To Blog or Not to Blog

So here I am. Finished school. Embarking on a career. This blog is no longer mandatory to maintain, as it has been marked and filed away in the history of Centennial College marks that I will most likely never look back upon again. And yet I find that a huge piece of me still wishes it was. I needed an excuse to write just to do it: I think that the largest battle I have waged when it comes to my love of writing is the fact that a large part of my external persona does not mesh well with the concept of being a writer. I’ve played sports from the day I could walk. I wear baseball caps and sweatpants whenever possible, and the term ‘jock,’ is a label that has been placed on me more and more after I left high school (oddly enough, when I began to play a few less sports). I spend a ton of time telling stupid jokes with friends over a beer or a game of X-box, and being friends with a bunch of guys’ guys means I’m not likely to bring up a screenplay I wrote as a side job or a book I was working on when I broke my ankle. Most of the time, I feel like the Adam I am with buddies, girls and hockey teams comes across as nothing like the Adam who takes a seat and writes.

Yet I can’t ignore my desire to do these things, to sit down for a few minutes and clear my head, put some thoughts on paper or pound away at a keyboard until I feel satisfied with something I’ve produced from nowhere. As awkward as it may seem sometimes to read these things back to myself, I like doing them. And I’ve never been one to stop doing something I liked for fear of what others might think about me, even if it was tough at the beginning.

Yet this is where I find myself when deciding whether or not to keep this blog going. I’ve never been a fan of people who tell the world what they think just to do it: I always promised myself that if I was going to use my writing in some type of productive form, I was going to be paid to do it. In my head, that was the way I equated this weird passion I had with maintaining my sense of manliness: ridiculous, but the way I felt nonetheless. On one of the last day of classes, an instructor told us that maintaining our blogs was important: it would keep our writing skills fresh, and serve as a sort of online portfolio that could be immediately referenced by those in the professional world you were trying to impress. That was good enough for me.

So I’ve decided to keep this thing going, if just for the next little while. The job that I am currently doing has me serving as the editor of various technical publications, and so does not give me many opportunities to write creatively or passionately. I’d like to keep the rust off, and to be perfectly honest, I just enjoy doing it. I’ve had some decent feedback from some teachers and friends, and in checking the amount of hits I have after each new blog post, I know that there are definitely some people reading what I have to say. I thank you for that, as the biggest compliment for a writer of any kind is that people are actually taking the time to listen to them.

Where exactly Only the Good Blog Young is headed, I don’t truly know. I would like to keep adding some PR posts (as this was the blog’s original intention), but like fellow blogger Adam Amato in the U.S (Seriously, we found each other through Facebook), I definitely wouldn’t mind writing more on sports and the fairer sex. If anyone out there has any suggestions on future posts, I’m ready to get my Piano Man on and take requests. Until then, thanks to those of you who enjoy spending a few minutes of their day on my words, and I hope to keep you coming back in the future.

‘til next time, keep fit and have fun.

I’m sorry, I obviously stole that from BodyBreak. Always wanted to say it.

Adam

Reflective Piece

I came into Centennial’s Corporate Communications and Public Relations program a confused individual. I had dropped out of Seneca’s program in September, scared off by my rough estimate of 40+ presentations by the end of the year. I had entered that program convinced that writing would be the key to success in those classes, and as an extension, public relations itself. When I saw the talent of most of my classmates in terms of being able to stand up in front of a group of strangers and deliver a seemingly well-organized speech on the spot, I began to wonder if I had made the right choice. I left the program a couple days before the cut-off deadline (regrettably leaving behind a great group of classmates), and planned to transfer over to Centennial for the semester. Unfortunately, I broke my ankle the next day and was put out of commission until mid-November. When I healed, I put in a last-minute push to begin the winter semester at Centennial, and managed to work things out. Regardless, going in to January 2010, I no longer had any true idea what I was getting into.

While I was a little hesitant walking in to what we now affectionately refer to as “Bruce’s class” that first day, I was immediately teamed up with a couple of classmates who would become two of my closest friends by the end of the year: Stephen D’Angelo and Kim Foster. By the end of the second week, most of the class was pretty tight and it became easier to just focus on picking up the information we were receiving with each passing lesson.

While we were assigned presentations in various classes, I felt comfortable with the balance between writing, speaking, social media, event management and the like, and as the early months went by I began to feel as if I had made the right decision in pursuing CC+PR as a future. Writing played just as important a role as my ability to deliver a memorized speech, and I began to feel more comfortable in all facets of the program. With this balance in mind, my perception on what was truly required for success in the industry changed for the better.

Another thing I had been told by friends when they asked what program I was in was that I would forever be known as a “spin doctor.” I hated the idea of serving as the guy in the company looked to for lies and propaganda, and I know that many of my classmates felt the same. It was with a relief that we were immediately told that our role was to maintain honesty and integrity within our organizations, and perhaps my favourite quote of the year was when we were told that we are to “serve as the conscience of an organization.” If I wanted any perception that I had when entering the program in January to be altered, it was that one. Going out into the industry finally, I am ecstatic that it has.

As many of my talented classmates begin to head off to their internships in just over a week, I was fortunate enough to be hired in May as a Technical Communications Specialist at Bombardier Aerospace, where I had interned for three and a half years during my time in university. While I was even more nervous starting this job than I was entering Centennial, the fact that I now had a true semblance of what the industry required made the transition to working life a lot more comfortable. I keep some of my school textbooks at my desk in my office, and have called upon the knowledge that I have picked up this year more times than I can count.

I walked through the door of “Bruce’s class” in January with a distorted perception of what public relations truly was. I will walk out next Friday confident that I learned so much more than I ever expected to, and gained that perception back. I have Centennial’s CCPR program, its faculty, and hopefully some lifelong friends to thank for that.

PR for Guidos

They’re everywhere.

Heading to your local Tim Horton’s to grab a coffee may mean dodging eight cars you could swear you watched Paul Walker drive in the The Fast and the Furious. Going to the beach anywhere within the Toronto area now means two things: wife beaters and gold chains. Alright, it means three things, because you just saw that car from Tim Horton’s with the flashing neon lights pull into the spot beside you. Then, there’s the club. Affliction shirts, guys wearing unimaginably tight jeans, and the occasional, “Sick belt buckle bro!” uttered from the booth behind you.

They’re guidos, and they’re here to stay.

MTV’s Jersey Shore takes a lot of the credit for bringing the “guido lifestyle” to the forefront of pop culture. But take it from an Italian guy who feels like he knew everyone who appeared on that show. Guidos have been around for longer than you can imagine.

What may confuse you is their original name, used occasionally in the early 90’s and growing in popularity into the new millennium: ginos. These people listened to “dance music” and brought “glow sticks” to all ages clubs in an attempt to... honestly, I have no idea what they were attempting to do.

Yet as they aged, “gino” was a term that just did not seem to fit right. Guidos, like an adult pack of ginos, began their ascent to the top of the tanning, car show, and clubbing lifestyle. Observed in their natural habitat, you can find guidos at your local Extreme Fitness, your neighbourhood tanning booth, or any place that plays “sick beats” past 10 p.m. on a weekend.

As they have grown in popularity, many have taken a bad rap from those who do not understand them. They claim they are a detriment to society, that they have no idea what it is like to contribute, that they have no values. To that I say, leave Pauly D out of this.

In my time on this planet as an Italian man, with a multitude of both Italian and Portuguese friends (as well as a Tim Horton’s next to my old workplace), I have come to know these guidos as people instead of just symbols. And believe it or not, most of them are actually extremely likeable. Yes, they love their beats, their tans, their guns (biceps? there’s no English to Guido dictionary out yet). They show off their cars, shitty or not, because they’re proud that they’re no longer riding the bus. But I’ve had guidos help me jump start my car (they’re great with cars), guidos show me new workout plans (pretty much only curls and situps), and guidos teach me the importance of family (guidos, of every culture, have a close bond with their families). If a guido says he will help you with something, he’s going to help you with it (shout out to Fat Tony for my new hair gel).

In time, many of these guidos became my friends. And the more I came to know them, the more one thing became increasingly clear: guidos are misunderstood.

Sitting with a good friend of mine, as well as one of the pre-eminent guidos of our time, we had a heart to heart one night (sitting in his sick ’98 Saab, with a “sick system bro”). He explained to me that he loved everything about being a guido. What he didn’t love is that people did not understand.

As a future Public Relations specialist, I told him that maybe there was a way we could fix this problem, to take his image and translate it into words that those who have not lived their life by the G-T-L code (gym, tan, laundry) could understand. I asked him his views on life’s different matters, then attempted to put down in writing what he truly meant (in essence, alter his key messaging). Then, I promised to share it with the world.

His name is Pasquale Guida (seriously). This is what he had to say.

On Women:

Pasquale: “There are two types of women. Good girls and hooches, and as much as everyone wants a good girl us dudes want hooches too. I don’t have any keys to getting women though, women have keys to getting me!”

PR Reworking: “There are many types of ladies out there. Some are more willing to settle down and start a family, others are more looking to have fun and enjoy their youth. I love all women, be they serious about commited relationships or otherwise. I don’t really have a plan when it comes to meeting the right women. I try to leave it in their hands and if they like me, great. Let’s pursue something.”

On Social Situations:

Pasquale: “Whenever I go out, I’m always rocking a pair of fresh white sneakers, cuffed name-brand jeans, a v-neck of course, and a hat. Oh and about five pounds of gold too. I wear what I wear ‘cuz it goes well with how my attitude is and ladies are for sure gonna’ dig it, whether I’m just hanging out, or fist-pumping and beating the beat up at a club.”

PR Reworking: “I always try to look nice when I leave the house. I think a lot of people can tell how classy a man is by the way that he dresses. I tend to wear a bit of jewellery as well, since it has always kind of been my signature look. I like feeling like myself when I go out, whether it be having a relaxing dinner with some old friends or out celebrating a party downtown. I think women also like it when you just dress and act like yourself.”

On Changing the World:

Pasquale: “I’d make everyone Italian.” (laughs). “I’m only kidding, but I would make everyone a lot friendlier you know so everyone would just get along. It would make it easier for guys to talk to girls too, not that I have that problem.”

PR Reworking: “I’d make everyone Italian. I’m only kidding, but I would make everyone a lot friendlier you know so everyone would just get along. It would make it easier for guys to talk to girls too.” not that I have that problem.”

On What Makes Guidos so Great:

Pasquale: “Dude, are you serious with that question? What makes us great? Our style, attitude and lifestyle. We’re not scared of any situation and we’re always the life of the party. For all the guidz out there, keep giving us a good name out there and leave some girls for the rest of the guys. And keep fist pumping!”

PR Reworking: “We just try to make the most out of any situation, and turn negatives into positives. I love and respect my fellow guidos and I ask you all to continue bringing our positive message to society! Also, don’t engage in romantic activity with women in loving relationships!”

So next time you hear a young man’s car pulling up beside you at a light from 10 kilometres away, or have to wait in line at a tanning booth while the receptionist de-gels the machines, remember: guidos have hearts too. You just have to dig a little behind the gold necklaces to find them.

How the NBA Failed Manute Bol

I am by no means an NBA fan. Being the white kid in elementary school who was constantly getting crossed and dunked on at recess pretty much cemented my thinking that I had chosen the right sport in hockey.

Yet as a sports fan, I am aware of the league’s stars. I lived in Toronto throughout the Vince Carter heyday, and I remember the summer between grade seven and eight filled with dunk competitions with friends on my backyard Fisher Price net. I remember the Carter Nike commercials, the “Be Like Mike” Michael Jordan ad campaign. I’ve heard of Allen Iverson’s arrests and domestic disputes, as well as his subsequent shoe deals.

Until today, I had never heard of Manute Bol.

Manute Bol played in the NBA for 10 years, from 1985 – 1995. Known as a shot blocking specialist (at 7 feet 7 inches, he is the tallest man to have ever played in the league), he was a useful yet unspectacular player, allowing his height not to be all that defined him on the court. Many remember him for his attempts at three – point shooting, unheard of for someone around his size. Yet what defined Bol both during and after his career were his humanitarian efforts. A native of Sudan, Africa, Manute (whose name translates to “spiritual blessing”) constantly donated both is time and his money to his homeland, even entering warzones during his playing career to help those in danger. Yet many never heard of that. In a touching article in the Kansas City Star that ran around three weeks ago, columnist Sam Mellinger says that,

“Bol is at best a cult hero and at worse a freak show. Maybe if Bol was a better player we’d pay more attention. Maybe if he was doing his good deeds closer to our home, instead of his, we’d help him more.”

Aware of Bol’s initiatives, the NBA did little to promote the selfless deeds of one of its players, deciding instead to focus more on the talented bad boys in a league that was full of them. When Bol played for the Miami Heat, he was fined $25,000 by the team for missing two exhibition games. He was instead in Washington D.C. for Congress-sponsored peace talks between rebel leaders from Sudan. Allen Iverson, on the other hand, was known to miss team practices during the playoffs because he was, well, Allen Iverson. Guess which one got a commercial?

Bol is said to have made over 6 million dollars over his career in the NBA, and said to have donated almost all of it to his humanitarian causes back home. The league’s “NBA Cares” program, said to be a “global community outreach initiative that addresses important social issues such as education, youth and family development,” has donated nothing. Ironically enough, the top story on their website today says that the Miami Heat have decided to help Haiti. “There’s guys who give away turkeys in the ‘hood and get more props than this guy building schools in the Sudan,” says Steve Perry, an expert on social issues.

As Bol grew older and left his playing days farther behind him, he began to take on any humiliating act that could help him raise money for Sudanese charities. He strapped on the skates for a pro hockey game, took part in a celebrity boxing match, and even became a horse jockey for a day. “There’s no way I can put the money in my pocket while my people are getting beat up,” he once said. “Whatever I can do to help my people I will do. I feel whatever I make here I make for my people.”

After spending the last several months building schools in Sudan, Bol became ill and fell victim to kidney failure. The medicine that was given to him in Africa then gave him Stevens-Johnson syndrome, a horrific skin condition that is often fatal.

Bol passed away this morning at the age of 47.

And that’s why I’ve decided to write this blog post tonight. With some down time on Thursday night, I ended up watching the end of game seven of the NBA Finals. I saw NBA alumnus Magic Johnson take to the court after the Lakers’ win, sharing the championship moment with Los Angeles Lakers’ star Kobe Bryant, a man accused of rape only a few years ago. I watched fan-fighting Ron Artest promote his upcoming rap album and thank his psychiatrist in a post-game interview. I watched people I respect as athletes but not as men gloat and celebrate and receive adoration from thousands of fans. Manute Bol lay in his hospital bed, dying because he wanted to put others ahead of himself.

Would it have been too much to ask of the NBA to promote a good-guy image of one of its athletes for once? To move away from the locker room gun controversies and the rape accusations and the shootings and shed some light on a man who graced their courts doing legitimate good in the world? Did not one person in the public relations office think that maybe, just maybe, demonstrating that the NBA was involved with more than highlight reels and player controversies might prove mutually beneficial to both the league and the cause?

I grew up idolizing various athletes for the skills they possessed in their respective sport. I did not know that Mats Sundin was a chain smoker when I was 12, and I am happy as hell that I didn’t. I wanted to be these men, and I mimicked their every move. When I heard Paul Kariya was a fanatic about his flexibility, I began to stretch every night before bed. When I heard that Roger Clemens used to throw a ball at a wall to work on his pitching as a youngster, I spent the next three weeks outside wearing out the back of my garage with every pitch I knew how to throw. So if I’d heard that one of my favourite athletes spent his time helping those in need? Maybe I would have spent less time on my game and more time organizing school fundraisers. But I didn’t. Most sports were happy to promote the fact that their star players could score or hit or jump beyond my imagination, and kick their personal-life rap sheets under the carpet.

I understand the point is to grow the game. Fine. Just don’t tell me that your league is committed to helping resolve pressing social issues worldwide and support that statement with pictures of teaching kids in Korea how to shoot free throws. Do you legitimately care, or are you only doing these things to show fans that you do them? Manute Bol risked, and ultimately lost his life by dedicating it to something bigger than himself. He repeatedly demonstrated forgiveness, compassion and selflessness, even when the lifestyle that he had been granted in the NBA gave him any excuse to do anything but. So go on with your bling and your youtube videos and your inspirational Kobe commercials that I know are coming out sometime in October. Let the league give the fans what will ultimately lead to more money in their owner’s oversized back pockets. A seemingly great man died today. And he died richer in spirit and respect than any of us could ever hope for. No NBA contract is going to give you that.

Public Relations Consultant to....... Myself.

I must get asked four times a week on average just what it is I’m doing with my life, and what it is I would like to do. Like a robot with an automated message, I now just respond without thinking; “I’m a post-graduate student at Centennial College, enrolled in the Corporate Communications and Public Relations program.” Wow, I even zoned out when typing that. Instinctive. They will usually stare at me for two to three seconds after this obligatory answer, waiting for more. Half- conscious by this point and no longer responding solely through muscle-memory, I’ll tell them that I didn’t have any real experience in the field before I entered the program, or something to that effect. I’m lying. What I mean is that I didn’t have experience working in PR for someone else. But actually working in PR? Hell, I’ve been serving as a consultant to myself for years. Let’s not kid ourselves; we all have.

When I was younger, establishing my “brand” or personal image meant battling my mother to the death not to wear those farmer’s overalls she thought were so adorable on me in grade six. Other than that, depending how many jokes I told in class or how many goals I scored in soccer at recess, others’ viewpoint on Adam Amato (outside of my best friends) was probably set. The same was true for everyone else I went to school with. This continued on through middle school, high school, and half of university. Then some smartass invented Facebook.

I fought hard not to join this social media (huh)? website, giving in after two months of prodding by a good friend who was addicted. Ironically enough, he quit the thing three years ago and never came back, leaving me to feed the habit on my own. At first I would add a few old friends from elementary school, catch up on what had been happening with each other. I had a collection of about six pictures on my profile, only uploaded because I had nowhere else to put them and figured my computer would crash one day and wipe them all out. Then a year went by. That cute girl I had a crush on in English class added me. Old sports rivals somehow tracked me down and did the same. Within the year, I was smack in the middle of the media mosh pit, throwing ‘bows with everyone else. This was my first taste of public relations.

People started advertising themselves and their accomplishments; check my business out here, just won a scholarship there, pictures of my new Range Rover up soon! Then there were the personal pictures. The black and whites, the faux photo shoots, the cleverly inserted pictures beside a resident hottie in each album. People were no longer just joining social media to be social, to catch up with those they used to know or keep in touch with new friends. No, the idea was now self promotion. And it worked.

And who was I not to keep up? If I went out with some friends and pictures were taken, I’d put them up. Something happened the night before that I didn’t want to forget? I’d write on a buddy’s wall quoting it. I was teetering on the brink of teenage girl-type socializing, and yet I couldn’t seem to stop. Why couldn’t I call my friends like I used to? Keep pictures in a personal photo album at home? Well shit, I would think to myself. Do I want to look like the only guy that isn’t going to these parties, even though I was actually there? I have friends! We do funny things! People need to know this!

So that’s what Facebook came to be. It was Adam Amato, personified online. Yet it wasn’t me. It never could be. It’s a caricature of myself, much like it’s a caricature of everyone else. The stupid videos I post, the music I put up on my wall, yeah, it’s something I have an interest in, it’s the same music I play in my car when I’m driving with no one else around. Yet I’m so much more in person than a status update about my weekend. The girl I used to know in university who checks up on my profile and sees I’ve been to the cottage and reads a friend’s post on my wall about a stupid joke I made doesn’t remember what it’s like to sit with me one-on-one, to get a coffee and actually speak about real things I might not want the 600+ friends on my account to hear. She remembers my latest profile picture, and slowly those memories start to erode her actual memories of me. But I’m not Adam Amato plus the enter key. There’s a hell of a lot more to me than that.

And yet in many ways, it is my (our) only way to keep in touch with those who no longer play the same roles in our lives. So we update it. We advise ourselves on whether or not that drunken picture is the best thing for your boss to see online, or whether you look good enough in that picture for your old crush to look at and say, “dammmn.” Some of us go too far, and you can check out my pal Natalie Berardi’s blog on the sins of Facebook for examples of that. Yet we make these decisions almost every day, doing the best we can to promote the image of ourselves (real or imagined) to those who care to look. Twitter’s joined the party now, but with 140 characters available to tell people what colour shoes you’re wearing today, its limits are reached far before one can truly establish themselves as an entity to the public.

Some of you may read the above and say to yourself, “Okay, maybe this guy gets it.” You may even click to my Facebook profile expecting a minimalist page. You won’t get one. In fact, from the moment I wrote the first sentence of this blog post to the moment I typed the current sentence you’re reading, I have watched three different videos that friends posted on Facebook, sent another to a friend of mine, (on his wall where others will see it), commented twice on someone else’s photo, and wished two friends whose phone numbers I have happy birthday on their walls. Oh, and I changed my own profile picture. Hell, the only reason you’re reading this blog right now is because I posted it onto my page.

But hey, I go to school for PR. This is just me getting experience.

My Last Night on the Ice

I first slipped on skates at the age of four in the neighbourhood rink down the street from my house. Some would say that I got off to a rocky relationship with my one true love. I quit Learn to Skate at four and a half, complaining about the pointlessness of skating in circles for an hour a week, and wondering why anyone would possibly freeze water and try to stand up on what appeared to be winter boots with knives on the bottom. At the age of six, my uncle came to my house Christmas morning carrying a hockey net and I distinctly remember exclaiming to myself, “Why would Zio get me that? I don’t even like hockey!”

Then one Saturday evening, with no homework and nothing to do before my bedtime, I sat down and watched a Toronto Maple Leafs game with my father, my uncle and my grandfather. Three hours later, I realized I had not moved since the drop of the puck and was amazed that it was possible to do the things on ice that I had just seen these players do. That summer, I stumbled upon my father’s old Easton Wayne Gretzky hockey stick and a beaten up puck in the garage and found myself enthralled with the sound of rubber hitting wood. I would stickhandle alone in my driveway with my mother looking on, unable to lift the puck or even realize that it was left handed when I was a natural righty.

The following October, I was on the ice for my first organized hockey game. After a year of falling constantly and cursing myself for not remaining in that atrocious learn to skate program, I moved to the Downsview Beavers organization and scored my first goal the next season. I immediately fell in love with the rush of a screaming crowd (or just the players’ parents), clapping and yelling in celebration, and discovered my first true passion in life. From then on, hockey became my focus. I practiced alone day and night, in the driveway, in the basement, even in class with an imaginary stick. I grew older, had my first penalty shot (where I hit the post) and accidentally put the puck in my own net (both incidents were a week apart). I scored goals to tie games with time running out, goals in playoff overtime games, and lost countless heartbreakers. As I hit my teenage years, hitting was introduced, and I suddenly grew afraid to play the game I loved. Small and skinny, I was only able to survive through the protection of bigger teammates and the advice of my father, who had missed possibly two games in my entire career. Remaining in the Downsview organization, I chose to head to an all boys catholic school solely for the opportunity to play on their hockey team. After three years of being either too young or too old to play for the age group the school selected to use each season, I made the varsity squad in my senior year. Our home rink was Downsview arena, and it was quite a sight to see the rafters full with screaming students for our afternoon home games, and theme music from Metallica cueing our entrance onto the ice.

By this time, I had turned 17 years old, and my minor hockey days were winding down. After a fantastic final season playing for three teams, spring rolled around and I could see the end. After losing in the championship with all three of my teams, I was invited to a coach’s skate to celebrate a fun season and to take the ice one more time with many who had seen me play since I was a child, along with my two best friends who I had played with for years. The game was to take place, fittingly enough, at Downsview. After two hours of clowning around, trick moves and fake fights, players began to trail off the ice and head home. As I looked for my father in the slowly emptying arena, I realized he must have thought the skate ended an hour later than it did. Finally, I was left with only one other player on the ice, who turned to me and said, “I’m beat man, let’s go home.” I told him that I didn’t really want to take off the skates just yet, and he bid me goodnight and shut the door off the ice.

I stood at centre ice and looked around me. I looked to the stands that had been filled with so many important people in my life through the years. I looked to the roof of the rink, from which had hung several flags during an international tournament that I had played in a few years before, in front of people I had never met and in games where my team came out to the Hockey Night in Canada theme song to represent the nation. I looked to the corners where numerous fights had taken place with the variety of characters that I had shared the ice with. I looked at the net where I had scored one of my first goals ever. Then, I grabbed a puck and came in the same way that I had done as an eight-year old when I scored that goal, and shot it in the exact same spot. I circled again and rushed to the other end, reliving a game tying goal against Norway that had gotten my team to the medal round of that international tournament when I swore I could feel the rink shake. Finally, I came down the left wing on the other side where I had scored the last big goal of my career, a high school playoff goal where I had knocked the goalie’s water bottle off the top of the net with a wrist shot and celebrated by the glass with my fellow students reaching over and slapping my helmet and shoulder pads in celebration. I shot the puck at the exact same spot and smiled to myself, picking up the puck and skating back to center. As I looked up, I noticed my father standing at the exit beside the two benches, watching as he had since I could barely stand on my own two skates. He looked over at me, aware of what the game had meant to the two of us over the decade that I had played.

“It’s time to go son,” he smiled.

“Yeah Dad, I know,” I replied. As I scooped up the puck from my blade to my glove, I took one last look at the building which had left me with so many memories, had defined my childhood.

“I know.”

I skated to the exit door that he had opened for me, and lifted my feet off the ice surface. I walked silently to the dressing room, my father quietly following behind me.

UFC Veterans Jackson, Evans take their fight to ....Twitter?

It’s a battle that has been years in the making. The mixed martial arts community wanted it, pleaded for it, and finally, on May 29 at UFC 114, they will get it.

Top UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) Light-Heavyweight fighters Quentin ‘Rampage’ Jackson and ‘Sugar’ Rashad Evans have never been the best of friends. Expected to fight each other in early 2009, injuries and the birth of Evans’ second child put things on hold. Then, after being chosen as opposing coaches on the UFC’s reality show, “The Ultimate Fighter” (which almost always means a scheduled fight between the coaches after the show’s conclusion), Rampage retired from fighting to begin his acting career. These delays did absolutely nothing to halt the verbal sparring between the two, which had began in earnest in March of 2009 when Evans interrupted a Rampage interview after UFC 96. After 45 seconds of trash-talking that had to be partly bleeped out for television, Rampage declared that there was “going to be some black on black crime!” threw his microphone down in disgust and walked out of the ring. Things got no better during the filming of the reality show, with each episode featuring at least one face to face showdown between the two willing combatants. Yet after Rampage surprisingly withdrew from the UFC, many were positive that the fight would never happen.

Fast forward to December 2009. After the filming of his first movie (a redone, "The A-Team" with Rampage as B.A Baracus) had wrapped up, Jackson announced that he would be returning to the UFC, and that he planned to fight Evans. The fight was confirmed for UFC 114 in Las Vegas (after originally being set for UFC113), and both fighters set off to begin their training camps. Fans immediately rejoiced in this announcement, ecstatic that the rivalry and mutual dislike between the two fighters was finally set to come to a head. Many undoubtedly circled May 29, 2010 on their calendars, with hardcore fans aware that there might be some fireworks at the weigh – ins the night before the actual event, when the two would again come face to face. Other than a conference call between fighters and UFC’s usual countdown show where both would be interviewed a few weeks before the event, most people believed that it was finally time for the two to do their talking in the ring. Those people forgot that both fighters were on Twitter.

The online trash talking began in earnest in early April, with Rampage seeming to be the aggressor. With Tweets to Evans saying things like, “@sugarrashadevans Bring your pillow cause you going to sleep boy!! Dem chin stands ain't gonna help!!” and my favourite of the bunch, “@sugarrashadevans mama so fat he bought her a UFC shirt & thought it stood for ugly fat chick!!” it was obvious that things were getting ugly at a rapid rate. Evans, the one in showdowns who appears to try to act a little classier (not saying much when compared to Rampage), would try to fire back with facts, stating, “@Rampage4real I got ko'd (knocked out) once bruh! U've been ko'd 3x's! I'm not a mathematician but I'm almost certain 3 is more than 1.. Get it 2getha!” (Adam note: I’m aware these dudes don’t follow CP Style).

Now, for a guy new to Twitter such as myself, I was actually surprised to see this kind of thing taking place. I had grown up in a world where social media didn’t really exist on any grand scale until I was halfway through university: the only chirping I heard between fighters when I was a boxing fan growing up was on scheduled shows such as HBO’s 24/7. Even now, with Twitter, Facebook, and other options available to fighters everywhere, I still expected some of the toughest men on the planet to leave the posturing to scheduled promotions and the cage. In retrospect, believing this meant completely disregarding the personalities of both Rampage and Evans. Both are showmen, prone to allowing their cockiness to get in the way of their skill: giving athletes such as these new outlets to reach a vast audience and expecting it to have no effect? Do I not go to school for PR? How did I not see this coming? It is questionable whether both fighters have engaged in this online war simply due to their dislike for each other: rather, I believe options such as Twitter allow these men to grow their own brands and build excitement for the fight, something which results in increased Pay–Per-View buys, and ultimately, leverage in negotiations for further contracts. Don't get me wrong. I have no doubt that these two have great disdain for one another: but I do not believe it is the underlying reason for this social media war.

Perhaps this is the problem with taking every Twitter/Facebook/Myspace (yeah right) post that your favourite celebrity makes with complete seriousness. While social networking enables us to allow the public into our personal lives, it also affords companies, public figures and even those just seeking personal gain a chance to further promote themselves. Sometimes, particularly in the case of Rampage and Evans, all of these entities are rolled into one. You’ve heard it a hundred times before, and frankly I’m sick of hearing it: the world is changing. Technology and social networking are playing an ever-growing role in our lives. Yes, they are, for better and for worse. The downside of situations such as a Twitter war between two of your favourite athletes is that you’re never sure what is legitimate trash talking and what is carefully calculated marketing. The upside is that it’s funny as hell to read, and actually gets you excited to watch them square off in person. I don’t know about you, but I’m okay with taking the trade-off.