The slapshot heard 'round the rink

Why America needs more slow wind ups and less cellies

Last weekend I played in my college (club) hockey alumni hockey game. Yes, I did take a slapshot from just inside the blue line (OK maybe it was the top of the circle), and yes, the puck rifled past the goalie’s glove into the outermost reaches of the goal: where the horizontal crossbar meets the vertical post.

The slow-mo replay confirms I stashed the biscuit on the top shelf, where Momma hides the cookies.

We hockey guys call a shot like that, "macaroni" because the rounded corner of the steel elbow looks like a macaroni pasta. And this macaroni was indulgent: from the outrageously long and back scratching wind up of the stick, to the satisfying sound of the blade slapping ice. But the most delectable memory relished was how the puck scooped up from my tape then bounced down behind the top bar—rebounding with a speed that only occurs when the puck hits the taughtest parts of the twine, the most extreme edge of the net. That flavor of gino satisfies like a frozen treat on a hot day.

Usually the sound of my stick clapping is quickly followed by the clunk of hard rubber hitting the glass high and wide of the net. I am not a great hockey player. Not for lack of practice, I have played the game for over 30 years. But as my late high-school coach always said, "even a blind squirrel can find an acorn."

After the game, this nutrageous squirrel burrowed into a cellar bar with the other old alumni, recounting the momentary acorns we found during our less than illustrious careers.

After my meal, I was riding high on the tight sinew of the pulled and strained muscles that carried me up the stairs from the bar. I reached the summit of the sidewalk to leave while a line of 100 people waited in line to get in. We older guys had shown up at 7:30, eaten our burgers, and scoffed a coupla' cold ones before the 11:00 PM college rush. The undergrads and younger alumni we just battled against on the ice were waiting among a sorry, soggy crowd. And that's when I indulged in the primal pleasure of the preen, enjoyed when an animal is full from the fruits of victory while the others are hungry and exposed to the elements and the wait.

This was a pastime that I enjoyed more often in my younger years when I was straddling the blue line for Georgetown (club) Hockey while transitioning from youth to adult. During this purgatory between a responsible person and a kid, it was not yet apparent that laughing at others' pain ain’t right.

The coeds were wearing t-shirts and a skimpy skirts, enduring the coldest mid-April night I can remember in DC. All in the hopes of descending into a crowded and windowless basement where they would probably miss the final opportunity to get some solid food before the kitchen closed for the night.

I opened my mouth to pour more rain onto the stationary parade, "Look at you fuckin' LOSERS!" I screamed to the pack of alcohol-rabid animals standing on the sidewalk like puppies anticipating whatever kibble the master was willing to spare.

Some of them laughed at my jeer, some of them scorned. I laughed harder than I have in quite a while.

As I rolled home to Capitol Hill, I couldn't help but reflect: there is this feeling that one gets when making fun of people that are defeated. When your belly is full and your whistle is wet, and meanwhile they are frigid and wet from the elements, craving the warm satiation of some spirits or some suds and some grub.

Despite a likelihood to skate or run from fights these days, when I score I still celebrate with a bawdiness that has more to do with rubbing the other team's face in my victory than enjoying the win with my squad.

That's what I did when I scored the glorious clapper goal. As the footage also shows, immediately after scoring I turned and looked directly at the opposing team's bench. I ignored the hands-up reveling of my buddy Surms, who passed it to me and assisted the goal from across the ice.

Next time I exit a bar and they're sitting out there in the cold, Imma' try to keep from making fun of ‘em because I am happy and they are not. I will try not to cuss just for fun.

Maybe this idea can be extrapolated beyond laughing at losers waiting to get into a bar or gloating over a goal in front of the other team. At one point, many of our ancestors were the losers in the societies that they abandoned for America in the hopes that one day they might win.

In the rapid-fire discourse of the digital age, perhaps this exercise shows the value in taking one’s time on the wind up before firing a clap-bomb downrange.

-RMcG