OVER THE YEARS, I’ve experienced some ridiculously Canadian moments. Having a flight cancelled in St. John’s because moose had climbed the airport snowdrifts and were licking salt off the runway. Watching my pee run up Magnetic Hill near Moncton. Hearing Sidney Crosby’s winning shout before the crowd erupted at the gold medal hockey game at the Vancouver Olympics, and weeping at the Duke of Duckworth pub as the Newfoundland and Labrador rink won the Olympic gold in curling. But as Canuck as all these experiences sound, I have one story that may be the best one-two punch experience in Canadian history.
On Sunday, November 25, 2007, the Grey Cup final was played in Toronto at what many still call the SkyDome. There was a huge celebration over the weekend that included appearances by Lenny Kravitz, Barenaked Ladies, Trailer Park Boys and Great Big Sea, and I had convinced a couple of my oldest pals—Perry and Greg—to join us. Perry and I had met in Petty Harbour when we were four and have been pals ever since. These days, he writes and works on TV shows like Republic of Doyle, Frontier and Caught. I met Greg when I was about eleven and he was the other goalie in the local minor hockey program and we quickly discovered we were both musicians. Greg played drums in my first band, First Attempt, and he’s currently the principal percussionist in the smash-hit musical Come From Away. Over the years we have gotten up to some fun shenanigans and I was glad to have them along.
We sat in a fancy box overlooking the field with Brent Butt and Mike and the Trailer Park Boys gang, watching Lenny Kravitz slay the place. I am not completely proud of the brazen attitude that came over me in those final seconds of the game, but all this famous company, and maybe a few bevvies, made me feel emboldened, and I wanted to make a great night out for the lads. When the final buzzer went and the Saskatchewan Roughriders won the game, I said to my pals matter-of-factly, “Let’s go down on the field.”
Perry and I had been through a lot. We cut out cod tongues together at age ten. We scampered down dangerous cliffs to look at skin mags at twelve. We graduated high school together and lived together during university. I stood next to him when he got married, and he stood next to me when I did the same.
“Yeah, let’s go hoist the Cup,” Perry said, assuming I was joking.
“You’re not serious? Is he serious?” Greg said. He was always a bit of a worrier.
Perry looked over and studied me for a moment. He must have seen a familiar look in my eye. “Yes. Yes, he is.”
As the on-field post-game celebration started, I made for the staff elevator. I had the button pushed before Greg could protest.
“Keep your passes held up.”
About laminated passes on lanyards: if wielded properly, they can be powerful. I know this from experience—I cannot tell you how many times I’ve walked into the back of one of our gigs with a dodgy pass from the last night’s venue as a security guard looked at his phone. You won’t fool the White House staff, but a confident walk and a flash of some plastic thing hanging around your neck will get you backstage at four-fifths of the festivals on Earth.
The Grey Cup passes that Perry, Greg and I were wearing read “ENTERTAINMENT,” or something like that. Along the bottom were our assigned seats and limitations. “Cover the bottom with your finger when you holds it up,” I whispered, pulling Greg onto the staff elevator.
Just as the door was about to close, a fella wearing a full black suit and an earpiece got on the elevator and held the door for a gent who must have been a Cabinet minister or something. The fella in the black suit looked to us dubiously, but I held up the ENTERTAINMENT pass. He nodded and asked, “Field level as well?”
“Yes, sir.”
I wasn’t lying, I figured. He hadn’t ask if we were allowed on the field level. Or if we had any business at all on the field level. Or if the passes we had just flashed were for a Canadian Tire fundraising event from three years previous.
The elevator stopped three times on the way down, each time filling up with reporters, and what seemed to be family of team members. I thought we’d be caught for sure.
When we finally reached the field level, we were greeted by a security fella named Hal. “Reporters to the corral on the right, please, and families follow the green line to the Green Room and someone will come get you from there.”
“Herded like cattle,’ ” one of the reporters said. He eyed my pass suspiciously as he left with the herd.
“Headed to the VIP exit?” Hal asked the man with the earpiece. “They coming down with you?” he said, pointing to us.
Secret Service fella was listening to something in his ear and nodded. Hal stepped out of the way, and I strode from that elevator like someone who’d just been introduced as a winner at the Grammys.
“We’re gonna get shot,” Greg whisper-yelled.
“Just keep walking.”
As we walked through the tunnel to the field, I did my best to make eye contact with every security person along the way, smiling a smile that I hoped said, “Yeah, Hal just let us in. You want to go talk to Hal and piss him off, you are welcome to, but I wouldn’t mess with Hal.” It must have worked because next thing I knew we were rounding the corner under the bleachers and the lights of the field came into full view.
About twenty strides from the green Astroturf, I saw the Roughrider players making their way towards us, in full celebration.
“Hey, why do they get to go on?!” I turned to hear a voice in a crowd trapped behind a rope. Cameras and microphones in hand, this was clearly the reporters’ area, and there at the edge of the rope was the cranky little fella from the elevator. He was onto us.
“Don’t break stride, fellas,” I said. A security guard walked our way, but I held up the pass and pointed to a pile of audio equipment on the edge of the field. I’m pretty sure it was Lenny Kravitz’s gear. The security guard nodded and went back to more pressing matters.
“Hey, Great Big Sea!” I turned to see one of the players rushing my way.
“Yeah, man, congrats! Way to go!” I said.
“Woo! Kiss it!” he shouted.
“Excuse me?” I was happy for him but not that happy. What did he mean anyway?
“Kiss it!” He lay the Grey Cup trophy in my arms. “Yeah! Kiss it!”
I don’t know what you do when a sweaty 325-pound man hands you a silver cup and says, “Kiss it.” But I can tell you that I embraced and kissed that Cup like it was my fiancée.
And as quickly as that, he and the Cup were gone and we were awash in green jerseys as the team joyously barrelled past us to the dressing room. I turned to find Greg and Perry, grinning ear to ear. It was a proud moment. Except that right there, about a hundred feet behind Greg and Perry, I saw him approaching from the tunnel. Quickly. He held a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
It was Hal.
I grabbed the lads and we crossed the field to the first exit sign I could see. As we reached it, a kind fella in a yellow security vest asked if he could help us.
“Yes, sir. We are looking for the, ah, ah…” I stuttered, but Perry and Greg remembered the right thing to say.
“The VIP exit.” They held their passes high, covering the bottom half like we had practised, and the guard pointed to the exit, not five strides away.
My heart filled with pride.
Having kissed the grail and dodged a bullet, we made our way into the late night of the Big Smoke. What followed that evening was your typical happenings of a lads’ night on the lash. From the Grey Cup game we went to a late ceremony at a nearby Holy House to confess our sins to the high powers on the altar. One member of our group was so racked with guilt he was almost drawn into a private confessional, since a general absolution would not provide him with the necessary relief. Feeling much better, we left the Holy House and went to a local library to read up on the classics and current events, followed by a relaxing session of yoga. We then drifted off into a peaceful sleep at around 11 p.m.
Or something like that.
I woke on Monday morning with a feeling of slight nausea, headache and dry mouth. Must have been the hot dogs at the game, I supposed. I made my way to the hotel lobby in search of medicinal caffeine and noticed some of the Trailer Park Boys waiting near the concierge. After some morning pleasantries, I learned that they were suffering from many of the same symptoms as I. That confirmed it. It must have been the hot dogs at the game.
They explained they were heading back East. I should have said something like, “Oh too bad. We’re sticking around for a few more nights. You guys could really keep the party going.” However, my malaise afforded me no Maritimes pleasantries, and I thought, “Thank f—k.” I know the TPB boys understand.
There would be no quiet night for me, as GBS agreed to sing a few songs for the Gilda’s Club charity concert. Greg had a symphony gig or something, but Perry stuck around as the band and I would be performing with an all-star roster of Canadian talent, among them the legendary Anne Murray. I’d briefly crossed paths with her at an East Coast Music Awards a number of years ago but had never seen her perform in person, and I was certain she’d never seen me. I was excited to meet her since she was worshipped in my house and probably every other house in Atlantic Canada. She was a bona fide International Rock Star. She still is.
We had a quick sound check at the Elgin Theatre at around 2 p.m. No big deal as we were just going to sing a couple of a cappella tunes that night. After the sound check, the other band members returned to the hotel, but I stuck around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Legend.
It was all low-key and casual in the theatre, until the stage lady approached me and asked if I knew any Anne Murray tunes. I told her, ‘Madam, I’m from Petty Harbour, Newfoundland, so I knows every Anne Murray tune.” She then asked if I’d mind joining Anne singing “Could I Have This Dance” for the finale.
Would I mind singing “Could I Have This Dance” with Anne Murray?
“No, love. I don’t think I’d mind that at all,” I said.
Holy shite—l am going to sing live onstage with Anne Friggin’ Murray, I said to myself.
The band reassembled at the theatre around six thirty and we sat backstage waiting for the show to start. We sang a couple of tunes when it was our turn to perform, and seemed well received. But not long after, it was time for Anne’s performance. I nipped out to the wings to watch Anne’s set. Her voice was still perfect. I waited for my cue.
Anne was joined by the most awesome Nelly Furtado to sing “Daydream Believer,” and when the song ended, it was time for the finale. Anne began singing, “I’ll always remember…” and as the chorus came around, I did not hesitate for a second. I walked right to centre stage and joined Nelly and Anne.
I can’t recall much about singing with her. All I could think was, “Holy Sweet Jesus, somebody take my picture onstage with Anne Friggin’ Murray.” One of my sisters is a medical professional, the other is getting her third degree in post-secondary education, and my brother is an engineer with an MBA to boot. This was my one and only chance to get to the top of the gravy bowl order in our house.
As the chorus repeated, Anne stepped back and gave me a knowing nod and a gentle pat on the back. I humbly responded, nodding back in that “nicely sung, we’re in this song together” kind of way, and oh so respectfully patted her on the back, giving her a quick but certain Newfoundland wink. A moment later, applause roared through the hall.
And Anne Murray was gone.
After the concert, Perry and I walked back to the hotel. The same two kids who’d beat the paths of Petty Harbour now strolling down the down the biggest street in the world. As the previous night had been large, we were now headed for a Tim Hortons sandwich and bed.
“A Tim Hortons sandwich after a gig in Toronto,” I said to my childhood friend as we turned off Yonge Street and walked towards the King Edward Hotel. “What’s more Canadian than that?”
“What’s more Canadian than that?” Perry stopped and pointed his finger at me and then to the heavens for effect.
“You laid your hands on the Grey Cup and Anne Murray in less than twenty-four hours.”
Oh Canada.