The last few days at the rink were surreal, as the building slowly came down around us. I’d come in for a game and find myself staring at a blank wall trying to identify why it looked wrong. Ah, that’s where all the championship banners used to be. the next game, benches were missing, just the flat ends of bolts left in the cement. By the finals, we were watching the walls of the batting cages come down one at a time.
I played in the Copper League championship game at the rink tonight. We played against our favorite team, the Angry Housewives. They beat us 3-2, in a good solid fair game, and when it was all over we all gathered together for a big photo and I thought my heart was going to break just a little bit.
Not because we lost. If we’re going to lose, I want the Housewives to the be the ones to beat us; they’re good folk. But because this might be the last real hockey season.
I’m taking a vacation. I suppose you could call it a stay-cation, if you were the sort of person that was okay with that not being a word. I’m calling it a vacation and not leaving the house. Or possibly my pajamas.
The kid finished up his sixth grade year on Friday. His last week was a blaze of school plays and promotion ceremonies, and middle school looms ahead on the horizon. In between is the parade of summer day camps that are the fate of kids without a stay-at-home parent.
I hope everybody had a good St. Patrick’s Day. We went to the Irish pub down the way, which we do frequently, to hear a band that we enjoy, whom we also hear frequently. Except that there were all these people there. Like Chreasters only drunk. Huh.
I don’t begrudge folk the right to have a whiskey or two on St. Paddy’s Day. That’s a thing; I get it. Being fairly sober amidst a mess of drunk people, though, is only entertaining for so long.
Watching the Winter Olympics with the youngling...
“Ooh figure skating!”
“Ug,” says the child.
“Think about it this way: she’s pretty much wearing knives on her feet and he’s throwing her up over his head like that.”
“Yup. He could get decapitated. You never know.”
“Huh,” he says, considering. “But they’re professionals.”
“True. But these guys get injured all the time. They practice everyday.”
“Oh sure, blood and gashes and stitches and bruises. You name it.”
Alright calling on my Woodland-area friends. There's a big Mardi Gras party coming up in town on Saturday, February 10th that's a benefit for local homelessness programs. It's going to be a good party: jazz music, dancing, and a Mardi Gras parade. Red beans, rice, and andouille sausage. Pancake races and games. And yours truly and my very awesome friend Cheryl will be teaching swing dancing lessons at the party.
So if it's been on the tip of your tongue to ask me how my 5k adventure went on Thanksgiving, you can save your breath. I got four weeks into my nine-week training program before I said, "Wow!" I hate this!" and quit.
Here's the thing. It's not just that it's hard (it is) or that it hurts (it does). Those things are true, but I can roll with that. What I wanted from it that I wasn't getting was more mental.
And I’m in the airport again, waiting for a delayed flight home, drinking a San Diego IPA and listening to “Santa Baby” in my earbuds. (Everclear does a good version, by the way.)
This the season, I guess.
As per usual, I blinked and we went from pumpkins to turkeys and now I’m scotch-taping Christmas lights to the edge of my desk. What happened to regular season, eh?