Tag Archives: sports (playing)

Posture

 

She stood a solitary stalk, ball at her feet, bright-lit green field against a black fall sky. The breath between whistled-dead and play-resumed.

 

Half a field away, a pack of other players stared back at her even as they jockeyed in the box, twisted fistfuls of jersey. Waited for the kick to come.

 

She set her stance, a few paces back, and stood. They could wait.

 

Her hours previous spent self-conscious in the school day, a bulky bulb in cold soil. Around others, she arched, slumped shoulders curved over and caved in, shrank. Arms crossed around books to cover her breasts, new and awkward and obvious at eye-level to her classmates. Bell to bell, blood cells coursing through vessel halls, pooled classrooms, hour after hour. Geometry: right-angles, hypotenuses. History: Pyrrhus, attrition. Anatomy: the bones of the foot.

 

Baggy jeans and ponytail, sneakers and plain tee. Between first and second she spoke to a boy as he smoked by the gymnasium doors. Volleyed observations. He was short and comfortable, and she tugged at her own belt loops, her pockets, her shirt seams, kept tucking hair behind her ears, touching her face. May have stayed too long; awkward retreat.

 

And at lunch, seated alongside teammates who discussed lipstick and bangs, in her mind she replayed the exchange with the boy, pulled at it until it lost its shape, a tangle of threads that no longer resembled stitched fabric. Realized that her fly had been down the whole time.

 

Calcaneus: heel. She leaned over cafeteria Bolognese, collarbones hovered above the edge of the tray.

 

Alone on the field, though.

 

Upright, transformed, hands inert, arms hung an afterthought. Eyes forward, chin-to-chest, she scowled scrutiny toward the horizon, ignored the mass of players, a blur of blue and white in the foreground of three sharp lines, their steel squared corners. Measured her distances: goal to ball, ball to body. Rocked up on her toes, posturing. Proximal, middle, distal phalanges.

 

From this vantage, she could see clear mere seconds into the future: rhythmic steps to a rooted plant-foot, leg arced, pendulum, cranked down, across, over, into and through. She could hear the coming solid thwock of seams against leather cleat (cuneiform, metatarsal). The ball’s trajectory, she knew, was predetermined: just a few feet farther than the spot where the 20 other players had set their stances, would crane their necks, eyes wide, to watch as it arched, skimmed heights of humid air. On the silent field, from 50 yards away, she could hear the upcoming wisp of the keeper’s gloved fingers miss, the arc dipped under crossbar, upper 90, line crossed, the rattled skim down the back of the net. And only then the ball would finally find the ground again.

 

All this she saw before it happened. The tower of a girl, standing alone in the middle of the field, stock-straight as limestone statuary casting starburst shadows, the crisscross worship of stadium lights. The strength in immensity. She strode toward the ball.

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A Home Hockey Weekend Away

The best bar in the world.

The best bar in the world.

At one week before the tournament, the schedule comes out and shit starts to get real. Everyone on the team has her own job, her own life, stretching from north Tampa down to Port Charlotte. But now the shift to hockey lives ramps up on social media. Lefty, a sister-like friend and old-school Canadian defenseman, posts a “Timehop” status from five years ago: “Reading Hannah’s blog, it dawns on me I made it through an entire tournament without a single penalty!!! WTF is happening to me?”

I respond, “Hoping to do an account this time through; see if you can change the narrative a bit, hmm?”
The Friday game always garners the most adrenaline—a week’s worth of daydreaming of crisp passes and hard shots—but even more so this time, as I’ve got a big group of coworkers, friends even and accompanying strangers here to watch. It’s an honor, and heartwarming, up until the point I realize that we’re going to get dominated by the other team, and my contributions will be a single line-rush to the offensive zone and a pretty blatant trip that I somehow still didn’t get called for. “We” (my teammates) muster a couple of goals on a paltry number of shots, and lose 4-2. The awesome people cheer anyway.

Everyone is amped to blow off some steam, especially considering we don’t play again until Saturday afternoon. But anchoring my mood is a 7 a.m. “agreement” (I didn’t realize it would be so early) to help Mrs. Harrible man the check-in table. Still, there’s a crowd out, and people need beer. We all down a couple Bud Lights while standing in crowds around the lobby, exchanging numbers, trying to sort out plans. A few of us, along with the remaining fans, head to Applebee’s for a bit. Around 12:30 I meet up with another group downtown. It’s loud and smokey and I’m relatively subdued—a whiskey here, a beer there—and make my escape around 2. Teammates J.D. and Kamikaski show no signs of slowing down.

The 7 a.m. arrival was never going to happen. At 2:30 a.m. I make it official with a text to Mrs. Harrible: “Sorry, dude. Everybody came out tonight instead of tomorrow. Aiming for 8:30.” It’s kind of a shitty thing to do.

Up at 7:30 and make it to the rink by 8:30. I’m surprised my back isn’t worse, but the lack of sleep is already worrisome. I question the wisdom of my McMuffin breakfast (and the caffeine content of McDonald’s coffee). I sell a few raffle tickets and try to avoid nodding off. At 11, as other teammates have arrived, I beg off—45 minutes to drive home, 45-minute nap, then 45 minutes back to the rink by 1:15 for our 2 p.m. game. I regret nothing about these decisions.

Kamikaski, apparently, regrets the shots that happened before, during and after my time at the bar. She’s only moderately late to the locker room, but misses the first shift or two due to an unscheduled appointment between her head and the toilet.

It’s the same team again, and while our shot total goes up, we struggle finding the back of the net. Frustration mounts. The other team is both physical and winning, and the refs miss a couple of opportunities to intercede early—illegal checks and behind-the-play high sticks, coming and going from both teams. Kamikaski lowers her football shoulder pads into the other team’s star, who responds with a two-hander to the helmet and a squealy rebuke to our bench. Quick Little K gets crunched off the puck in the corner. Furious warnings from our bench, “You better call something or this is about to get really bad!”

During a scrum in front of our net, an opposing player goes flying. Coasting toward the penalty box, Lefty stops for a moment in the doorway, seeing me on the bench: “Your wish is my command,” she grins.

Final score: 4-0. Blessedly, we get to keep the same locker room, which will stay a sea of stank, wet gear for the three hours until time next to suit up again.

Between games, Captain Beerslinger heads out to get more beer, but in the meantime, we need beer, so we snag a couple of pitchers from the snack bar and plop around in front of college basketball, bullshitting about whatever and rehashing old stories for new teammates.

Our goalie ambles over balancing plates stacked with soft pretzels and neon-orange nacho cheese, turns her back to deflect the ribbing: “Don’t worry about what’s going on over here.”

Keight, a newer addition but one of the stronger and more experienced skaters on the team, shows up with a Subway sandwich and a 12-pack of…”Azulitas?” I ask.

“…what?”

“Haha, dude, those are 8-ouncers.” There’s an ongoing discussion of the merits of smaller serving sizes even when the same total amount of beer will be consumed. More contributions come. Within an hour, despite our best efforts to keep up with supply, the cooler is overflowing.

harrible

Mr. Harrible and an Azulita.

The 6 p.m. game takes effort, but at least it’s a different team this time—a selection of players from Alabama and Georgia. We go the entire second period without a shot on net, but it’s more competitive than it sounds. My best play—a steal at the blue-line and potential breakaway—was negated by a prolonged stumble of wobbledy ankles and eventual fall. I keep my cool about it until a linemate mentions how close it was to an awesome play. “FUCK!” I respond.

Later, Little J, who’s been our lone fan for the day, commends my ability to shield the puck even as I fall down. Good man.

An opposing player “goes batshit crazy,” to Kamikaski’s estimation, and attacks J.D. after the goalie covered the puck. Somehow both players get penalties. Kamikaski and her football pads are ready to nail someone, but order prevails.

Shut out in another loss.

Postgame pizza party to watch even more hockey at the Harribles’ house. The young ‘uns—Little K and Hands—show up with, I shit you not, juice boxes and fruit-by-the-foot. Lefty and I put cheese puffs on our pizza. Inspired by my negated breakaway, Hands shows me—and then everyone else—a video of a runway model wobbling and falling in too-high heels. Guffaws. “I hate you all.”

Sunday locker room conversations are both celebratory and somber—work and real life loom, and talk turns to impending deadlines and asshole fourth-graders. Male hockey players are predominantly blue collar—landscapers, plumbers, welders, firemen. Percentage-wise, female hockey players are overwhelmingly teachers. I could run down a few theories for why this is, but maybe it’s better you ponder it on your own.

The game is our best yet—a 2-2 tie against the out-of-staters, despite the fact that J.D. had her own batshit moment and got tossed for mouthing off at the ref. But I’m subdued by exhaustion, frustration and an inability to get my juju going. I try not to let my cloud affect the team’s celebration, and it eventually clears. Yet more post-game locker room hangout time–feet on bags, beers in hand–stretches indefinitely into the afternoon.

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2015

I’m not a resolution-maker (any resolve I have in one moment can easily be undone by counter-resolve in the next), but if I were, I’d try to commit to posting more here. Anyway, here’s where things stand.

Work: A decade at the mag come March. Regular features, health column, etc. etc. No longer allowed to throw things at Tiny Red. Chugging along.

Health: Hoping to address weight gain at doc appointment on Monday with some prescription adjustments. Knees and fingers, wrists and toes (wrists and toes) have not sustained any setbacks of late. No word on when the head will heal. Third nipple going strong. Third nostril has been taken care of. Spackle works wonders.

Apartment: Aside from mold in the shower (FOR SHAME), staying on the landlady’s good side for the most part. String of lights by the fence makes for kickass nighttime cornhole. The hill are alive with the sounds of gunfire and ghetto birds.

CJ: Eats the mattress. Has only fallen off the loft once thus far. Still takes the stairs down one at a time. Somehow found a new lizard dealer in the neighborhood. Bitch has a problem.

Sports (playing): Between being out of shape and younger/calmer than most people out there, didn’t really catch on with the 7-v-7 soccer league. All-new hockey team of strangers (due to a league draft rather than the standard put-your-own-team-together format) has more promise than I would’ve expected—thanks in part to a knuckleball goal in game 1 that helped put me in the teammates’ good graces. Very much looking forward to a women’s tournament in Ellenton next weekend. Considering headis.

Sports (watching): Aside from the occasional lapses in defense, Bolts have been fun to watch. Bucs were very much not (hoping for Mariotta instead of Winston). We’ll see if the Maddon-less Rays can hold my attention come spring.

Eating: Lettuce, but only as a vehicle for Ma’s blender Caesar salad dressing.

Drinking: Beer. Bourbon. Purell.

Social life: See above.

Love life: Tiny glass animals. Blaming the blue roses.

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