Sunday Scribblings #152--Lost

I learned chess from my dad when I was quite young. Even at an early age, chess usurped checkers' position as the coolest kid game. When my classmates wanted to play checkers on a rainy day, I always opted for the chessboard. With a haughty sense of noblesse oblige, I thought that I should teach these youngsters the finest board game known to mankind; I felt that I had learned from the best because, after all, my dad had been in the chess club in high school.

Dad was always willing to play chess with me until the one day when I beat him. Or I should say, he lost to me. Not only did I win the game, but I committed an offense so dastardly it bordered on sacrilege: I captured his queen with one of my lowly pawns. To make matters worse, every time one of his pawns tried to invade my territory to get promoted to queen status, I captured it. I was maybe eight years old at the time. He hasn't played me since.

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Sunday Scribblings #150--Sports

Like my mother, I was never much into sports. My reasons were solely rooted in pride. I didn't understand the rules of the games, and, somewhat ironically, I didn't want to. If I learned the rules, then I'd be expected to participate, and my lack of coordination would rear its ugly head; thus, I would embarrass myself even more than usual.

However, one sport I did learn to like and did understand (thanks to junior high P.E.), was hockey. I used to joke that I should have been born in Canada, since our northern neighbors seem to enjoy the sport more than the population of the States in general. I don't really follow pro hockey, though I claim loyalties to the Montreal Canadiens. And, to a lesser extent, the St. Louis Blues. There's really no reason for either of these loyalties. I sort of like the Colorado Avalanche and the Phoenix Coyotes because of their names and logos, also. Really, now that I think of it, name and logo have a lot to do with my choosing which hockey teams I "like," even though I don't follow any of them.

Anyway, I was talking about P.E. The only times I ever got excited in P.E. were 1) When I was asked to run an errand, thus saving me from running laps or participating in class, 2) When I was allowed a leave of absense to go to the bathroom or get a drink (not that I ever needed either, but these were, once again, chances to leave and save myself a little embarrassment) or 3) When we played roller hockey--without the skates. I became vicious and ruthless during hockey. I took the position of center, even when I was assigned a defensive position (meaning that I played both offensive and defensive when I was supposed to only be protecting the goalie box). This does not mean I was good at the sport, by any means, but it was the only sport I actually tried at.

One time, my friend, BW was in P.E. with me and she let the puck slide right past her and into the goalie box, scoring a goal for the other team. I charged her, and nearly threw my hockey stick on the ground. "What was that?!" I screamed at her.

"I don't know--didn't feel like going after it."

"Didn't feel like what!" I was turning into a drill sergeant. "All you had to do was put the stick out and stop the thing. I could have taken it from there!" I was obviously high-sticking by this point. My P.E. teacher was so thrilled that I was actually participating that she overlooked my high-sticking infraction and did not give me time in the "penalty box" (a.k.a. the bleachers).

In 7th grade I memorized the names of all the teams in the NHL. For what purpose, I'll never know. That same year, I wrote a letter (that I never sent, thank God) to the Canadiens practically begging them to allow me, a 13-year-old American female, to play for their team. Fortunately, that was also the year I took up the guitar, and my strangely eclectic interests took a turn in another, more musical and literary, direction. It's a good thing, too. I'd have never made it as a pro-hockey player.

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