Memories. Such fleeting beasts. Three weeks it had been since our last novice curling league triumph. A bye week one Friday followed by a defeat the next. A score of days plus one since we had raised our brooms aloft in glory, dripping with the sweet sweat of conquerors crushing the bones of our enemies underfoot.

Friday night was a challenge brought by the short, hip, and irritating common man. Not the good common man who plies his trade in hope of a better life for his bewedded and his brood. Nae, this crowd was spectacular in their sameness and common in his thirst for hops and all things pre-trendy. 

Our resident lady on the team said something during our pregame beer and fried food/strategy discussion. She thought the team of hipsters we were about to play would stand in the way when we were throwing. They had done it before. She thought it was on purpose. 

How dare they? This would not stand. 

On first leer they weren’t the worst kind of hipster. No ironic tee shirts. there weren’t any curly moustaches or mutton chops. Not even an anachronistic hat. One did have the black ear things but even those were on the small end of the lobe ruining spectrum. Not an overly affected gesture all night. 

After they scored deuce with the hammer to lead it off, we responded with a pair of singles to tie it up going into the fourth.

I had in my head they were the hipsters who’d done impolite to my sweeping compatriot. I lost my focus for an imaginary villain. I’m sure men of all stripes know the feeling. The primal call to respond when our female tribe mates are slighted.

Neighbours, friends, family, conniving lying night hags. It is a drive that comes from the part of the brain that doesn’t take orders from you, pal. 

Women, I’m sure, feel it too. Probably when their cats disagree with each other. 

They put four on us in the fourth. A vicious rib-kick that essentially left us face-down on the men’s room floor, teeth scraping and clicking along the filthy tile while we searched for a way out of this mess.

So I set out to run roughshod over these perfectly pleasant gentlemen. They always made room. They were sportsmanlike. Genteel even. I’m not really good at playing the heavy anyways. 

I curled pretty well, too. Missed some when I played lead but at second and third I had some good hits and at least one tight draw. 

Eventually she told me she was mistaken and these weren’t the guys. We’d already played the pricks. 

Maybe we’re the pricks. 

They stole another in the fifth. Might as well have stolen our shoes. It was over but for the throw back down, where we took three to make the score look respectable at 7-5. We have hit our nadir, I hope. At 6-2 we only have one more contest to go before playoffs. We need a win to have a chance of being in the A group final. That $30 gift card wants us back, baby. And we want it, too.

There was a Bonspiel on Saturday. A one-day affair consisting of three four-end games, four wine and whisky tastings, plus lunch and dinner. Curling, drinking, and eating. I have most of my needs covered right there.

First I had a whisky from Mission Hill winery. The guy was from there, at least. I think. Long haired fella in a nice suit. Way overdressed for this gig but the sauce was top-notch. A rye made from 99% corn and 1% rye. I doubt anyone else asked him about rye content and that made me happy with myself even if I wish it didn’t. He had the answer primed in his pocket. Also had a good cab sauv. I had nothing to say about that one.

Game 1 we came out with all intents of making some noise, though the level of player was certain to be higher than our usual league. They scored 1 with hammer than stole 1. We were able to get 3 in the third but we couldn’t hold on in the last end. They got 3 agin’ us for a 6-3 final.

Then a pleasant woman with some wine and two bourbons. I got a glass of a wheated bourbon, apparently. I should’ve gone back for the other whiskey but we had ordered nachos so I was busy cramming that in my face. 

Second game we stole 1 to start it off. Apparently there was some broom chatter due to our outdated and illegal (for competition) bristles. Then they scored 3. Then 3 again. Then 1 more for a 7-1 final. So I guess no need for them to file a formal complaint. Little dinks.

Third slinger was a nice looking lady. Early 40s I think. She had some more wine. This was when we had dinner so again I was distracted. It was a red wine. 

I don’t remember a lot at this point. We’d had 3 wine and whisky tastings. Just a person at a table with a pile of booze giving drinks out with no limits. I love the curling club.

No real memory of what occurred in the third game. We got smoked again, that much is for sure. We were all just happy to be done with the beatings and get back to the liquor.

The last tasting was done by one of the club waitresses. She’s pretty new, or at least doesn’t work Friday nights. I got a white and a red from her. Fake leather pants. I liked them. I always do.

We won a deck of cards and a cheap wine bottle stopper with a plastic snowflake on top. We maxed out on butt plug jokes and then went home. Righteously drunk, full as a foster child’s diaper and as thoroughly whipped as same. We left for home at something like 8 pm. There was a feeble attempt at suggesting possibly going to a local bar for some live blues. 

We would’ve never made it. 

Overall a grand success for my second ‘spiel. So far 0-6 in games not played at the lowest possible level of our curling club. We will be back next year.