There are the boys whom I meet after curling in a pub where they, every three weeks or so, play euchre. They play two weeks away, then one at this pub. They return to that pub every Monday nonetheless should they draw cards there or not, for a pint, maybe two. I find myself there quite often after curling, for a pint. Maybe two. We trade our tales of woe over a dram.
I lament my poor or, on occasion, praise my good curling, as we sit. They regale me with tales of cards wrongly offered or cards intelligently spent. I have promised them that when I retire from curling I will join them at euchre.
This is no laughing matter. They are as serious at euchre as I am at stones. They have been at it since 1945. They have a Constitution, something normally reserved for entire nations. I must respect that.
And I will indeed join their euchre league when I cannot toss a curling stone. That is no blow off; I have told myself that at age 60, I will no longer curl if it is beyond my capacity. I won't put my physical self at risk over a sport so hard on the joints as curling if my joints will not hold up to the strain. I will retire to the euchre table.
I look forward to the day. Until then, let's keep meeting at the pub to lament our woes. Or hold trump, as may be.