I started playing street hockey again a couple of weeks ago. I had a blog post almost completed and ready to go up, extolling the virtues of the stick and ball. Then I got busy at work and completely forgot about it. To keep a long story less long, I love playing street hockey. It’s been a staple of my life for far too long. The first night of this latest game, it didn’t look like anyone would want to show up. It was cold, it was raining and I was worried that my mad-dash purchase of new shoes during my lunch break that day would have been in vain. However, to paraphrase Kellen Winslow, “I’m a soldier.” And I’m not the only one. Ten or twelve of us non-military military-types trudged about the hockey rink, chasing the ball that skidded to a halt in the puddle that half-submerged it. I thought to myself at that point, ‘these guys are hardcore. This is awesome.’ I continued to enjoy myself over the next couple of weeks, running around, hitting the ball, running some more, turning around. You know, the kind of things that make a man a man. Then it came. Tuesday fell right in the middle of a crappy streak of weather (the streak in which we’re embroiled at the time of this writing). I didn’t figure there would be any chance of a cancellation. That, coupled with the fact that I had heard nothing about any stoppage, propelled me out the door at 6:30, for the weekly game.
I waited. Rob showed up. We waited. We tried, through Rob’s crappy cell problems, to call the guy who put the game together. It didn’t work. So, we went home. I don’t want to say the evening was a waste because I had a good evening. A little programming, coupled with some family time, helped soothe my broken heart but the bitterness is still there. I’d looked forward to that game all day, and Rob’s pansy friends couldn’t make it out because it was raining.
Go get a pedicure, boys. Then when you play in sandals, we can appreciate your toenails.