na foine ting

Monday, June 07, 2004
Probert, Probert, Probert.

Apparently it still takes a lot to take the old goon down.

You can just hear the conversation in the booking pen:

"You take his picture."
"Fuck you. You do it."
"I'm not touching that crazy motherfucker."
"Fuck it, then."
"Yeah, fuck it."


OK, OK, so not all the novelists were as bad off as I made it sound. Julia was in fact downright philosophical, and it was a good conversation. It's good to find writers who still breathe as much life into the process as the product, and who have the ability to both be wry about and celebrate the whole thing.

And not only that, she's cute.


I'm tired, and tired of being tired. Saturday night it came down to a choice between sleeping and hockey, and of course hockey won out. Late night stick time is good, and appreciated even more for being free, but I was pretty wrecked by gametime Sunday.

We lost. We lost a lot. I mean, like beaten with a really big stick lost.

I got to a point where I was resenting the effort I was putting in, where I watched the score go 5-0, 6-0, 7-0... and wondered why it was, exactly, I was killing myself to hustle out there.

Brian said I looked like I was having fun. Which was true, and probably the reason I never actually gave up.

It's still fun, even 10-1. Unpretty and frustrating, but still hockey, and still good.

Playing on a consistent line, not rotating a player through, was awesome. Kristine and Pants were killer linemates, and I think in a few games we'll get our groove and be a real threat. That is if the powers that be don't get the brilliant idea to shift everyone around again or put me back on defense or something.

And although I've been told all along as a winger to maintain my position, guard the point, both Brian and Tom told me this week to back up closer to the faceoff circle in our own zone.

It was semi-magical, finally doing it. Suddenly I had much more control of that end of the defensive game, and was able to cover their D far better. The best part was breaking out, though, and finding I was lined up, close enough for passes and still able to skate for and catch the trickle pucks that I'd been cherry picking to not miss.

Good stuff. I'm back in a learning and developing phase, and that, of anything, is a happy thing.


I still haven't called P.

I put her number in my cell phone after we'd talked and danced and she'd confided to me that she was largely flummoxed by other women, who, she said, only wanted to go out and have coffee. Who never, she said, wanted to "do anything."

She talked about being homesick, and we talked about how it was to live in the US, and how she might take up hockey. We talked about skating dates, going to salsa clubs, and generally hanging out.

I'm not sure why I said it, in that tawdry liminal space when the lights go up and the glass gets swept off the floor and they turn the music in the bar down.

I'm not exactly sure why, as I typed in her phone number I said "hope you're not skittish about hanging out with lesbians."

Maybe because I had a sixth sense that it would be a problem.

Maybe because I thought she knew and I wanted her to know I knew she wasn't, and also I wasn't trying to pick her up.

I saw the stifled social recoil, and made it easier by backing down, myself.

Her boyfriend made her polite apologies, which really only made it worse.

I could mention that I also found her attractive, except that it doesn't matter to this story, really. Or rather, it does, but it doesn't.

You see, don't you, that that's the point?

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