Without further ado – really: Number 5.
July 20, 2010 » No Sweat
Of course, the line between the good sweat and the bad one can be a bit blurry at times. For example, a good workout sweat on a T-shirt that’s forgotten in a bag for three days and then pulled out may force other people at the gym to cover their noses with their shirts.
(Or, at least I’ve seen one guy do it once, doing a shoulder workout next to me, while I was doing bench press).
Less than a week to go! Counting down the Top 9 of 2010, we’ve reached number 7.
January 10, 2010 » Sink or swim
“I’m in the water. I’m telling myself to stay calm. Breathe. I inhale and move my arms and legs fast. I seem to be floating. Maybe I can do this after all. “
The countdown continues. A brand new archived story – how’s that – every day between, well, yesterday and Christmas Eve. Every day!
Number eight
April 8, 2010 » Mormor
Back then, Wife had a roommate, and I remember her telling me wonderful stories about how the two of them would cook dinner together, and then eat in front of the TV, watching their favorite show.
“Remember what the sign on Walt Disney’s desk said: ‘Always be yourself’”
– Dad, all my life
When people hear that I write a lot about hockey, their first question is usually, “oh, what’s your favorite team?” And when they realize I’m a Finn, living in Sweden, writing about hockey, the question gets modified to, “who do you root for when Sweden plays Finland in the World Championships?”
Today, I wrote a piece for the International Ice Hockey Federation, about how players returning to Europe sometimes don’t meet the expectations. The transition from one team to another, let alone from one country to another, and from one league to another, can be difficult, and sometimes the high expectations the club management, the fans, and the player himself, aren’t met.
I should know. I was that player once.
“When I grow old, I want to be just as fit and stylish as Grandpa”
– Son, September 17, 2010 at the Museum of Natural History
As long as I can remember, people have told me that I look exactly like my father. Of course, I don’t, and of course, I can’t see it, but since so many different people – including Wife – say it, there must be something in it.
Not that I mind it. Not one bit.
“Prrrhkkkkhhhhh!”
– Son, making an explosion sound, Nov 9, 2010.
The one thing that always annoyed me with Buster, the excellent sports comic book that had its heyday in the 1970s, was that there was never any hockey. I remember only one series, and it was short-lived. They might have had a hockey player on the cover, and I’d only realize that there were no hockey stories inside after I had bought that and 20 other comic books at the second-hand store around the corner from Dad’s work.
But I loved Buster. Johnny Cougar (Puuma in Finnish), the wrestler, was cool, Hot-Shot Hamish (Super-Mac) funny, Billy Dane (Benny Goldfoot in Finland and Sweden, a boy who became a fantastic soccer player whenever he wore Jimmy “Dead Shot” Kean’s old boots) exciting, Buster himself silly, and the club pages full of interesting trivia.
And then there was Roy Race.
Traveling with a family of four means that there will always be special sleeping arrangements. At hotels, we need a pull-out sofa or an extra bed, and when staying with friends and family, we’ll just have to make do with whatever is there.
If there’s only one king-sized bed, in our family, that means that I will sleep on the floor.
When I got the job as trainee at the Swedish custom publishing company what now not only seems like a long time ago, but is a long time ago, I didn’t really know what I was hired for. The five of us, varying in age and sex – two guys, three young women – had different backgrounds, which was the whole purpose of the exercise.
The company was ultrainternational, ultranational, with representatives of over a dozen different nationalities on staff. The times were good, we had nice offices across the street from the Royal Palace in Stockholm, and we were a pretty hot ticket in town.
When I got to know one of my best friends in middle school, he told me that his father was a Member of the Parliament in Finland. I’m not sure if I really knew what that meant, but it sounded important and cool, so I told Mom about it that night.
“Really? What’s his last name?” Mom said, mostly out of curiosity than anything else.
“Ekman,” I said.
“Huh. I don’t remember a Member of the Parliament by that name,” Mom said.
The Finnish unicameral Parliament has 200 members. Father may know best, but I figured Mom knows a lot, too, so I confronted my buddy the next day. With the best possible argument, of course:
“My Mom says there’s no Ekman in the Parliament.”
