Back to the Rink

This morning, for the first time in nearly three years, I'll be throwing them stones. I'll be curling again. First time since March 2020 in Bowling Green, Ohio.

Ah, Bowling Green. Nice new curling club. I remember that most of us still shook hands in greeting because, damn COVID, we knew then it was overblown, and it was still early. But enough pontificating.

There is a true brotherhood among curlers. We love the game, but we generally like the camaraderie more. On the ice, we try to win. No point playing any game if you don't want to win. But off the ice, most times anyway (there are unfortunately difficult people everywhere) we're all all right with one another.

We buy each other drinks and don't keep score. After nearly forty years of curling there are guys I'm sure who are ahead of me and guys where I'm ahead of them. No matter. At the bar, you buy a drink for a friend when he approaches. Details are unimportant. I remember one old Scotsman who walked around the Leamington Curling Club freely giving shots of $210 per fifth single malt whisky to any who cared to imbibe. He never refused anyone, and the bottle never ran dry.

We play, then retreat to the lounge and visit one another like human beings should, typically talking about anything but curling. Because, like all other sports, it's just a game, and should be appreciated in its proper perspective.