We conclude our ringette practices with a fifteen minute scrimmage, usually with me — the hapless assistant coach — standing in net and blocking shots with my unprotected body. I don't have a goalie stick, so I'm often trying to spear the ring and fire it out of my crease. The other night a girl smacked my right hand with her stick, smartly hitting the top knuckle of my thumb. I howled.
She stopped and looked up at me. "It's your fault, you know."
I stared at her, blearily focusing through her helmet cage on a pair of blue eyes and an unmistakable smirk. She spun away and returned to the game. As I tried to massage life back into my wounded hand, I thought, I do believe I see a future paved with the broken hearts of idiot boys.
6 comments:
Ouch ... and ouch.
Yeah, that read a little more harshly than I intended. I've edited this sucker a half-dozen times and I'm still not happy with it. If it disappears in a week, you'll know why.
Not tsk-tsking. A good deal to think about there — in a neat slice of everyday unpleasantness.
A heartbreaker-in-training wielding both a painful stick and a spear-ful tongue? Yipes, sounds like a hip-check into the boards my be in order before she goes out into young lad land and does some real damage.
...not that I'm into harrassing children, just empathizing with the wide-eyed boys she'll be chewing up and spittin'
Hmm, you might want to pick up a helmet and "cup" while you're at it.
DV - you won't find me getting in her way and easing the life of tomorrow's suitors. My life expectancy is already taking a turn for the worse now that I'm on the bench.
TR - the helmet is already mandatory (no leopard-skin hats for this coach, alas). And I've given some thought to the cup, particularly after stopping several suspiciously high rings.
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