Roger Tassé's review of the Toronto Port Authority was released, and concluded that the TPA operated within legal means in their dealings with the defunct airport bridge and the resulting lawsuit. It was completely expected, of course, but disappointing nonetheless.

It was expected because politics works in such backward ways. It was expected because the Federal government delayed the report's completion several months, until after the new airline was up and running. It was expected because the new Conservative government quietly filled the vacant seats on the TPA board on a Friday afternoon with Tory friends. It was expected because the resident airline's creator is a political friend. It was expected because the current government makes no apologies for the disdain and disregard it shows for the country's biggest city.

It was disappointing because the terms of the lawsuit that the TPA negotiated were clearly ridiculous. Monies were awarded to parties for claims that were irrelevant to the bridge's cancellation. It was a blatant scheme to prop up a failing business with taxpayers' money. It was disappointing because a SLAPP suit against a community group went unmentioned. It was disappointing because this review seemed like the clearest way to bring to the forefront the TPA's numerous questionable and unethical dealings, just to have political will muck it up. It was disappointing because politicians always seem to make decisions for entirely wrong reasons.

It's a disappointment, but it isn't over.

Yesterday seemed to go well at first. Who knew it would end so dramatically.

The day started off like any other Sunday. I got up, went to church, then drove out to the 'ssauga for lunch with my parents. In mid-afternoon, I zipped off to North York for a hockey game. We played a solid game as a whole, and I played a stellar game in net, earning my second shutout of the season. This one wasn't just one of those shutouts received because the opposing team only got a handful of shots. I had to earn this one. I made some highlight-reel saves en route to that zero. I was quite proud of myself. Good on ya, SPU!

Next I immediately raced off to Etobicoke for a ball hockey playoff game, and it couldn't have been a more opposite experience. Balls found ways through me like no self-respecting hockey ball should. It was as if I had completely forgotten how to tend during the two hours between games. I returned downtown and went home, displeased with the day's result after such celebratory beginnings.

Then, as I unpacked my gear, I discovered something worse. The gold chain and Crucifix that I habitually wear around my neck - the one I've had since I was three weeks old - was missing. I checked my pockets, bags, and gear, then double, triple, and quadruple checked them all. I searched the house. I searched the car. Oh dear, this is bad.

I couldn't remember explicitly, but what I normally would have done before the first game was take the chain off and put it in the zippered pocket of my jacket. It was no longer in there, so who knows where it could have gone. I would have to retrace my steps.

The ball hockey gym would be closing in a matter of minutes, so I hopped back in my car and booted it like a madman back to Etobicoke. I pulled into the same parking spot and scavenged the ground around me. I checked under the car, and around the adjoining spots. No chain. I ran inside and got to the gym just as the last people were leaving. No chain. I checked the dressing room; no chain. I begged a staffer to give me the key to the gallery so I could check up there; no chain. Bloody hell.

Next stop, back up to North York to the arena I had left over five hours ago. Once again I sped my way there and parked near to where I had parked before. Guessing where I had been, I dropped to my hands and knees and scavenged the parking lot pavement, now barely lit by the streetlights afar. I checked around and under a car; no chain. I checked around and under another, and saw something. Reaching in, I pulled out a twig. Bloody hell. I checked under the next car and, deep within, saw something reflect the light. I reached in, and among the mud and puddled water, pulled out a surpringly undamaged Crucifix and chain.

Sweet Jesus! I can't believe it. It must have fallen out of my pocket as I pulled out my keys when opening the trunk to put away my gear after the game. Fortunately, I had parked close enough to the wall that every successive car parked there after me effectively hid the chain from view of anyone that would have picked it up. Relieved, I put the chain on and spent the entire drive home constantly checking it to make sure it was still there.

It was like a cheap Hollywood movie. Boy gets game. Boy loses game. Boy loses something worse. Boy gets it back and is happy. It's like "It's a Wonderful Life" without Zuzu's petals.

It seems that retrieval of my chain has brought all back to normal. Next hockey game I got another shutout. This one a little less earned than the last, but well-done nonetheless. Two shutouts in as many days. Nice little streak.