This Sunday morning at 5.12 a.m. the following conversation ensued between me and a 'crackhead-y looking couple' as I loaded my hockey gear into my sh*twagon:
Crackhead-y Guy: W'sup.
Crackhead-y Lady: Is you a hockey player?
Crackhead-y Lady: You go, boy.
I grinned as I got in my car at having gotten my first bona fide "You go, boy" from an actual African-American, but was somewhat perplexed that such a sentiment was conveyed, given the fact that most brothers could give two sh*ts about hockey. Maybe she was just impressed that some dumb-f*ck would actually wake up at the un-godliest of hours to go play a f*cking sport. The only people awake that early on a Sunday morning are the drunk hussies walking home after getting their asses slapped by some sh*theel frat-boy, or the losers who waited around to see if the ugly 'last girl left at the bar' would throw them a bone... and of course, the aforementioned crackhead-y types and me with my gear.
I made it to the rink, wiping the Rice Krispies out of the corner of my eyes and wondering if I had answered Crackhead-y Lady honestly. I mean, I have all the (foul smelling) equipment and I actually participate in the activity at least twice a week, but skill-wise... I'm on the low end of mediocre. What makes me a hockey player?
As I skated that morning, going through what have become nearly rote motions I realized that, regardless of the bonehead plays, getting burnt by crafty forwards and missed passes to the point, I am a goddamned hockey player. Otherwise I'd still be asleep in the comfort of my own bed, farting as I roll over (to the chagrin of my wife) and avoiding the unpleasantries of hockey pucks to unprotected areas, sticks across my forearm and of course, my stinky hockey gear.
Thank you, Crackhead-y Lady, for pointing that out.