A-curling we will go

Ready to rock

"Are there a lot of curling-related deaths?"

This was not an altogether frivolous question, although it was a mostly sarcastic one, given that in my hand I was holding a waiver (!) in which I was to acknowledge, by my signature, that I was aware of the potential for serious injury or death while curling.

After the woman handling the paperwork reassured me that curling-related deaths are uncommon -- and that if I dropped a curling stone on my head, I was doing it wrong -- I signed the sheet allowing me to take part in the local curling club's introductory class last week.

My buddy Pizz and I sort of goaded each other into going, me by originally posting the notice for the class on my Facebook page, and him by saying he wanted to go if I did. Our friend Woody was originally going to go with us, but he couldn't make it.

I, like most of the 40-plus people in the class, was drawn to curling because of the Olympics, where every four years I watch it incessantly, becoming an "expert" just in time for the gold-medal match, whereupon I forget most of it. Not only does the game itself make for oddly compelling television, I would argue that there's another secret to its appeal ...

... You watch it and think, "I could do that." 

But could we? That's what we were there to find out.

After an explanation of how the game was played, which was supposed to be accompanied by a video but the TV was missing, we headed out onto the ice to learn the basics of pushing out of the hacks, sweeping and manipulating the stones to get the desired curl.

The good news as we got ready to start our two-end mini-game was that I seemed to be getting the hang of it. I was able to push straight out of the hack without injuring myself, and it looked like I had the hang of curling the stone. (I was somewhat familiar with the concept, having been a bowler.)

Then we started playing. On my first shot, I set my sights on the target, went through each of the steps very carefully ... and then pushed the stone left. It wasn't a horrible shot, though, safely inside the house, and for a long time it looked like it would hold up for a point for our team until our opponents put one in the center.

So that left us losing 1-0 going into the second end, and I put my second shot right down the middle ... but too short for it to count. I must confess ... I'm not real hung up on being macho, but I felt like a wimp. I hoped to get a chance to redeem myself.

I did. Our opponents were in position to score another point to clinch the match when I was chosen to take the last shot. My job was simple ... put my stone closer to the center of the house or knock the other team's unguarded stone out of the house while leaving mine in. It was a chance to be a hero for my team, or as much of one as creating a 1-1 tie would create.

And I pushed it left ... again. Way left. Left like one of my golf shots into the woods left. Left like the only chance the shot had was if someone tilted the Earth's axis like a desperate pinball player.

Before I describe what happened next, let me remind you that everyone was having a great time ... laughing, joking, hanging out, high-fiving and fist-bumping each other, sweeping with more enthusiasm than effect and yelling like the skips on TV mostly just so we could yell like the skips on TV.

And oh yeah ... none of us had ever played this game before.

So what did I do?

I cursed. Multiple times. And not the breezy "Ahhh, (expletive), that really sucked" kind of way, but the one you say and the way you say it when you're really angry. In that moment, the worst part of my competitive nature, the one that I'm not proud to say I've been told can be a little scary, came out.

All because I cost my team a game that I had never played before.

I can't help it. It's who I am.

Fortunately, it subsided fairly quickly. Pizz and I talked about the Merseyside Derby the next day (he's an Everton fan and I root for Liverpool, but neither of us were to gain bragging rights this time), I sent a text to Mrs. Last Honest at her convention to St. Louis that I made it through the evening with no injuries worse than banging my kneecap on the ice and I drove home.

Would I do it again? Sure I would. I'm no threat for the 2018 Olympics, but it was fun.