jdwhite2003

Hat Trick

It is said that you are never too old for some things: drinking and sex, definitely, but hockey? I was to find out.
Just after graduating from college with a degree in journalism, I found myself rather lucky to be writing for a well-known periodical, The Winnipeg Post. Deadlines were tight, work was tough, but I found I more or less enjoyed the work I was doing: after all, most journalism majors I knew still hadn’t found a job, and if they had, it wasn’t in journalism.
My editor approached me after one hell of a day, approximately 5:05 pm when I was ready to punch out. Trying to get out of the office as fast as possible and spend the usual Friday night getting shitfaced with my buddies, I avoided his gaze and quickly threw in a not so nonchalant “See you Monday, Bill, have a good weekend”.
“Hey, Junior, got something for you, actually something that you can do for me. Something going on tonight that I want you to report on, one of those, quote, human interest stories, unquote, that I loath so much, and hence, that is why you are going to do it,” Bill said, or as he was known in the office, Bill-the-I-will-kill-you-with-my-own-bare-hands-if-you-don’t-make-that-deadline-smartass. He then added a pat on the shoulder, which only increased the humiliation after calling me Junior. “My secretary’s got the info for ya.”

“But, Bill, I have plans tonight, and I put in 60 hours this week, doing my work plus a sizeable amount of other peoples’ also,” I responded, hoping to get some sympathy from a man who obviously had put down a few drinks in his youth.
“Oh, Shirley, quit your bitchin’. Don’t worry, you get to drink with the boys tonight, and some ladies I might add,” he smirked, and then looking around for his next victim, spotted an intern who he had already made cry once today and charged.
Two hours later, showered, shaved (again), and handsome as all hell, I arrived at 1252 Merritt Street, only to find that it was a hockey rink, namely Winnipeg East Hockey Arena. I quickly glanced at the handwritten note I was given by the secretary who deserves a description, but hell, she’s all boobs anyway, and figured this was the place. I headed inside and found the bleachers packed from wall to wall. This multi-faceted gem of a site was full of a range of funny looking people in their snowsuits, ski jackets, and whatever else still fit that could keep them warm, though all of them appeared to me to be well over 60 years of age. The majority of them were intently watching the Zamboni guy try to show off with his abilities to drive in circles; I think I saw some bet takers at the far end of the arena. Someone called my name, “Jared!” and I saw an elderly gentleman, sporting a Brett Hull jersey in combination with one of those rabbit fur orange hunting hats, beckoning me. I headed towards his direction, and sat down near him, hoping to strike up a conversation and figure out why the hell I was to freeze my ass off on an otherwise beautiful Friday night.
“Good evening,” I greeted as politely as possible to “Bob” (that’s what his handwritten nametag said) who appeared in his late 70s, maybe early 80s.
“Ah, junior, Billy Boy said ya would be coming, gonna have us one grand ball here, boy I’m an old drinking buddy of his father’s. Have a drink. You need to catch up.” pulling out a silver metal flask with ‘Hockey Fan-4-Life’ engraved on its side.
“Sure, but are you sure this legal?” I responded, not sure of the liquor laws pertaining to hockey arenas in my country, but hell, we’re all Canucks anyway. Might as well show this old guy how to go to town on that flask. It didn’t take long to notice that he wasn’t the only one drinking, as a few of my senses noticed. I took what I thought was a really impressive swig, and tried to hand it back to him.
“Finish it, I got another,” he chuckled with a wink and pulled out from his waistband another flask, identical to the first. “The game starts in 5 minutes.”
I was sitting there, trying to finish off the flask, but found myself nursing it because it was full of really awful whiskey. I was dwelling amongst my thoughts (beer and sex, beer and sex, beer and old people, no!) when I heard a tap on the microphone and a scratchy voice: “Hello, is this on? Good, and welcome to the 23rd Annual 70s+ Co-ed Hockey Game.”
Heavy cheering, a couple of catcalls and some whistling followed the announcement, and some heavy metal started to bellow from the speakers hovering over the ice. I think it was an ACDC tune, but it was too loud to tell. “This is the best part,” said my little old companion.
A group of hockey players proceeded onto the ice after the Zamboni had finished up, and they all appeared to be men, some fat, some bony, but I could tell they were a team from their jerseys. They called themselves the Whiz Kids. They were greeted with even more cheering, and definitely a lot more whistling from the female members of the crowd. I even heard a “Charlie, I love you. Take me now or lose me forever” come from a quite large manly-looking women, who then high-fived her girlfriends all around her. The cheering subsided after a minute or two, and then the arena became as quiet as a funeral, minus the crying: I thought of a funeral, because most of these people here weren’t too far from their own. In unison, the crowd started to stomp their feet and clap their hands and attempt to sing “We Will Rock You” by Queen, though most didn’t know any other lyrics than the title suggested. A flash on the ice alerted me to the fact that the door to the ice was now again open and out skated the meanest, baddest-looking group of female senior citizens I could imagine, all over 70, faces covered in war paint while they smashed their sticks against the ice. Their name: The Marauders. The old guy sitting next to me started to point out individual players.
“See number 13? That’s Ingrid, she still lifts weights, and damn, and if she wasn’t completely covered in all those hockey pads, you could see what a smoking body she has. Number 2? That’s Big Bertha. She has spent more time in the penalty box than any other player in the history of our sport. Ahh, there’s number 7, ahh, my lucky number 7. That sweet thing is Darlene. I had to retire from the sport about 5 years back because she broke my hip when we collided mid-ice. No matter, she felt so sorry for me she stills tosses me some sympathy quickies here and there. But those were the days,” the old guy said and he continued with the background information on every female player out there. While I was trying to avoid thinking the disturbing thought of old people sex, I wondered: why isn’t he giving me all the juice on the male team? I was soon to find out.
The reason that the female team was so popular was the fact that they had won 21 out of the total 22 annual games: the one they lost was some fluke accident, though no one would go into the details for me and talked about it like it was classified government material or something. It is not to say that the women’s team was really good. This was in fact the worse hockey game I ever saw, I will ever see, and after seeing it, I don’t know if I will be able to stomach hockey again. But the women’s team was just that much better than the man’s team.
Period one started off with the buzzer and ended with the buzzer. In between I saw some passing between a few of the female players for a quick goal, about 10 seconds into the period. After that, the center on the women’s team just seemed to slap at the puck at center ice every time the puck dropped and it usually went in. The score was already 9-0 by the time the zamboni was resurfacing.
Period two was a bit different. Not so much scoring; I think the ladies got tired with it so they started headhunting the old guys. Amazingly the pucks still ended up in the net, but for the most part the women were charging the goalie from half-ice and seeing if he fell down before they hit him. Number 6, Jerry Simmons on the man’s team scored their only goal after the women’s goalie left for a bathroom break during actual game play and no one bothered to replace her. Score after second period: 11-1.
Period three: shit, must have been in the bathroom…
There is not too much left to say about the game: quite a few injuries, some broken bones, and a couple of falls that didn’t get up, that kind of thing. Old guy told me that these poor injured folks “were out of commission” but the good thing was that the new up-and-coming stars would have a spot on the roster for next year. The game did last 3 whole periods, though the length was 5 minutes each. Intermission was 20 minutes between periods, but the crowd in the bleachers didn’t care: they were busy drinking away their Canadian Windsor, and as I was told, so were the players in the locker rooms. The final score: 13 for the Marauders, 1 for the Whiz Kids.
. It is funny when you think about old people: seriously, they are quite funny. Think of all the enjoyment we get by watching them drive or trying to shop for groceries. But they still know how to have fun, real fun. Either it’s the Chicken dance at Uncle Marv’s 75th birthday or, in my case, drunken old people hockey, but it’s fun. I can say this. It was not my usual night of drinking with the guys, hitting on those women who I had no chance with or those who I had too good of a chance with and going home to wake up the next day and wonder what I really did do the night before. No, but I did get drunk. Really drunk. And I did watch some hockey. As for the sex, well, you can count me out on that one. Old Guy and his buddies made a quick exit after the game for the women’s locker room, saying something to the effect that, “After they’re all liquored up, they’re really easy. Come join us if you want.” I think not.

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Fiction piece I had to write, been told it was rather entertaining.

Cheers, JD

Golux

It is definitely a unique piece... I found myself smiling over the descriptions of the game and the interactions between Bob and the main character. I didn't know it was fiction till the end, and now I want to know... where did this come from?

Very entertaining! Keep up the good work!

jdwhite2003

Golux,

Thanks again for the input. I am glad you found it entertaining. I played intramural hockey here at the U of Minnesota, and we almost always drink before the games, so I thought change things up a bit and putting in some old people would be fun

Cheers,
JD

GreasyP

That is so cool. I'd love to see this actually going on. That this piece is fiction shows a very nice imagination. Keep it up.

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