CANDY!

CANDYCANDYCANDYCANDYCANDYCANDYCANDYCANDYCANDYCANDYCANDYCANDY

Candy.

Writing: 541 words. End game ENGAGED

Well, That Explains A Lot

First - whatcha doing Dec 6th-8th? Why not come play games at Anonycon with me? I running three different games - Kobolds Ate My Baby!, Inspectres, and a Dungeon World mashup with mini and other (hopefully cool) stuff. Plus GMs much better than myself as well. Check it out! Come! It's a very nice, very friendly little con.

Back to hockey. One of my major frustrations with learning how to play is that I have too many whiffs on the puck, mostly on what should be easy attempts to corral the puck. I couldn't figure out why. I happened to mention it to Shequi today and he said the ref had mentioned that I tend to skate with the heel of my stick on the ice instead of the main part of the blade. That's awesome to know because now I can be cognizant of it and try to fix it. Can many goals be far behind?

Yes, probably.

writing: 741+ words. Finally finished chapter 36, which waddled in at a bloated 13000 words. Ooops. Chapter 37 will truly set the end game in motion, and I should be able to wrap it up in under 15k words, which would probably put me somewhere between 120-130k - not optimal, but after an edit it might be okay.

Center of Trouble - An Old Man Plays Hockey, Week 4

Something weird is happening with the Ice House Raiders. No, we're not winning. We lost 8-0 this week. Victory is something almost mythical to us right now. Getting dressed before the game there was some joking around and talks of a practice during our back to back bye weeks  (yeah, what?), and after a disorganized first period we settled into three set lines of forwards and five defensemen rotating among themselves.

In other words, we started to act like a team instead of sixteen or so random dudes tossed out on the ice. Wait, make that fifteen or so dudes and one dudette. Can't forget Stephanie, our captain. There's something reassuring about having the same two guys hitting the ice with you each shift. Given time, we'll get used to how each of us lays and knowing where we're going to be. It reminds me of playing a season with the same scrum in rugby - you get used to the guy locking in next to you, the flanker on the other side, the two guys in front of you whose hips your ramming your head between, and so on.  It's cool.

It's also not a perfect scenario, for two reasons. One of the guys who takes FOREVER shifts is on my wing, although to be fair that was markedly better when we were a set line and the others - me and a guy of course named Chris, because the Council of Chris thing is going to follow me forever - went off, so he'd follow. He doesn't appear to know what he's supposed to be doing in the defensive zone. I may have yelled a little. It's pretty simple. Right wing covers right point. Don't go below the dot unless the left defenseman does. At least the bench was yelling along with me.

The other issue is that I've been made the center. Not that I have years of experience as a winger, but centering is a little bit different than what I'm used to. There's the faceoffs, of which I managed to win one of six or seven. I like being the guy camped out in front of the net looking for tip in, deflections, and rebounds, and almost had one on a twice-deflected pass. But center? Like my learning curve needed a deeper bend.

The game wasn't as bad a blowout as the score might indicate. Our first goalie gave up a few he'd probably like to get back, and two were powerplay goals as well. In the second period we came thisclose to our first goal as it was through the goalie but ticked off the heel of his skate and went wide.  We also had two posts. There's going to be a goal one of these games, and we're all chipping into a pool - a buck a guy a game, with the pot going to the first one to put it in the net. Like a team does.

We still have other issues - too long shifts, especially by one guy,  and we're waiting for Jeff to get back from dislocating his shoulder, which he evidently didn't tell his wife about for a week and a half. Such is the life of a hockey player.

Writing: 741 words. I need to wrap this chapter up.

At Least He Didn't Sack Him

So The Boy had a football game 'under the lights' Saturday, and it was really cute. First the all got their names called out and ran through a tunnel made up of high school football players, and then played a 'night game.' It was the usual kitten herding with our side being slightly hampered by the fact that the head coach overinflated out footballs and with the cold, nobody could grip it. The other team ran a double reverse, which is impressive when you consider these are 5 and 6 year olds. It was SO impressive that a kid on their team got either confused or excited or angry but whatever it was, he saved us from giving up a sure touchdown when he yanked his teammate's belt. We all laughed in our armpits so the kids wouldn't see. Really, we should be both allowed and encouraged to drink at these things.

Hockey write-up tomorrow. They made me a center. Have they not watched me play?

Writing: 661 Saturday, 641 this morning. Bro-bonding, dude. Bronding. Also, Go Sox,.

It . . . what?

I just had a guy call me from Iowa about a radio for an 05 Celica I'm showing. He then asked me how many miles the car it came out of had.

What?

Writing: 511 words. I was tired and cold and distracted. So there.

I'm Not Lazy, I've Just Never Been There. Okay, I'm a Little Lazy Too. But Help Me Anyway.

Let's say, for the moment, that I was going to run a one-shot set in Los Angeles. For those of you more well-traveled than I am (so that'd be all of you), what are some great places to visit and things to see (that will become supernatural problems)?

Writing: 663 words. I am making up luxuries that don't exist, as far as I know. But I want them!

The Sound That Gets Around

So one of the odd things about playing hockey where we do is that aside from the actual game noises, it's pretty silent within the rink. I'm used to rugby where you're outside and near traffic, planes, etc. Hell, I've played games under the RFK Bridge on Randall's Island with all sorts of distractions. At the Ice House, however, it's just the smack of puck against stick and the slash of blade against ice.

Until this week. This week the scoreboard operator brought a laptop and peppered the breaks in action with snippets of music. He announced the goal scorers and the assists, and had a foghorn for when goals were scored. It was goofy but also kinda cool. As I hopped over the boards to the strains of 'Shipping up to Boston' I felt, just for a second, like a real hockey player.

Then I almost wiped out, and the illusion was shattered. Nice while it lasted.

Writing: 945 words. I said I'd try to get to a thousand. Descriptive writing is much easier than conversation.

Sliding and Getting Hit by the Puck. These are my Skills. Old Man/Hockey - Game 3

So, our games run 45 minutes. Hockey is different from football in that the clock doesn't just run - the only way time ticks off is while the puck is in play. The pros play 60 minute games, with 4 lines of forwards (12 players) and 3 pairs of defensemen (6 players), and if a guy logs 20-25 minutes of ice time during a game that's considered a lot. They also have 15 minutes between periods to rest up. Last night our shorthanded squad of scrappy heroes numbered 7 forwards and 4 defense, along with a goalie who is very good but considers himself out of shape. Plus, no Greengrassi (the plural of Greengrass). Sheq is in Mexico, the bastard, and Jeff's recovering from a dislocated shoulder. I think Sheq went just to avoid having to listen to me talk about the Sox, Welcome to Ironman Hockey. 

I loved it, of course. Much like every other sport I've played I have a minimum of talent but a motor that won't stop running, so I ate up the extra playing time. I am the cliche of 'plays with all his heart' brought to life.By my best guess I logged between 20-23 minutes, and today my shoulders are achy but my legs feel great. Disclaimer - I took naproxin pre-game. Let's see how I feel at 9pm tonight.

We dropped the puck at 10:45pm and by 10:46 we were . . . not losing. In fact they didn't punch in a lucky goal - an errant pass ticked off the goalie's slick and slithered over the line - until there was only 50 seconds left in the period. The score wasn't a misnomer, either - we spent a good chunk of time in their zone as well. I was a puck magnet in the 1st, and by that I mean I kept getting drilled. I blocked 4 shots - some intentionally, some not - including an actual slapshot off my hip. Allow me to take this moment to mention how awesome hockey pants are. I didn't even feel it.

In the 2nd they chipped in two more, both on rebounds that we didn't clear. Poor, poor Alex the goalie. We spent a good time yelling at one player who likes to sort of wander around the ice kinda doing whatever he wants during shifts that go on wayyyyy too long. Look, if you're going to take a 3+ minute shift and chip in two goals during that period, we'll all good. But if you're going to kind of doodle-oo around like some toddler chasing butterflies and keep ignoring the bench pleading with you to change as you skate at about half-speed to get back on defense, you're hurting the team.

As the 3rd period wore on we were clearly tiring, and the 4 additional skaters they had made a difference as  they punched in four more. Our goalie was so wiped out he could barely stand. And me, I was still a little insane. We were down 6-0 and one of their guys took a pass for a breakaway. I had been backchecking and was a stride behind him when he hit our blueline. Chances of me catching him were nil and while I have no aversion to taking a penalty one in this situation would have been a penalty shot, so I did the logical, perfectly sane thing and dove face first, sweeping my stick around him to knock the puck away before my momentum carried me into our net. That counts as a score, right?

I finished the night at -2. In hockey if you're on the ice for a goal scored against, you get a -1. If your team scores, you get a +1. Power plays don't count either way. In a 7-0 loss I'm a tiny bit proud of being only -2. The guy who won't come off the ice? -6, by my best count. Hope he gets the message soon. Hope we get some more guys to show up soon.

Writing: nothing. Seriously, by the time I was in bed last night it was 1:30am. 3.5 hours sleep would have been non-productive in many ways. I'll just write 1000 words tomorrow IT COULD HAPPEN.

Next I Teach them Audibles

This weekend my son's flag football game was against the jerky team from a  few weeks, ago, described here. They seemed to have toned down a little at first, but as the game wore on the poor sportsmanship of the kids began to resurface, at times seemingly encouraged by the coaches. Again, this is Kindergarten football. It's not life or death. Nobody should be keeping score.  It's just herding cats for an hour.

It came to a head when the lone girl on our team (and the league) Abby took off on a long run. She's started out great this season but had been getting a little less aggressive each game, but she took the handoff and bounced outside. her flag got pulled on the one yard line, so we all signaled touchdown and she was excited.

One of the other coaches insisted it wasn't a score and put the ball on the one yard line. He was adamant and we were incredulous.  With a sigh we lined the kids up and as I pointed to a kid we have who is a bit of a chore to deal with, I saw the coaches jamming five kids in a five yard area, right where we were running. The play was stopped, and I saw them lining up to stuff it again, saying how important is was to stop them and win the game. Remember, these are KINDERGARTENERS. Ridiculous. And irritating. I looked at the kids I had lined up for the play and had an idea.

My quarterback for the play, Brandon, handed off to Matthew on a dive right intot he teeth of their defense. All six kids on that side descended on him like jackals on a lame antelope, and two held aloft his belt in triumph. But . . . Matthew didn't have the ball, as as the kids and their jerkweed coaches watched in stunned amazement Brandon, who had faked the handoff and kept the ball hidden on his hip, tossed the ball to a wide-open Michael in the end zone. Touchdown.

Yes, I taught a pack of five-year-olds the concept of the play-action pass. Later in the game I had another kid roll out and pass for another touchdown to a wide open receiver as six defenders chased him fruitlessly, and made sure someone who hadn't scored yet caught the pass (I wasn't going all Buttermaker there*). The rottenest little brat of their bunch turned and whined at his dad the coach, "Why don't you teach us any cool stuff like that?"

*If you don't get the Buttermaker reference you need to go watch the original Bad News Bears movie (Walter Mattheau, not Billy Bob Thornton) and pay attention to the championship game.

Writing: Saturday 613 words. Protagonist Pity Party!  Woooo!

Living Vicariously

The Boy, age 5, passed his first karate belt test Monday. I looked a long time before settling on a school I liked because having trained for a goodly number of years, I'm fussy about what I want him to be studying. I wasn't interested in the 'fast-food' style chains, nor was I sending him to the Tae Kwon Do guy in town. No disrespect to TKD, but I don't see it as a viable self-defense form, or at least it wasn't when I was studying. We'd have TKD guys come to our dojo and as soon as you got inside the range of their kicks or, ye gods, if you got them on the ground, they were helpless. I wanted a mix of styles for the Boy, and I'm very happy with the school I found. The cop who runs it is an excellent teacher, as are the other three black belts who teach classes as well. I can see the Boy's self-confidence growing in leaps and bounds. I know the board test is mostly hooey, but he was fearless breaking it on his first try with an elbow strike.

I'm not crazy about the scheduled belt advancements - every 8 classes gets a tip, and after 4 tips they test (at this level they just get a colored stripe on a new belt, as opposed to a solid new color), but I understand the necessity of it to keep them interested and enthused (and also to keep track). Aside from not really knowing how to do a sit-up the Boy did really well, considering he's five (I have to keep myself from getting crazy because his stance is wrong or his hips aren't coming forward - he's FIVE). It's KILLING me not to be out there myself in the adult classes, but for now I'm committed to hockey and I don't really want to spend three nights a week away from my wife and kids. When hockey's over I'll reassess, though, because they were doing reversals off throws with locks thrown in and my blood was SINGING through my veins, commanding me to get out there. Sigh.

Writing: 565 yesterday, 545 today. Too much finesse with a conversation that might just get cut anyway, but I'm having fun. Might take tomorrow morning for editing. It's my party, dammit.

Not Okay

Today is acting a whole lot like a Monday, which isn't okay because Monday did a pretty effective job of being a Monday all by itself. My industry is still trying to recover from the million+ cars taken off the road by Cash for Clunkers - it saved the dealerships, but it's almost destroyed the mechanical and auto salvage industries. One of my two dismantlers quit yesterday after five or years of us putting up with him, to 'go follow his destiny.' Destiny must mean 'work at a Maaco,' because that's where he went. He was a nice enough guy who worked reasonably well but at a snail's pace. Also, he was under the delusion he knew everything, which was a source of never-ending strife. I know my other dismantler is probably thrilled that he's gone, and I think I'm okay with the reduced rate of work getting done in exchange for the decrease in payroll, at least over the winter. Business needs to pick up, or we'll all need to go work for Maaco.

Maybe I should have taken that editing job with Random House out of college . . .

Writing: 745 words. Not even trying to restrain myself anymore. Write write write, and then edit it later.

Let 'em Know You're There!

We lost 6-0 in hockey last night, which somehow can be considered an astounding improvement over last week. They scored the last goal with 2 seconds left as a guy who should be a few divisions higher went end to end - it would be like Tom Brady showing up to quarterback in a men's touch league game. Still, for most of the game they had to acknowledge we were actually out there with them at the same time, and I think we put close to ten shots on goal. I discovered that I really like checking people and playing with a  physical edge, which ought to be interesting in a non-checking league. Next week our gametime is Sunday night at 10:45 PM. Come read my joyous blog entry on Monday.

Writing: 688 Friday, nothing on Saturday as I worked on an editing job instead, and 777 today. My verbosity is being unruly again.

Go Back and Smack a Hippie

Excited to be running a playtest version of Kevin Kulp's Timewatch game tonight for 3/4s of my regular gaming group. The system is fun and creative, and without a doubt my way-too-smart players are going to abuse the 'preparedness' skill to no end. That okay, they're in big trouble back in our Pathfinder game as a Witchfire has most of them lit up and is about to start dumping 12d6 on them. They'd better come up with a  good plan quickly! Tonight, however, they have a bigger problem. But is it a really a problem?  Who doesn't love a police state?

I am counting the days until I can play hockey again. After the next three games I have two weeks off UNACCEPTABLE

The new Gentleman Bastards novel, by Scott lynch, is so good it's almost depressing. What a fantastic writer he is. Absolutely brilliant.

writing: 845 words. More relationship stuff. I think ti works, but who knows.

Detente?

I'm a dog person, so of course instead of a mutt I have two cats in my house. One I found crawling around my rugby pitch during a practice, clearly abandoned and so tiny she fit in the palm of my hand. She was named Blaster because the first night she kept making a 'pew pew pew' sound, and since then as also gained thename 'Kitty Fantastica Cha-Cha-Cha, Fuzzy Freakshow, and Terror Kitty. As it has been explained to me, she's a batshit crazy cat. I have done my best to make her dog-like and had some success - she'll come when you call her, she likes to roughhouse, and if she's in the mood she'll play fetch with you. She's also very licky. The other cat is one my wife brought home and he's a old male named Sheeba. He used to be pretty fat but has slimmed down some. When he first came in neither cat was thrilled and he used to bully her all the time, to the point where she was living on the furniture in our bedroom with him stalking her below. To be fair, she's fairly territorial and kind of a bitch. At night they'd make whale noises at each other. It got to be a little irritating, so something had to be done.

Finally, I reinstalled a baby gate at the top of the stairs. Sheeba's either too old or fat to get over the gate or the railing, so the domains are separated. Blaster sometimes ventures downstairs and looks around, but not too often. Then again, who knows what happens all day? Anyway, lately Sheeba has been sitting at the top of the stairs and Blaster gets right up close to the railing, the two of them just out of reach from one another. Sometimes there's hissing, but mostly they just stare at each other. Negotiations? House versus Senate? A peace accord in the making? I hope so. Time will tell, I suppose.

Writing: 845 words. This urban fantasy is becoming less about the magic and more about a love story. That's good, right?

My Knee is Supposed to Still Hurt, Right?

Little achy from hockey still. This is what happens when you get OLD. I never really felt the effects of playing sports until I was playing rugby on Saturdays and reffing on Sundays. By the last game I was wiped. And ye gods you have never heard a whinier bunch of marys than guys in the mid-twenties and early thirties trying to convince themselves that they're still awesome at football. You may not like my calls, by I wasn't the one who got you toasted on a post-corner, buddy.

Writing: 745 words. I cannot restrain the words, they just keep tumbling out. OUT, DAMNED WORDS.

So Close I Could Taste It - Old Man Learns Hockey - Game #1

Last night I laced 'em up and played my first real hockey game. Through the blessing of random determination I started the game at right wing, with my friend Sheq on left and newly minted captain Stephanie at center. We were poised, excited, and raring to go.

We were behind 1-0 after 24 seconds.

To be fair, it was a soft goal from a bad angle, but the end of the 1st period found us down 3-0. Still, all three goals came fairly early and it looked like we were gaining some momentum.

We were not gaining momentum. The 2nd period got ugly as they punched in another 6 or so, and although things got a little more balanced in the 3rd they tacked on a couple there as well. Official final score was 11-0, but it might have been 13-0 or 14-0. Given we're a bunch of players ranging from maybe good to downright awful and had never played a second together before, it's to be expected. Too many people were greedy on their shifts and stayed out wayyyyyyyyyyy too long, more often than not resulting in goals for the other team. Our goalie apologized for his poor play but he was under siege the entire time.

And me? I was . . . fair to poor, I think. Out of position a little too much, a bad pass or two, not covering guys I should have. I had energy and hustle to forecheck but lack of ability, but that'll get better. I did manage to chip a puck past a guy and then race - yes, race, as fast as my little legs would take me - to the attacking zone and make an accurate pass over the defenseman's stick from my backhand to my center, but it hopped over his stick as he tried to corral it. I was hoping for my first assist. Instead I had to haul ass back to get on D. The game moves so quickly, and those who can skate well have an absolutely huge advantage over those who can't (me). I loved it, though, and being able to play with my best friend and his brother (who, to be fair, is also my friend in his own right) is something very cool. My right knee is cranky, my left thumb knuckle is swollen, and my right forearm has me feeling like Matt Harvey. In other words, I feel awesome and can't wait for next week.

So who cares if we lost to the team that was in last place last season? Next week we've got . . . the team that played before us and won 12-1. Uhm . . . did I mention our jerseys are a pretty baby blue?

Writing: 612 words. I ignored my barking knee and dove in. I'll finish this SOB if it doesn't kill me first.

But Will I Still Have Teeth?

Next time I update this blog I will an actual Player of Hockey, with my first game scheduled for Sunday night. I'm glad I tried this. I miss hockey and am somewhat regretting not going back to martial arts, but this looks like it's going to be fun. Old Time Hockey! Eddie Shore!

Having a garage sale this weekend. People seeing the ad on Craigslist keep emailing to see if we are selling kids clothes. We aren't, as we donated them all to the 'Nam vets, but I don't have one iota of regret for that. SO MANY TOYS. I hope we sell everything.

Writing: 299 words. Finished a chapter, which requires some fussing. Thinking I'm going to go the Guest Author route I mentioned yesterday. If nothing else, it'll get one of my stories edited by an outside source.

Hit 'em in the Mind! Also, a question for fellow writers/editors

As expected, I've been put on the house team for hockey. I was given #16, one of the Hanson Brothers numbers. My friend Jeff was given #18, which was also a Hanson Brother number, in this case for the one named . . . Jeff.

This can't be a coincidence.

So, I just finished being a judge for a writing contest. It was fun and I was happy that my choice for best story was actually very good. The editor thanked me for my work (judges provided some criticism as well for the non-winners) and then surprised me by asking what I'd like as compensation. I'd taken on the 'job' mainly for the experience and to hone my editing skills. Out of the ten finalists, I would have plucked maybe a total of three from a slush pile to make the initial cut. It was good to see some of the not-so-great stuff. The editor suggested a plug n the magazine's newsletter, but I'm loathe to promote my editing availability because I'm not really available right now and also, they do some too on the stories they get and I don't want to step on toes. He also offered a guest writer spot, which would be another publishing notch but a) it feels a little backdoorish to me and b) I don't imagine I'd get paid for it, which is less an economic issue than it is a personal preference one. I like knowing that others found my stuff good enough to publish, not that I was 'owed one.' Still, exposure is exposure. So I ask you all - any suggestions?

Writing: 802 words. Yes, word count is spiraling, but this chapter is almost over and then I can move to end game. Afterward is the edit, which is going to be bloody. BLOODY I SAY. Some of the earlier chapters were written three years ago. There will be hacking!

Dut dutta dut dutta dut dutta dutta dutta dutta . . . Hockey clinic, night #4

I've been a NY Rangers fan since as far back as I can remember. My father and I used to watch them play (and mostly lose) on a little12 inch TV. I've been to the Garden more times than I can count, and I was part of the celebratory throng outside in 1994 when they finally won the damn Cup again. One the subway home a guy looked at his stub with quiet calm and then held it out to me, telling me to take it. "I want the moment to be shared." I still have it. It was a from a non-drinking section, which was ironic given how drunk I was at the time.

As much as I love the Blueshirts, their lack of musical taste bothers me. Unless this has changed recently, the music that plays when they score a goal at home is Rock and Roll Part 2 by Gary Glitter, which is tired and overused and oh yeah, by a pedophile. Or a child porn watcher, if that's any less evil. They need something better. Boston has the Dropkick Murphys, and Chicago uses the Fratellis . . . we need something good. I want to hear a good song play in my head if I score a goal.

Big if.

Our last night of clinic found us Shequi-less again, unfortunately. There was a little bit of chatter in the cramped locker room this time, which meant we were being accepted I guess. On the ice we started with drills, of course, which I  had my usual difficulties with. There was one where we skated all five circles, and damn I wanted to try my crossover but there were always two guys right behind me and I didn't want to fall and take everyone out. I just chugged around as quickly as I could. Someday, crossover, someday. Jeff, meanwhile, continues to look more and more natural. Jerk.

We did do a stopping drill again, and I have definitely found my idiot savant skill for hockey. I can stop. I  can stop on either side with full confidence. I have no idea why.  After my earlier struggles with, well, everything, the coaches were laughing about it. I have no idea why it was easy for me. Skiing? Who knows? I'll take it. We also did a drill that involved giving and receiving two passes before shooting at . . . a net. I hadn't shot at a net yet, not one standing up the right way, and the satisfying THUNK the puck made as it clanged against the back of the net was so very, very satisfying. One my second pass I got cheeky enough to try to lift the puck and damned if I didn't put the biscuit in the basket two feet up. Having no goalie helped.

We headed into a full half-hour of scrimmaging with twelve players on a side, so the coaches told us to play four on four. That means more open ice, which is not quite to my wobbly-ankled advantage. To make it worse the guys we were paired with (of course the Hanson Brothers were together) wanted to play forward, so Jeff and I played defense. I really, really want to be a defensemen, but I really, really don't skate well enough for it. My backwards skating is much better, but not fast enough yet. Unfortunately, I'm out of clinic time to improve it.

We did okay for a while. Of course Erika the Valkyrie was opposite me, and after a while she undressed me with an outside move and scored on the empty net. I ventured up ice a little, blocked some shots, made a pass or two.  Jeff actually skated with the puck and PUT A MOVE on a defender. It was so much fun. Our linemate turned out to be from my town, which evidently fields a team. He made vague promises to get back to me on joining up, but overall he seemed a pretty cool guy.

My bugaboo of seeing the ice but not having the ability to capitalize on it continued to vex me. I saw Erika line up a long pass, made my move to intercept it, and missed. Now if it had zipped past the tip of my stick I could rationalize that I had just been too slow, or read it late. But it went between my stick and my feet, which means I just overskated it. Yeah, no waving that away.

We finished with breakaways against the lone goalie. I slid my feet back and forth waiting for my turn, excited and nervous. I hadn't taken a shot in our scrimmages due to both lack of and missed opportunities, but now it was reckoning time. Jeff went before me and drew a compliment from the coach. He was really starting to look at home on the ice. I took the coach's pass and flew in at what seemed like high speed to me but was probably a crawl, cradling the puck on my blade. As I neared I shifted to my backhand, and as the goalie started to move I pulled back to forehand, cut to my right, and rifled a shot toward the top corner, over his waffle.

At least, that's what I meant to do. He had me read perfectly and was moving back, in good position to make the save. However, my transition from forehand to backhand wasn't as smooth as it could have been, and instead the puck slid off my blade mid-exchange . . . toward the net, at about five miles and hour. It went right through his five-hole and, as I skated by, over the line for a goal.  The netminder's shouted 'FUCK!' echoed throughout the rink.. I didn't make a big deal about it - no stick raising, no fist pump. Act like you've been there before.

In my head, though, 'Chelsea Dagger' was blaring. Season starts this Sunday. I may not be good, but I'm ready. To quote the Dropkicks, 'Drop the puck, it's time to go!'

Writing: 1060 words. Oh yeah. Getting wayyyyyyy too long again.

Tune in Tomorrow

My hockey update hopefully be tomorrow, full of THRILLS (like me falling) CHILLS (because of the ice) and WONDER (like it's wonder they let me out there at all).

Writing: 660 words. It's easy to write about someone's downfall.