On one of those November days that seem to cling to you like a cold, wet leaf, I have just driven through a small Canadian town in which some of us grew up and, admittedly, some of us never did grow up.
It was a town, and a time, where sport was dictated by weather -- and sometimes by equipment -- but never by genetics.
This being the week of the Grey Cup, we would be playing football now, the rules wisely adjusted to allow no-equipment, open-field tackle if played on the soft sand of the old schoolyard, two-hand touch if played on the street, telephone poles for goal lines.
Soon it will snow to stay. At that time, the street would become the hockey arena, with a switch of sides at the midway point to allow for the slope of the street, chunks of snow for goalposts and the vehicles all careful to straddle the posts as they passed by, drivers behind clear windows rather than dark, and waving rather than cursing.
Perhaps there's a connection.
When melt finally...