Please kick me upside of the head if I ever agree to play in one of those co-ed hockey tournaments again. You feminists out there may crucify me if you want, but I feel there are some activities best left same -sex. There’s a reason that our cavemen ancestors went off on the hunt and the women stayed close to the cave; equal but at the same type separate, you might say.
To be sure the tournament was for a noble cause. It was called ‘Puck You Cancer’ and of course it was a fundraiser for, I later found out, breast cancer only. I didn’t score any points with Jill, one of the organizers, when I suggested that some of the money raised could be sent to an organization fighting prostate cancer. After all, only two players on the ice at one time had to be female. Why not throw us guys a bone ? Jill glared at me and replied, well, maybe next year.
As my karma would have it, I had a collision or two with the women on the ice. I have a habit of making sharp right turns right around the net and if contact is the result so be it. (Some) women have difficulty with that. (Note that I am now enlightened enough not to generalize.) My second collision, in the semi-final game, was with Jill.
“You f—— prick”, she gasped at me, sitting on the ice.
Jill wasn’t finished yet. “I’ve heard about you”, she went on. She didn’t say what she had heard. Wife abuser ? Serial killer ? I was clearly guilty of something. Sigmund Freud and I have at least one thing in common. Although I spend little time in Viennese cafes and don’t ingest cocaine, the old father of psychoanalysis and I have some similarity. .Clearly, neither of us understand women. Either my wife or daughter is angry or upset with me about seventy-five percent of the time. For absolutely no reason at all.
Later on in the game, this same Jill wanted our best defenseman thrown out of the game for an incidental collision with one of her teammates. Then, after our win, she complained that she was going to make an official protest, which of course would nullify our victory. I’d had enough. “What a whiner”, I proclaimed loudly in our dressing room.
“Oh no, she’s not a whiner. She’s usually very nice,” one of my teammates said in her defence.
Of course. “If she’s whining all the time, then she’s a whiner”, I countered brilliantly. “If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then I gotta assume it’s a duck.”
All’s well that ends well. We kept our trophy and I was upstairs in the arena bar having a post-game beer with a couple of the guys on the team. The subject of poor-sport Jill came up and it turns out that she’s the wife of a fellow I play hockey with twice a week. We’re having a team party next weekend. Spouses included.