The hopeful part

Notes from a morning split between the Toronto Tempo and Raptors, and how rhythm forms under old habits.

Walking up to the Exhibition Coliseum late, nearly doored by one of the mayor’s staff. The look on his face as he caught sight of me and grabbed the handle to swing the door back in, horrified. He apologises.

I can’t blame him. Everyone is inside already. I watch the mayor, who stepped out a few seconds earlier on the opposite side, head for the open door flanked by her security. Her staffer hurries after her and I trail them, spot Crina inside the doors and wave, she motions for me to follow. The mayor and her team veer one way and Crina and I go the other, she directs me through the curtained chute down to the arena floor, to a couple dozen folding seats angled to face the court. I walk as fast as I can, but this is why I was late in the first place. My steps are more clipped than I realised they’d be, shorter and slower with my still sore back dictating the limits.

It’s a little wild to see a hardwood court laid in the basin of the arena. One, for its glowing newness, practically thrumming. The Tempo logo stretching over centre court, the lilac arc around either key set off by the deep plum framing at the base and sidelines. The club’s first ever players will set foot on it in a matter of hours for their first scrimmage and it will radiate with a different kind of energy, given life the way all courts are when sneakers squeak and scuff over them, when the energy of bodies working and in motion vibrate down from legs slicing over the surface and feet connect. But just then there’s a hallowed quality to the court, hushed, even the many camera operators setting up their rigs, gathered reporters, and city staffers seem reverent.

The other reason the court takes some time for my brain to orient is that for the bulk of my life, as early as I can remember, this was where I came to watch horses.