TAIT: Labour Day Classic brings memory of classmate & fellow sports fan

When I counted the years last night, I was taken aback: 47 years. Yet it's as fresh as the bagel and cream cheese I enjoyed. But one, of course, needs cream cheese. Frequent readers of this ongoing journalism experiment — God bless you — may recall September is more than bittersweet for me. This year, a profound thought arrived with the ninth month. It begins in Room 269 of Glenrose School Hospital. Grade 5. Mrs. Crone's last year of teaching. That's where I met Curtis Sliwkanich, a steadfast supporter of my life since our introduction. Curtis walked into the classroom on tiptoes: the muscles in his legs and toes were weakening. His back was arched: those muscles, too, were deteriorating. He, like so many Glenrose students — primarily guys — had muscular dystrophy. The medical dictionary calls it a group of genetic diseases, with fancy words like 'progressive muscle weakness' and abnormal genes throwing a wrench into dystrophin, the protein our bodies need for strong muscles. But to a kid in Room 269, those fancy terms didn't mean a thing. To me, it was just the way Curtis walked. The way his muscles, slowly but surely, decided they'd had enough of the heavy lifting. Now: I have cerebral palsy, a disability I was born with. Curtis? He was running around the gravel streets of his hometown of Lamont just months before he arrived at the Glenrose. Life changes, doesn't it? But in eight years of sharing classrooms — chasing the same beautiful young blond lady, and my favourite: pushing a classmate who couldn't push his own wheelchair into the women's washroom and, honestly, leaving him there — we never, never talked about our possible nightmares. Dreams, man. That's what we talked about. We both loved sports and played in the Glenrose floor hockey league. Me, on my hands and knees. Curtis was my left defenceman in his souped-up power wheelchair. And it was big — real big. Because of my level, Curtis and his big rig kept screening me. I screamed: 'I can't see.' Curtis: 'Shut up, Tait. I'll do your seeing for you.' In high school, we talked about becoming sports reporters. There wasn't a bigger Edmonton Elks fan than Curtis. So he — no mutual agreement, no Kumbaya duet — decided he'd cover football. I took hockey. Curtis outlived most people by a good eight years because, I honestly believe, he always looked ahead to what he could accomplish rather than staring in a sullen rear-view mirror at what he couldn't. We lost Curtis in April of 1984. We always phoned each other before and after the Labour Day Classic between the Elks and Stampeders. I've never missed that gridiron carnage, always with the spirit of Curtis beside me. I was hospitalized recently. It was serious. No TV in my room. Curtis inspired me — drove me — to get well. I'll be watching Monday's game with my Sports 1440 friends, Connor Halley and Tom Gazzola. But when nature calls, I think I'll get to the facilities under my own steam. Bookmark our website and support our journalism: Don't miss the news you need to know — add EdmontonJournal.com and EdmontonSun.com to your bookmarks and sign up for our newsletters here. You can also support our journalism by becoming a digital subscriber. Subscribers gain unlimited access to The Edmonton Journal, Edmonton Sun, National Post and 13 other Canadian news sites. Support us by subscribing today: The Edmonton Journal | The Edmonton Sun.