On grief, vulnerability and sport

BASELINE FACT: I have not curled competitively for 10 years.

This can be chalked up to the usual impacts, including injuries, time to commit, and access to competitive leagues.

But if I'm being honest, it is also due to bouts of performance anxiety linked to previous toxic team dynamics and PTSD from abusive minor hockey and football coaches.

I recall one vivid example after scoring an own goal in bantam hockey that resulted in a spittle-infused furious tirade by my head coach (whose name rhymes with Larry Lonni).

During some of my competitive curling adventures, there were also teammates who utilized broom slams, rock kicks and swearing fits after missed shots. Not surprisingly, those teams generally buckled when it counted most.

When I played on more supportive teams, we managed to win trophies and some cash on the tour.

Tagging Chris Girling, Kelly Lauber, Winnipeg Realtor, Scott McFadyen, Gary Morris, Brendan O'Hallarn, Michael Paquette, and Jason Saboe for recognition here.

However, the main reason was a significant grief trigger.

My parents used to come out to watch all of my competitive curling games when I was in Winnipeg.

If there were games that tested my composure, I always knew I could glance behind the glass for moral support. Once I realized I would be reminded of their absence if I ever curled again, I withdrew from the sport.

This was the trigger that kept me from travelling to Winnipeg for seven years, from closely following the Bombers and Jets, and generally prompted me to withdraw from all things that might clip the tripwire of complicated grief.

To be clear — for me — complicated grief meant the weight and anxious energy struck me with the same high intensity even months after the initial loss.

On top of that, I'm an intensely sensitive person. Putting yourself out there as a team member in a competitive sport opens up that giant box of emotional vulnerability.

Every strategic decision as a skip, every line call — and most importantly — every shot is an opportunity for doubt and criticism.

I practised hard leading up to the senior men's qualifier event at the Beaumont Curling Club this week. My sore knee and IT band are badges of woe. I also had two delivery analysis sessions with Dana Ferguson at the Saville.

This is my first year back in the sport after three years off, thanks to the pandemic and the aforementioned grief triggers. I play with three cool dudes with a similarly positive outlook and realistic expectations.

We lost our first game Thursday afternoon, 7-2, to the top seed and our second game, 7-6, on my last shot Thursday night. We play tonight at 9 p.m. to stay alive.

Yes, this experience has rekindled the anxiety and grief. Still, it has also revived my competitive spark and reminded me that vulnerability has a payoff, no matter the outcome.