They hit the line, they swept like all hell, they called the weight; they made the game. That they made me look good in the process well, I appreciate.
Every time I needed a shot, they supplied it. Every time I needed a hit and roll, they called it and swept in into place. Every time I needed a sweep, they put my rock exactly where it needed to be. They made this game.
It all turned in the second end. I called a slash double for three on my last shot. Even I, when spying it from the throwing end of the ice, wasn't sure it was there. I threw it anyway.
Brian, my vice, calling the line as he should, from that far end of the ice, made a non call. And it was a perfect non call. I wanted him to yell sweep from early on, fearing I was inside, yet he did not call it. I wanted a sweep when my stone was near the hog, the line which a stone must cross to be legally in play, but he did not call it. I wanted a sweep when my thrown rock was within two or three feet of a guard, a rock which might deflect a stone from its target, and he did not call the sweep.
And we missed that stone by fractions and made that slash double for three.
That is the greatest non call of my life. Brian saw it, and said nothing, as a vice who saw the line perfectly should have.
You, sir, are the man.