Tuesday, December 22, 2009

the joy of winter (continued)

I hurt. Everywhere. Last evening I again caved into the "Dad, come play hockey" plea, against all reason and better judgment. The kids are only young once, and I'm only middle-aged once, and life only happens once, and I don't get any smarter with age, and there you have it. I hurt all over.

I had a feeling it was going to be a rough evening. The teams were two dads and all the young kids against Phillip and his buddy, both teenagers. Seven against two . . . we (the seven) were doomed from the get-go. When the score was 3-0 for the teenagers, I paused for a breather by the net on the pretext of taking a turn at goalie, and watched Phillip bring the puck down the ice. The youngsters swarmed around him like a flock of sparrows worrying an eagle, and he paid about as much attention to them as the eagle does the sparrows. He swooped in for yet another point, and then it was our turn. We gave ourselves a stern talking to, hyped up the little guys, and went screaming down the ice like Apaches on skates. And we scored.

We took a good beating (not just on the scoreboard) until about an hour and a half into the game the other Dad called out, "last goal wins!" Coincidentally, we were in possession of the puck, so we went on the offensive. Invigorated by the knowledge that our suffering would certainly be over in a few minutes, we stormed enemy territory for the kill. I tried my "drunk giraffe on rollerblades" maneuver, hoping to at least distract them into fits of laughter while we we took the shot. The ploy backfired. I lost my balance and did a lopsided pirouette, arms, legs and stick flailing (imagine an eighty year old Elvis Stojko with half his body paralyzed by a stroke and you'll get the idea) and crashed down hard. The silver lining was that everyone stopped to make sure I was still alive, and we called the game a tie.

Did I tell you that I hurt all over?

On a jollier note, a guy posing as Santa robbed a bank in Nashville this morning. You'd think someone would have clued in that the guy was an imposter when they saw his wheels - a gray getaway car. Even the kids know that Santa drives a sleigh.


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