Stealing Rick's tam

I was this close. This. Close. I almost stole his hat.

Rick Houston passed away suddenly yesterday. He was a great guy, a grand member of the curling fraternity. He played in the Windsor Granite Curling Club. He seemed to always look for me, with a healthy 'Hi Marty!', when he spotted me in the viewing area of the curling rink. Despite such graciousness, I almost stole his hat.

It was a white and grey, kind of tartan tam. He had a couple curling pins on it. This past weekend we each played in a bonspiel, a curling tournament, in Ontario. In Ontario, there's home entertainment between curling matches during long bonspiels. A host family is kind enough to allow curlers into their homes while a tournament is being held, for lunch. And maybe a dram or two, truth be told.

His hat; I spied it as I readied myself to board the shuttle back to the curling club afore me boys' afternoon match. It was hanging at the end of the coat rack. I knew it was his hat; it was quite obvious, to me, anyway. It was hanging there, begging to be stole. And I thought, I'm gonna take it. I'm gonna steal Rick's tam.

And I did na. It was Rick's tam after all, and no good fellow curler pilfers a fellow curler's curling hat. It's about a part of his anatomy, indeed it is. You gotta respect that.

And now Rick's gone, suddenly. The Good Lord, He says to me that last Saturday, you do not take it. He was saying to me, in my head, to me alone, ya canna take it. Tis his. Ya leave it be. He needs it, ya know, so the fella curlers know him when next they greet him.