchises in the late 1990’s, and I worked for both of them.

My fulltime employer was the Portland Sea Dogs, the city’s wildly successful Eastern League baseball franchise. I was the lead radio announcer and publicist for the team that at the time was affiliated with the 1997 World Series champion Florida Marlins.

In the winter I moonlighted for the American Hockey League’s Portland Pirates, providing “color commentary” on the broadcasts of each of the team’s 40 home games. Radio/TV color commentators have usually played the game they’re commenting on at some high level, although as anyone who’s ever seen me on skates can attest, that’s not always the case.

My job involved pre-recording three interviews: a pregame talk with the team’s always pleasant and cooperative coach, Mark Kumpel, plus two chats with interesting subjects (usually Pirates players, other team personnel, or visiting professional hockey dignitaries) that would be played between periods. I also provided 10-second bits of relevant game analysis when Dave Ahlers, the team’s outstanding play-by-play announcer, needed a quick drink of water during play stoppages.

I was paid a princely $40 per game, which I thought was terrific, since then as now I consider it a blessing to be paid any amount of money for doing something I love enough to do for free.

A month or so into the 1998 season, Dave asked me if I’d be interested in going on a road trip to Newfoundland, a place I had never visited, for back-to-back games against the St. John’s Maple Leafs. He said he could use the help, so when I responded affirmatively, he said he’d talk to management about it. He reasoned that the team was chartering a plane and I would share his hotel room, so my added presence wouldn’t negatively impact the organization’s all-important bottom line.

But before the next home game the general manager came by and dolefully explained the cost-conscious Pirates were on a tight budget and $1,600 ($40 per game for 40 home games) was all the financially strapped team could afford for a season’s worth of color commentary. However, in lieu of my customary per game stipend, he offered to pay me meal money if I’d still be willing to make the trip. Before foolishly, impulsively, and truthfully responding that I’d actually have gone for nothing, I asked how much the per diem was. He replied that I would be given $50 for each of the trip’s three days.

I graciously accepted his offer, all the while wondering how a team paying someone $150 because they professed to being too cash-strapped to pay him $80 made economic sense.

That trip was memorable for all the right reasons. I spent every waking moment I wasn’t at the arena exploring Newfoundland and Labrador’s (it’s all one province) capital city. That included a trip up to Signal Hill, where Guglielmo Marconi received the first-ever transatlantic radio message on Dec. 12, 1901.

I learned that provincial status wasn’t given to Newfoundland and Labrador until after World War II (in 1949), and that their time zone is one and a half hours ahead of ours. The Pirates’ largesse is the main reason I’m one of the few Americans who can boast of having visited all 10 Canadian provinces. 

Given the odd logic of how I was compensated for my trip to the North Atlantic, I also gained insight into why, 23 years later, the Sea Dogs continue to prosper, while when the phrase “Portland Pirates” is uttered nowadays, it’s nearly always preceded by the word “defunct.” <