Like any good Canadian sporting youth, I have been playing hockey since I was 5. By the time I was in elementary school, I was a fairly strong skater and was playing on the local Atom and Bantam A teams. I had the build and core strength of an anorexic teen waif, and my shot was about as hard as a lightly-tossed whiffleball - but neither of these things really affect one's ability to succeed in pre-teen, non-contact minor hockey. I don't like to think that I was an arrogant kid, or particularly bratty, but embarrassing evidence seems to suggest otherwise.
Example: one weekend afternoon in grade 6ish I attended the local public skate with a handful of friends who were not hockey players, nor particularly strong skaters. Some of whom were female. Anxious to demonstrate to my friends (and teh ladies) and the community at large that I was pretty good at something - I could do backwards fucking crossovers - I spent the first few minutes of the skate burning around the ice, demonstrating said backwards crossovers while maintaining small-talk with folks, and generally getting in people's way and raising the ire of the older kids. I may or may not have knocked the support pylon out from a kid's desperate lean, but I certainly skated backwards straight into the arena manager, spilling his coffee all over his jacket. Shit. One stern warning later and I was back doing my loopty-loops and power strides, etc, etc.
Long story short, the day ended with an older dude throwing my ball cap high into the netting that surrounds the ice, and the arena manager refusing to help me get it down - leaving me to slowly and sullenly circle the ice with my friends, ashamed beneath my matted hat head. Unsurprisingly, I did not leave the rink with a lady on each arm.
Look at that picture down there. Look at those exhausted, sweaty (gross), smiling, half-crazy (Derek) faces. Those are the faces of your friends and teammates who were collectively run ragged by the "douchey" nubile legs of Ethyl - led by some kid who was the inspiration for the above story. We get it, punk, you can play. You are on the touring team. You can do fancy, no-look, backwards, overhead flick things. Why are you playing on Thursday? Oh how I wanted to throw your hat into the trees and laugh at your pimply forehead, spirit points be damned. But I did not, and Ethyl beat us handily - although we did make it respectable, thanks to some sound defensive strategy and, potentially, their creeping fatigue…
But look again at those shiny, wet faces. Collectively, them folks rallied together for the second game of our double-header, inspired by Derek's highway driving analogy, and fought through the muscle pain and the humid air and the flying grass clippings and the suppressed vomit... and the mud and the blood and the beer - netting an immensely satisfying tie against a team that has a recent history of bitch-making re: us. Here here!
Bag Of Hammers "Dry Island" player of the game(s) - the Mr. Jason Flinn for his continued hard cuts, boundless energy and uncanny ability to always be open. But, hell, everyone played well!
Look at those faces!
Kisses,
-AA
PS: best out-of-context quote of the game, Marcie - "yay - way to beat up that little girl!"
1 comment:
I regret my delay in attending to this. Your story has become a part of me AA. Thank you for your efforts. I suspect that we are kindred spirits, as it seems that you too frequently relive every stupid thing you've ever done.
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