Paul Turner: Still tick-free after all these years

I suppose the case could be made that I’m not a true Inland Northwesterner.

Why? Because I’ve never had a tick attach itself to my body.

Yes, I realize I’m tempting fate by making a public declaration of this nature. So be it. It’s not my first time.

Once, years ago, I was talking with several other bicycle riders in downtown Spokane. The subject of flat tires came up. I volunteered that, even after years of daily riding, I had never had one.

One of the other cyclists, a fellow named John Speare, made a face and shook his head. He could not believe I had so blatantly jinxed myself by uttering that out loud.

“You are so getting a flat on your way home,” he said.

He was wrong. Well, sort of. My first flat didn’t happen for several days.

But we were talking about ticks.

I think the reason I haven’t been attacked by one of these rude parasites is plain. I don’t have a particularly outdoorsy lifestyle. At least not in the sense of routinely presenting myself as a potential blood meal for disease vectors.

Oh, I know one need not be engaged in backcountry bushwhacking while wearing shorts to pick up a tick or two. You can become an involuntary host simply by brushing past a bush near your front porch. Or by gardening or wrestling with a deer.

Our area is not unique when it comes to the problems posed by ticks. But let’s just say we have our share.

I realized that many years ago when I was in the wilds of the Spokesman-Review newsroom and observed my colleague Rich Landers endeavoring to remove a tick from the scalp of a reporter seated at her desk.

(I never did get around to writing a story about how the ability to extricate ticks was the way to a woman’s heart in the Spokane area. Or a man’s heart, as the case may be.)

Readers seemed to enjoy sharing tales of tick burrowing, especially those involving digging into human male private areas. You know, down there. This gave new meaning to the admonition “Gird your loins.”

Is this where that whole “Near nature” business got started? Too near, one might say.

But through all those years, I escaped unticked.

My theory? I’m like the Humphrey Bogart character in “Casablanca,” Rick Blaine. Like the Nazis who wanted him, the ticks have me on their hit list. I’m sure of it. They just haven’t caught up with me yet.

How about you? What’s your record with these party-crashing arthropods?

I’d love to hear from readers whose answers do not include the word “scrotum.”

And can you consider yourself a true Spokanite if you have never had a tick embed its mouth parts in your soft, pliable flesh? Should there be a support group? Is that a job for the Marmot Lodge?

One more thing. Does thinking about ticks make you begin to involuntarily start scratching yourself all over?

The problem with hockey

As I never tire of noting, the short-lived Spokane Canaries were eligible to win the Stanley Cup back during World War I. They never got close though because they failed to win enough games.

But let’s focus on 2019. There’s a lot of hockey to watch right now, if you are interested.

If you are new to the sport, there’s a good chance you will find yourself asking one key question:

“What just happened?”

If you are watching on TV, they might explain it for you. But if you are at a Spokane Chiefs game, even scoreboard replays don’t clarify everything. So here are a few possible answers to your question.

They scored after a goalmouth scramble. You couldn’t see the puck go in the net because there were about six players obstructing our line of sight.

They are allowed to do that when the other team has a power play.

No, you’re thinking of the pretend fights in baseball. This is different.

It was a delayed offside.

Because if the same five guys stayed out there all the time, they would have to pace themselves and we’d be watching soccer on ice.

He was trying to deflect his teammate’s shot so the puck would change direction at the last instant.

The referee disallowed the goal because he ruled the goaltender was interfered with.

Well, the defending player intended to block the shot. He just didn’t mean for the puck to hit him in an unprotected pace.

When the referee calls a penalty, he puts his arm up but doesn’t blow the whistle to stop play until a member of the penalized team gains control of the puck.

You just saw a demonstration of why speed usually trumps size in hockey.

Columnist Paul Turner can be contacted at srpaulturner@gmail.com.