When kids aren't natural talents in their sport, you often see them making up their own fun. They'll dig holes in the outfield with their heels, or try to stuff golf balls into their mouth, or just fiddle around with cheat codes, rather than play team deathmatch.
Likewise, if you needed more proof that I'm not a great curler, look no further than the fact that more than curling itself, I love sliding down the rink. Even though you're just returning to your position for the next rock... for a split second, you're poised on one foot, broom in both hands, your open jacket is billowing in the chilled air, and compared to all the other players, frozen in their concentration, you're flying past them like you're skateboarding through a museum.
That's why I always wear a slider while sweeping, even though it's not really necessary. But I was trying a different style of sweeping today, so I went without a slider, only putting it on to throw my rocks.
This worked fairly well, and it even made me feel a bit more professional. I was enjoying some exceptional accuracy with my take-outs, and the skip started calling for more challenging shots, which I took as a show of confidence. (Or possibly, he had no other choice. Skips aren't usually forthcoming with details like that.) One particular shot in the fifth end was a difficult bump-and-roll: a take-out that would curl around a guard, hit the opponent's rock, and come to rest behind a guard of its own. I crouched down, visualised the shot, and pushed off.
What happened next was something I'd never experienced before. Coming out of the hack, the entire world slowed down. Rather than flying through a museum, I was now one of the museum exhibits, slowly toppling off the pedestal and bumping along the floor as everyone turns in horror. The only thing I could do at normal speed was think - even after my initial shock, I still had all the time in the world to analyse what went wrong, and how I was going to blog about it that evening. As you may have guessed, I forgot to put my slider on.
There was only one direction I was going - straight down, face first into the ice, and all I could do was make sure I didn't take my rock with me. And so, I torqued my elbow and shoved the rock away before I sprawled out on the sheet. (Note for non-curlers: throwing a rock with your arm is generally accepted as the worst way you possibly deliver a rock, save for kicking it. It's about as elegant as signing your name with a metre-long pencil.)
At first, until they saw what had happened, the opposing team was actually impressed with my form - they hadn't often seen someone stay so low to the ground in delivery. Our skip noticed, too - his exact words were, "What sort of a Batman pose is Denton trying over there?" Meanwhile, I stood up, shook the ice off my jacket, and joked about it with the other team. Only once the sweepers came back did I actually look to see what had happened. My take-out curled around a guard, hit the opponent's rock, and came to rest behind a guard of its own. It was a perfect shot.
Naturally, I spent the rest of the game trying even harder to regain that "professional" feeling I'd had earlier, which meant I didn't make a single shot afterwards.
But at least I was flying again.
Showing posts with label Flaming Disasters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Flaming Disasters. Show all posts
5.2.11
22.11.08
Don't Stop Believing.
My curling team, the Flaming Disasters, took to the ice this week, and the new (extra-amateur) league is proving to be a good fit for us. Not only do we have a lot more in common with the other teams, but we're now curling in a three-sheet quonset. If it were any more traditional, we'd be curling outdoors with frozen ice cream pails.
Anyway, last night I was calling for them to sweep, and I started singing the guitar solo to "The Final Countdown"... and that sort of set the theme for the evening. When I wanted a take-out, I'd ask for the Eye of the Tiger. And when it was my turn to throw, our vice-skip gestured broadly at the house. "Just put it in here somewhere," she said.
"Is there anywhere you need it?"
"Anywhere you want it!"
"That's the way I want it!"
And that's when our lead broke out into air guitar.
Needless to say, it was our best game so far. After previously losing by scores of 9-1, 11-1, and 9-2, we went into the last end with the score tied at 3-3. Our second suggested, "you know, we could just end the game right now..." we laughed, and the other skip and I headed down to the far end of the ice.
As we stood there, waiting for our teams to get into position, I said, "You know, we don't have to play this final end. A tie wouldn't be bad, would it?"
His eyes got a faraway look... he, too, was a skip by default, also used to guiding his inexperienced team to crushing defeats. "No, it wouldn't... but we can't. We must go on."
I nodded. "Very well. But let it be said, when people took upon this game in days yet to come, two teams stood upon this ice, and they had curled well."
He nodded solemnly. "Trapped in a system beyond their control, forced to play the game."
"But for one moment -- one undeniable moment, they were equals."
And with that, the final end began, and we lost the game 5-3. But we won our self-respect.
Not to mention a new theme song.
Anyway, last night I was calling for them to sweep, and I started singing the guitar solo to "The Final Countdown"... and that sort of set the theme for the evening. When I wanted a take-out, I'd ask for the Eye of the Tiger. And when it was my turn to throw, our vice-skip gestured broadly at the house. "Just put it in here somewhere," she said.
"Is there anywhere you need it?"
"Anywhere you want it!"
"That's the way I want it!"
And that's when our lead broke out into air guitar.
Needless to say, it was our best game so far. After previously losing by scores of 9-1, 11-1, and 9-2, we went into the last end with the score tied at 3-3. Our second suggested, "you know, we could just end the game right now..." we laughed, and the other skip and I headed down to the far end of the ice.
As we stood there, waiting for our teams to get into position, I said, "You know, we don't have to play this final end. A tie wouldn't be bad, would it?"
His eyes got a faraway look... he, too, was a skip by default, also used to guiding his inexperienced team to crushing defeats. "No, it wouldn't... but we can't. We must go on."
I nodded. "Very well. But let it be said, when people took upon this game in days yet to come, two teams stood upon this ice, and they had curled well."
He nodded solemnly. "Trapped in a system beyond their control, forced to play the game."
"But for one moment -- one undeniable moment, they were equals."
And with that, the final end began, and we lost the game 5-3. But we won our self-respect.
Not to mention a new theme song.
13.1.08
Curling Tunnel Syndrome.
The first thing they tell you about curling: Watch your balance. It's easy to fall, it's unprofessional, it's embarrassing, it damages the ice, and it hurts. Now, the Flaming Disasters are the worst team in the league, but at least we're not the most horizontal.
Well, before yesterday, that is.
We were down by five points, but it would have been eight if not for a last-rock miracle in the previous end, so the Flaming Disasters were still in the game, and we were still in good spirits. It was time for me to shoot, so I headed out of the house off to the hack, sliding backwards as I kept discussing strategy with the third...
...and I forgot that our lead had being throwing really short guards that day. Still going backwards, I caught one on my ankle, and over an extended twelve seconds, I managed to trip on it, land on it, fall on my funny bone, get my broom caught underneath my back, and chip a small divot out of the ice. And, naturally, it happened during that one rare moment when every team in the club was perfectly quiet.
I swear, the only thing I didn't do in that fall was set my clothes on fire.
The story doesn't end there. You see, the best part of any fall is the fallout.
Person #1: "Are you okay?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm fine."
Person #2: "Are you okay?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm fine."
Person #3: "Are you okay?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm fine."
Person #1: "Are you sure you're okay?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm fine."
...and so on. After a while, I started saying different things, just to entertain myself.
Person #8: "Are you okay?"
Me: "I can still feel... (pause to count) ...six toes, so that's not too bad."
But then people started worrying, so that had to stop.
On the bright side -- this was the first game in three months where I hadn't worn my kilt.
Could've been worse.
(This week's delay has been brought to you by "Zack & Wiki: The Quest for Barbaros' Treasure." More frequent blogging shall resume shortly.)
Well, before yesterday, that is.
We were down by five points, but it would have been eight if not for a last-rock miracle in the previous end, so the Flaming Disasters were still in the game, and we were still in good spirits. It was time for me to shoot, so I headed out of the house off to the hack, sliding backwards as I kept discussing strategy with the third...
...and I forgot that our lead had being throwing really short guards that day. Still going backwards, I caught one on my ankle, and over an extended twelve seconds, I managed to trip on it, land on it, fall on my funny bone, get my broom caught underneath my back, and chip a small divot out of the ice. And, naturally, it happened during that one rare moment when every team in the club was perfectly quiet.
I swear, the only thing I didn't do in that fall was set my clothes on fire.
The story doesn't end there. You see, the best part of any fall is the fallout.
Person #1: "Are you okay?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm fine."
Person #2: "Are you okay?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm fine."
Person #3: "Are you okay?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm fine."
Person #1: "Are you sure you're okay?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm fine."
...and so on. After a while, I started saying different things, just to entertain myself.
Person #8: "Are you okay?"
Me: "I can still feel... (pause to count) ...six toes, so that's not too bad."
But then people started worrying, so that had to stop.
On the bright side -- this was the first game in three months where I hadn't worn my kilt.
Could've been worse.
9.12.07
I should really buy some gloves.
It's a bit odd in a hockey game when a player loses a stick, but by the time he scrambles to retrieve it, everyone's forgotten about it.
When a curling broom skitters across the ice, though, it's a bit worse.
But even that isn't too bad -- sweeping takes a lot of quick motions, right? You try to change your grip, and your hand fumbles.
If only I were that lucky. No, this morning I was calling a shot as the skip.
"All right, I want a guard over--" *swoosh* *clatter* *skid* "--over where I'm now pointing."
There's a reason our team's called the Flaming Disasters, you see.
When a curling broom skitters across the ice, though, it's a bit worse.
But even that isn't too bad -- sweeping takes a lot of quick motions, right? You try to change your grip, and your hand fumbles.
If only I were that lucky. No, this morning I was calling a shot as the skip.
"All right, I want a guard over--" *swoosh* *clatter* *skid* "--over where I'm now pointing."
There's a reason our team's called the Flaming Disasters, you see.
16.11.07
Their team jackets would be legendary.
At the Medicine Hat Curling Club, the bulletin board is adorned with league standings, bonspiel announcements, and the occasional ad for curling equipment. Also found: a recipe for dessert squares that taste "just like Skor Bars". The secret ingredient is Skor-flavoured Chipits(tm).
The important thing here, though, is the absolute sincerity involved. I've grown to like Medicine Hat for its scenic valleys, strategic location, and various amenities, but I think this is the closest I've come in two years to truly feeling that "charm of a smaller community" that is supposed to be such a big draw.
Of course, I don't go to the curling club for baking tips -- I go to the curling club to curl. Our latest game ended in -- what else? A Flaming Disaster! We had fun, though, and almost all our shots went in the right direction. Baby steps, people.
Far more interesting, however, was our opposition. Frank and his teammates were all pushing seventy, but they were just out for a good time like us. In fact, they were the only other winless team in the league, until they beat us 11-4. The truly endearing thing about them, though, wasn't their sportsmanship. It was their... "familiar" team dynamic.
Frank, you see, is your classic Mr. Big and Tall. His wife (the lead) is almost half his size. He dresses in black and grey, and he calls out his commands in a throaty rumble.
The vice-skip, Roger, is a different story. He's a bit smaller, dresses in red, and has a higher-pitched rasping voice. Also, he thinks he should have the skip's job. It was plain to see in how he argued the skip's decision, in how he held his own little meetings with the other team members, and how he'd yell his sweeping commands over the voice of the skip. It wasn't an ego problem, either. For one thing, all vice-skips are a little like that, and for another thing, this vice-skip was actually a pretty good curler.
In other words, it was just like curling with Decepticons. The comparison between Roger and Starscream was obvious to this child of the 80s, which made Frank a perfect analog for Megatron. His diminuitive wife? Laserbeak. The second was a pretty quiet guy, but we'll call him Soundwave, just so that he doesn't feel left out.
So, if we had to lose, I'm glad we lost to a team like that.
And survived.
The important thing here, though, is the absolute sincerity involved. I've grown to like Medicine Hat for its scenic valleys, strategic location, and various amenities, but I think this is the closest I've come in two years to truly feeling that "charm of a smaller community" that is supposed to be such a big draw.
Of course, I don't go to the curling club for baking tips -- I go to the curling club to curl. Our latest game ended in -- what else? A Flaming Disaster! We had fun, though, and almost all our shots went in the right direction. Baby steps, people.
Far more interesting, however, was our opposition. Frank and his teammates were all pushing seventy, but they were just out for a good time like us. In fact, they were the only other winless team in the league, until they beat us 11-4. The truly endearing thing about them, though, wasn't their sportsmanship. It was their... "familiar" team dynamic.
Frank, you see, is your classic Mr. Big and Tall. His wife (the lead) is almost half his size. He dresses in black and grey, and he calls out his commands in a throaty rumble.
The vice-skip, Roger, is a different story. He's a bit smaller, dresses in red, and has a higher-pitched rasping voice. Also, he thinks he should have the skip's job. It was plain to see in how he argued the skip's decision, in how he held his own little meetings with the other team members, and how he'd yell his sweeping commands over the voice of the skip. It wasn't an ego problem, either. For one thing, all vice-skips are a little like that, and for another thing, this vice-skip was actually a pretty good curler.
In other words, it was just like curling with Decepticons. The comparison between Roger and Starscream was obvious to this child of the 80s, which made Frank a perfect analog for Megatron. His diminuitive wife? Laserbeak. The second was a pretty quiet guy, but we'll call him Soundwave, just so that he doesn't feel left out.
So, if we had to lose, I'm glad we lost to a team like that.
And survived.
21.9.07
Hurry Hard.
Last night, I attended the curling club's registration night on Wednesday, and tried to sign up our rink: We've decided on being called The Flaming Disasters. This works for two very important reasons: first, it'll be an awesome logo. Second, we can choose disaster-themed nicknames for everyone.
Anyway, they were sorry to say that the fellow in charge of our league wasn't there, so I'd have to contact him by phone at sign up in that manner. We were, however, welcome to the complimentary burger and pop -- although the soft drinks weren't actually available.
On Thursday, I phoned up the league president, who replied, "I really should have gone to the meeting last night."
"Well, we can still arrange this over the phone."
"No, I mean I could have reminded people I'm not the league organiser any more."
"Ah."
He did provide me the number of the current president, however. I gave him a call next.
"Hi, could I enter a team in the civil servant's league?"
"Well, we'll have to figure that out."
I assume that he thinks I'm looking to join a team that's one man short. "Oh, not to worry -- I've got three friends, and we're all willing to join the club."
"Oh. Well, we'll have to figure that out."
I should interject here, and point out that at the registration night, there was a sign on the main table exhorting members to order more snacks from the cafeteria, because every little bit helps the bottom line. Right next to the flyer for purchasing advertising space on the ice. I would have thought that some new blood would be, you know... good news.
"Well, is there a problem?"
"No, don't worry. I'll give you a call Monday and let you know if anyone else signs up."
"But I've already got a team."
"I know. But we can't have an odd number of teams, you know?"
I see. So, they'd rather decline four new (young) members and over a thousand dollars in entry fees (not to mention the extra concession revenue), because otherwise they might have to redo their scheduled rotations.
It's a bit bizarre, but I can't really blame them all that much. This isn't the Tournament of Hearts, this is a community organisation. In other words, they're running this league about as well as I would. Still, I can't wait for the inevitable confusion that erupts when I actually have to pay them. My goal is to keep the circus going for as long as possible before I point out that my supervisor at the Greenhouse is their treasurer.
Anyway, they were sorry to say that the fellow in charge of our league wasn't there, so I'd have to contact him by phone at sign up in that manner. We were, however, welcome to the complimentary burger and pop -- although the soft drinks weren't actually available.
On Thursday, I phoned up the league president, who replied, "I really should have gone to the meeting last night."
"Well, we can still arrange this over the phone."
"No, I mean I could have reminded people I'm not the league organiser any more."
"Ah."
He did provide me the number of the current president, however. I gave him a call next.
"Hi, could I enter a team in the civil servant's league?"
"Well, we'll have to figure that out."
I assume that he thinks I'm looking to join a team that's one man short. "Oh, not to worry -- I've got three friends, and we're all willing to join the club."
"Oh. Well, we'll have to figure that out."
I should interject here, and point out that at the registration night, there was a sign on the main table exhorting members to order more snacks from the cafeteria, because every little bit helps the bottom line. Right next to the flyer for purchasing advertising space on the ice. I would have thought that some new blood would be, you know... good news.
"Well, is there a problem?"
"No, don't worry. I'll give you a call Monday and let you know if anyone else signs up."
"But I've already got a team."
"I know. But we can't have an odd number of teams, you know?"
I see. So, they'd rather decline four new (young) members and over a thousand dollars in entry fees (not to mention the extra concession revenue), because otherwise they might have to redo their scheduled rotations.
It's a bit bizarre, but I can't really blame them all that much. This isn't the Tournament of Hearts, this is a community organisation. In other words, they're running this league about as well as I would. Still, I can't wait for the inevitable confusion that erupts when I actually have to pay them. My goal is to keep the circus going for as long as possible before I point out that my supervisor at the Greenhouse is their treasurer.
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