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.