24 November 2010
I was walking by the neighbourhood lacrosse box one afternoon. Had a case of beer under my arm. Mickey in my pocket. It was the time of year hockey season begins.
There were some men about a decade younger than me playing ball hockey in the box. A goaler in all his equipment stood in one crease. No goaler occupied the other hemp hut. The team with the goaler had a forward playing wearing a Flyers jersey. Thought he was Bill Flett. The motherfucking Flyers. I hate those guys.
That was when I spotted a pile of goaler equipment near one of the benches. I asked, "You guys mind if I suit up and get in net?" Of course they did not. I put down my beer, put on all the equipment except the mask, took a slug from the mickey and got in goal. I would show that Flyer cocksucker what a hot hockey player he was: hot as a steaming hunk of shit.
He did not score on me. No one did. The emptier the mickey got, the better I played. Fuck off and die you Flyer motherfuckers.
I never played hockey again. Retired on a high note. Just like Luongo ought to have done after he won his gold medal. Of course I may have hung on a few more years if I was getting paid millions a year.