Tag Archives: skating

Hockey Highway

Posted on by Frank
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   Nothing like waking at 6AM on a Saturday for your kid’s hockey game. Especially when it means three hours to get to it.  Almost every week Jack’s ice schedule issues a sledgehammer reminder that I had no goddamn idea what we were getting into.

Jack plays in the Eastern Hockey Federation, something which means very little to the bulk of the population.  For hockey folk, it means a whole hell of a lot.  As in “Your kid’s a goalie for the South Shore Kings?! Wow, that’s freaking awesome!” The kids on the team skate like demons and I can’t deny taking a bunch of pride in him making the cut.  But I just wanted him on the squad because the home ice is about 10 minutes from my driveway. That works out swell for practices but little did I know how little we’d actually play there.  Or anywhere near there for that matter. Nope, being a Foxboro-based player meant he’d get to play games in Needham and Brighton and Bridgewater and Providence and central Connecticut and western Connecticut and New York F’n State, all because these places have teams in our league. That’s a little nuts, yes?  But however inescapably insane it is last Saturday Jacko and I were hitting the road for Brewster, NY.

On one hand it was a nice November morning and the road ahead offered some high quality guy time – we got bacon eggwiches, donuts and iced coffees (decaf for the goalie) at Dunkies. We filled the cabin of the Volvo station rocket with more croissant crumbs than oxygen molecules. We jammed to exquisite highway tunes like Judas Priest’s Turbo Lover and goofed on the wacky Injun names on the freeway signs. Quinebaug! Shetucket! Shetucket! Quacumquasit! Sheeeeeeee…tucket!!! 

   Then we cut into Connecticut and things got quiet for a while. Not much fun in vanilla names like Vernon or Willington. There were billboards for strip joints but I avoided discussion, figuring a second grader is best off learning about cheap sex from his classmates.  Beyond that, inland Connecticut ain’t much to write home about.  You motor along thinking about how long it’ll be till the next pee and wonder just what makes CT driver tick.  Used to aggressive Mass motorists and the completely unhinged lunacy of any driver from RI theNutmeg State dipshits don’t appear intent on getting anywhere.  They use the right lane for puttering along and the center lanes for traveling almost at the speed limit.  In the passing the lane they simply pass the time in a ritardando cruise daydreaming of all the wonderful things they could do in the other lanes.  Frustrating state. On a par with Vermont.* I suggested Jack take a nap so Daddy could do some heavy swearing.

With some assertive Masshole weaving and few CT Staties on patrol we made Brewster in better time than the GPS had predicted.  With an hour to spare before game time Jack’s coach cheered our arrival. Not only did they have their goalie, his dad didn’t get him there with barely time to gear up!

The first game went well. Exceptionally well that is.  Our boys put out their best efforts, with balletic skating; passing and shooting as though in a Balanchine interpretation of an after school knife fight.  We won.  Not least because Jack didn’t let a single puck slip past him. The team pig-piled him on the ice at the final buzzer, dads mussed up his hair in the locker room and moms gave him fist bumps.  All good stuff for his self image.  It was good for everyone – the boys had taken some ties and tight losses to some of the best teams in the division recently.  This boosted them big time.

And because I’m a dickhead cynic, all I could think was how Jack was going to blow the second game.  I’ll explain that shortly….After lunch, at Applebee’s.

This trip may have been as much a bonding fantasy camp for the big people as much as anything. I couldn’t say a negative thing about this team’s parents, all good folks. See, I’ve known legions of adult cocksuckers as a kid playing little league. I’ve witnessed mothers undergoing psychotic breaks at high school football games.  I’ve endured the sight of basketball douche-dads to the point where if I have to watch one more Fathers vs. Sons match across the street from my house, I’m going to have to march over with a can of gasoline and set everybody on fucking fire.  Fully grown men playing hard as they can against 10 year olds; going into freakish paroxysms of HI-5’s and chest thumping each time they jam a kid in the ribs to make a shot. My distaste for basketball probably stems from a lack of understanding; just can’t wrap my thick head around why so many graceless Caucasian dingbats are obsessed with the sport.  It’s like their athletic Mt. Everest and they’ll be forcing their kids to climb it for them.  Hope Jack is okay with never being allowed to be on an organized hoops team….

Now, back to hockey parents – we’ve got a great group. For people actively supporting their child’s interest in a blood sport, they are very nice people.  Down to earth and all that, I’ve already been part of a smaller group of dad’s, standing on the same bleacher every practice while we analyze and solve all the issues in youth hockey… By the end of the first match in Brewster, other fathers who once merely tolerated me (newest dad/no hockey background) were clanking beer mugs and chatting me up at lunch. Traveling brings everybody together it seems. All had a swell time.

Bellies stuffed and kids loaded on cokes and root beer we headed back to the Brewster Arena.  And the boys got spanked by the same team they’d routed only hours before.  It wasn’t Jack’s fault even though earlier I’d felt he might blow the second match.  He has the common kid thing where one stellar performance makes him a little lazy for the next –it’s good that he isn’t afflicted by the adult need to see full on efforts all the time in sports.  It allows him to keep having fun playing while not stressing always about winning.  On the other hand he’s in a league where 7/8 year olds are expected to play their asses off every single time their skates hit the ice. Luckily for the goalie, every kid on the team played like they were skating in sand drenched in syrup.  Not exactly the synchronized superstars of 11:20 AM, they just couldn’t get it together in the afternoon.

Most of it was the road trip; by the time lunch was out fatigue was creeping on them. But at least part of it was the earlier shut out.  Suiting up for Game 2 they trash-talked up a storm, going on and on about how much the Brewster boys sucked. I tried nipping that attitude in the locker room, telling them that Brewster actually played a good game that morning and they’d be pissed off about losing when they hit the ice again.  Also reminded them about a game against the Boston Bandits a couple weeks back.  Having soundly kicked their butts at the start of the season our kids got into the same pre-game slander binge – Bandits suck!!! They’re a bunch of losers!!! Tried cutting that off too; explaining that as soon as we start thinking the other guys haven’t got what it takes we let our guard down.  And that’s when a pack of losers comes in and hands us our asses.

They didn’t listen then and the worst team in the league dragged our record down a notch.  The Kings might have heeded my warning a little this time out but I’m betting travel exhaustion had them hoping that Brewster really did suck a little.  But they didn’t, proving it 7 goals to our measly 4. Sore winners these little Westchester Co. pricks turned out to be.  Already stung from the loss our boys were justifiably incensed as they told us how the Brewster kids had called them “A-holes” and said “F..You” in the post game line up. Must be some cutting edge parenting out there in Farmville.  Anyway, lesson learned….we hope.

A lesson I’d like the league to wrap its fucking over-driven head around is this:  don’t send grade schoolers on three hour drives to play double headers. Hockey isn’t baseball – it’s an actual sport and single games are exhausting on players.  At the very least leagues like the EHF need to make distant teams meet somewhere in the geographical middle to even the field.  Can’t have a home team taking naps between games while the visitors are out whooping it up on sliders and chicken fingers at Applebee’s.

Nevertheless – great father and son day and that’s kinda the best thing about all of it.  We’d eaten road donuts and scored Gatorades and Funny Bones from armpit gas stations in hellholes like Meriden, CT (makes Woonsocket, RI look like Paris).  Heading home Jack got to choose the supper spot – Thai food was on his mind.  That’s my boy!  Clicked over to “food” on the GPS, scrolled to “Asian” and came up with two in Danbury, CT.  The first one didn’t exist, it was an empty storefront on a block filled with Salvadoran slop chutes and laundromats and unhappy looking chaps from Central American and it was still far more charming than Meriden…The next try led us to Bangkok in a strip mall and the food could have been among the finest Thai I’ve ever had in the US.  Jack was raving about his Pad Thai and making a pile of spitballs to use in the parking lot after.

With another round of Dunkies for dessert we hit the highway hell bent on beating the ETA on the GPS.  Already ahead by 15 minutes at the border I cruised into Massachusetts with Yeeeehaw and an unequivocal middle finger to the Connecticut highway in the rearview.  Then one of my tires exploded. Well, fuck you too, Karma…

Changing a tire on the unlit freeway near Sturbridge is no walk in the park.  18-wheelers provide some illumination as they howl past at 700 mph and they unnerve the stuffing out of your little boy.  I sent a scared little lad down an embankment to keep safe and have a calming whizz on a tree while I ripped my knuckles jacking the car off the pavement. He was still whimpering a little as I tightened the last lug so I gave him a hug and a fist bump then hit the road again.  “All safe now, buddy.  Doubt that will ever happen again”, I reassured him.

And I reassured myself by thinking that next year he’ll be playing football instead.  For an in-town league.

* Or New Hampshire, Ohio, Kansas, Missouri, Wyoming, Oregon, Utah, Iowa, South Carolina, Arkansas, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Indiana, Virginia and a host of other states I could give a fuck about ever seeing again.

Coming Soon:  ”Hey Coach, why am I all covered in sores?”

Swimming Rinks, Secret Recipes and Songs about Semen

Posted on by Frank
2

(Currently rushed, the following is unedited)  

Things have been just fine over here this past week, just so’s ya know.  Because you’ve all been thirsting for news on this suburban joyride, right?  Right? 

Right.  So here’s the recap of the highlights, which tend to fall in with the array of topics we’ve covered over the last couple of months… I’ve yet to dismantle the ice rink which, more precisely, is now a swimming rink.  Part of me refuses to let go; I put in the effort, it just didn’t give back enough this year and my heart is all ouchy over it.  Another factor in letting the pond live on in the backyard is how Murphy’s Law presides over our existence.  If I drain the beast then we can fully expect a deep cold snap and then people would just get mad at me.

 In terms of skating, Jacko finally got the hockey bug. We signed him up for clinics, got him the gear and he’s been wearing the stuff like he’s ready for the Stanley Cup all week. For extra practice, we’ve been heading over to the arena in Norfolk. A run down joint with soft ice, toxic restrooms which burn eyes, nose & throat, and a questionable choice of music on the PA.  While lacing up Liz Phair’s H.W.C. came on. For those of you unfamiliar with catchy, poppy tune allow me to explain the acronym to you.  The “C” refers to the cinematic jargon for male ejaculation, the “W” is for its preferred color and “H” for the lyrically ideal temperature.  And she doesn’t sing the initial, which is probably why there was a little girl there whose dad was skating with a very puzzled expression on his face. 

There has been YMCA activity for the family, though the new pool schedule forced us to swim on a Sunday which, if you’re not already familiar with my tracts about the Y, really sucks. The water is a swarm of maniacal brats and inconsiderate, ugly adults. I needed goggles to protect myself from the splashing of hairy, spazzoid Indian kids while Elsie got plowed over once by somebody’s tubby mom and again by some pale jackass whose face had turned purple from the chlorine.  The one time this week I managed to slip off to the gym for some dumbbell breast augmentation some lady took my sweat pants off a row of hooks to make room for her coat and douchebag. Where is the respect for anybody anymore?

 I’ve taken to sleeping with an athletic supporter and cup.  Jack had a bad cough brought on by strep throat and when the kids are sick we often cave in to the highly questionable of letting the kids sleep with us.  Jack in my bed with mom, Elsie in Jack’s with me.  And my little princess is of exactly the right length and nocturnal habits to kick me in the jimmies.  A lot. Alllllll night long.  I’m lying about the jock strap, but those night are spent waking up at every little movement she makes and reactively throwing a blocking hand down to my groin. 

Delving further into the theme of emasculation, I had cause to be proud of my son’s character – even though I’d tried to subvert it a little. The skating bug has suddenly hit the hood hard.  Kids from 10 to 14 have been looking for ice or throwing nets in the street to play hockey on roller blades. Cool for Jack now, considering that even last year, of all the yard apes on the block, there was only one girl who was interested in skating with him.  One of Jack’s buddies has been calling for him to come over and rollerblade.  He’s been using his sister’s hand-me-downs.  They’re gray and purple…with a good splash of pink. 

   Now I’ve never been one to make fun of people for things beyond their control*. I prefer going after character flaws. But Jack’s buddy can be a strident d-bag at times, teasing Jack by saying crap like “orange is a girl’s color” or “skating is pretty stupid.” He’s the youngest kid at home, and attacking the rest of the world is just his response to getting dumped on by older siblings.  So those pink skates were a big turnaround opportunity for Jack.  When he came home I asked if he made fun of Luke for wearing girl skates.

   Ummmm… No.  I guess I didn’t, Dad…

   Oh? Well, uh, that’s really good that you didn’t, buddy.  But, y’know…you could if you wanted…

   I really shouldn’t have planted that seed.  My son was being a stand-up kid, by really only having an interest in playing – not in douching on a pal’s gear.  Sometimes, I just get tired of the dumb, nasty stuff kids say to each other and get particularly defensive about any shit sent towards mine.  I need to ease up, because it’s going to be happening a lot in the next 10-15 years; no creature is as nasty to a kid as another kid. What I should be concentrating on is how help the kids have thicker skins and how to maintain their self-esteem as they grow up.  And how to knock somebody’s teeth out if necessary – that’s what the speed-bag is for downstairs….

*except for a brief, highly reactive phase in high school which followed on the heels of a phase of getting shit on myself. 

Thus, in celebration of not being a weenie, protecting your weenie and songs about things which exit through weenies I offer up a recipe for Weenie Sauce! 

For those not in the know, weenie sauce refers to the meat sauce put atop little hot dogs known as New York System Wieners.  They are a Rhode Island original (the NY tag was a marketing thing), they’re highly addictive and the meat sauce is a closely guarded secret by wiener shop people.  People have their favorites – Olneyville’s joint is usually praised as the best. But my people know that the ultimate weenie comes from Woonsocket’s New York Lunch, which itself was once second to the great Coney Island Wieners.  Only a few doors down from New York Lunch, that magical slop chute burned down about 25 years ago. 

So, after some experiments and tweaks here’s something that’s as close to New York Lunch as I can get without kidnapping the owner, Dennis, and attaching jumper cables to his nipples. 

New York Lunch Weenie Sauce

Note – to complete the wiener you’ll need steamed hotdog rolls (or wrap in paper towels and soften in microwave), celery salt, chopped onion and mustard.  And wieners – any mild, skinless hot dog will suffice but you can get the authentic kind here: http://www.littlerhodyhotdogs.com

 1 lb ground beef (not too lean, 80-85%)
3 tbs vegetable shortening
1 small onion, minced

1 ½ cups water
1 tbs garlic powder
1 ½ tbs allspice
1 tablespoon salt
1 pinch of pepper
1 ½ tbs chili powder

Sauté onions in shortening over med-low heat until soft and translucent – but not brown. Add water. Add raw beef – do not brown ahead (important). Add remainder of spices. Simmer gently for at least 2 hours, adding a little water if necessary – mixture should be wet and slightly soupy.

Jesus Drives My Zamboni

Posted on by Frank
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   But he’s doing a real crummy job this year, calling in sick at times and running over the ice with a roto-tiller at others.  Might have to fire the lazy slug and put more effort into the rink myself.

   Can’t recall without looking (ain’t about to go looking, neither) if I’ve ever posted anything about my backyard “arena”. So let’s pretend I’ve yet to mention anything and state “I built an ice rink in the backyard. And Jesus and Zambonis, etc., etc…” This is the fourth winter we’ve had one in and the third actually constructed by myself.  Giving our Lord & Savior his props, he gave unto us the first rink – a gift of torrential February rain over a large, frozen swath of the lawn. Christ may be lazy as fuck this year, but that first natural rink really put a taste for skating into little Jack.  Thank you, Jesus! But I beseech thee to please heal my current rink, goddammit…

   Why am I all over Jesus?  In a sense divine intervention made me lackadaisical about ice; until this year I had to do precious little upkeep on the rinks. As long as it stays cold you can count on the heavenly sun and beatific winds to smooth out the bumps/lumps (caused by Satan) and skate cuts (caused by skates). The aforementioned first rink was an all natural path frozen pond which lasted over a month in great skating condition. The second, Frank-manufactured rink, was a 20’x30’ example of human enterprise, as well as poor planning. It was a ghastly eyesore of retro-engineering: extra boards nailed here, rocks crammed under there and water filled 18 inches deep on one end just to get 2 on the other.  But that was a great cold winter and the snow I had to shovel actually helped my lad really get into skating – he’d try going as fast as he could for the thrill of slamming deep into snow banks…the Lord helps those who help themselves.  

   Last year’s tarp arena was more ambitious. But at 24’x48’ it had only minor leveling issues and upkeep was again minimal.  It got buried under storms a couple of times but running the snow blower across it cleared it handily. We skated mainly at night, ‘cause brain-freeze and frostbite is where it’s at, then let the Hand of God smooth the ice during the day shift.  Between ice out back and hills of sledding snow out front, last winter kickethed the proverbial ass and all the neighborhood was covetous of our blessedness and junk.

    Things changed this winter.  We’d been forsaken or something. Plagues were sent unto us – repetitive blankets of snow which kept it from freezing solid even as the temps collapsed. There was a week straight with the air less than 20° and the ice was no more than a fragile Eucharist floating on the winy pond of Nazarene blood. I couldn’t get on it to shovel so I sent kids to do it, so desperate for salvation I forgot this primary Commandment:  Thou Shalt Not Send Kids to Do Anything. Ever. By the time Jack and his friend finished the rink was a complex filigree of slush trails punctuated by upthrusted plates of broken ice. The Devil had taken their minds and un-idled their hands because Jesus was off on a working holiday keeping the ocean wet in the fucking Bahamas. 

   It was obvious Christ wasn’t coming back so I can drop the metaphors.  If it wasn’t slush ridges making skating improbable then it was crevasses and craters created by me in my newly reaffirmed atheism. Turns out it’s not a good idea to put a lot of water over ice to drown the lumps. The new water freezes funny, encasing air pockets which collapse as you skate over and rip your foot off right below the knee. There were glimmers of hope; a warm week which melted everything, offering the chance for a slick new re-freeze.  Then hope’s glimmering head got bludgeoned with a shovel, it’s carcass festering by the swing-set as the water began freezing just as a January twister decided to fill the rink full of leaves and twigs and tree limbs and trash and rocks and god-diddley-damn flying monkeys and fucking scarecrows. Sigh.

    I really don’t want to go on.  Suffice it to say by last week we finally had a nice rink. We put in two months worth of skating into a few days.  Then, go figure, came the “Great Big Armageddon Nor’easter of Twenty-Ten”.  That was a heck of a lot of rain for a snowstorm, which in turn led to a heck of a lot of rink slush when the snow finally came by.  Looks like Jesus came back. 

    Next year I’m figuring on turning the front yard into a luge run. But I won’t be looking to heaven for help.

 Next Week:  What happens when you loosely strap two cats together with bungee cords…