Friday, March 25, 2005


I’ve been playing hockey for a year. I am horrible.

I was a superstar in my winter league. It had a lot to do with the fact that my teammates and opponents were hockey moms. Average age was 40. Average knowledge of the offsides rule ranked at nonexistent. And most of them couldn’t exactly skate. Or get up if they fell.

My hockey career launched last spring, on a team with a bunch of kids I coach with. The guys who coach skating geared towards hockey players agreed to play with a handful of figure skating instructors. Because they’re suckers for cheap entertainment.

This spring’s hockey team is a reprieve of last spring’s hockey coach/figure skating coach dynamic. We moved up a division, for no other reason than to humble and humiliate those of us who were not born wearing hockey skates.

We needed more players.

Insert my dad and my little sister.

Both of whom have been playing hockey all of their lives.

Last night’s game was our first. The thrilling 7-0 defeat included the debut of the A-Meg-Dad line, which from now on will be referred to as the Death on Skates line.

The Death on Skates line will live in infamy.

Dad took a shot on goal and was near the net when the referee blew the whistle. Meggie saw the goalie take a shot at Dad after the whistle was blown. She didn’t like it.

Meggie skated to the goalie and politely inquired “what the fuck was that?”

And the goalie cracked her in the face.

Meggie bleeds from her lip. Daddy gets in the goalie’s face. I decide that the most intelligent thing to do is to call the goalie a cunt and go back to the bench before I:
a. do something stupid
b. am bloodied
c. am laughed at by the other team for my lack of skill and failure to come to the defense of my father and my sister.

Fast forward to end of game.

Hockey coach/figure skating coach/Dad/Meg team lines up to shake hand with opponents.

Dad doesn’t shake hands with goalie.

I don’t shake hands with goalie. Call him a coward.

Dad and goalie exchange words. Goalie is labeled an ignorant motherfucker.

And then we go into the locker room, where we drink beer (which Dad bought) and eat brownies (which I baked) and discuss our genetic athletic and intellectual supremacy with our teammates.

Who think that we are ¾ of the coolest family ever.


Plantation said...

Seriously, LOL here...

Mrs. Architect said...

Yall are absolutley the coolest family ever! No contest!

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