So, you’re curling and you’ve just thrown a stone. What do you do now? You’re probably already face down on the ice so, if you’ve got a modicum of dignity, you scramble into a couching position. Then watch your newly launched interplanetary ice probe slip slightly out of the planned trajectory and either stop too soon or too late. You can shout to your teammates “HARD HARD HARD” which is supposed to encourage them to sweep in front of the stone and make it go further. This would be useful if you could judge the difference between a stone thrown too lightly and one thrown too hard. This difference seems like 0.00001 grams force.
Your teammates, who have no idea what’s going on either, can sweep in front of the stone to make it go further, possibly because you’re screaming “HARD HARD HARD” like a maniac at a Metallica concert. Or they can leave the ice unswept so the stone stops shorter. Surprisingly, sweeping does have an effect (though a miniscule one). A 40-pound stone in motion on a nearly frictionless ice is only in a nearly frictionless state and the broom makes it even more nearly frictionless. Either that or it’s magic.
In the case of us noobs, we mostly stared at each incoming stone with wonder while it did whatever the hell it was going to do. The fact that people with one foot in a “slider” can (if they know how) skitter along swiping the ice in front of a huge rock tells you what you need to know about speed but don’t forget the invisible story of momentum. The stones, which move so slow and majestic, probably could break your ankle if you let them hit you. This would be pathetic because you’d have been hammered by something that moves slower than a riding lawnmower. For us noobs, it was a very real possibility. Half the time I was cringing, wondering what would happen if one of us faceplanted just in time to take a 40-pound rock to the head.
Invented. By. Drunk. Scotsmen.
Speaking of “drunk”, after each “throw” of the rock, I’d shuffle off the ice to get another drink. This is the best part of the game.
There is scoring, teamwork, strategy, and precision. Or there would be if we could control the stones like real players. Our guide would wind up and launch (“throw”) a stone so beautifully you could hear angels smile. The stone would swish down the sheet, gently shove every other stone out of the way, edge slightly to one side or the other as planned, and suddenly stop within five microns of the target’s center. It was glorious.
Then, it would be my turn. I’d stagger up, launch the infernal rock like a hopeless awkward dipshit, drag my bearded face across the ice, and either fret over a limp underpowered failure that left it dead halfway down the lane or cringe because I’d overcompensated and rocketed the stone past the target like a runaway freight train. Overshots not only zoom past the back line but they crash into the wood bumpers loudly; informing everyone in earshot how much you suck. Undershots are almost more pathetic. They just sit there waiting for people to notice your ineptitude.
I looked like a chimp on crack, but was having fun. We “threw” the “stones” back and forth on the “sheet” and occasionally put a stone on the target. Stones on target scored following rules that had absolutely nothing to do with the right and proper way; which is firearms target shooting of course. In case you’re wondering, Canadians will look at you weird if you “throw a stone so it lands on the button” and shout in delight “right on the ten ring, next throw is a double tap!”
Each “end” required me and my opponent to do six or eight “throws” where us noobs stretched our body like taffy. Then we’d waddle about with brooms as the stones came back in stately, rotating, chaos. Then I’d top off from the flask for a bit of liquid muscle relaxant and play another “end”. Lather, rinse, repeat.
At some point I had to admit the slow beautiful orbit like stone throwing was wearing my ass out. I’m constitutionally incapable of being the first guy to quit… anything… so I steeled myself to tough it out. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one. Someone somewhere declared we’d had enough. Soon the game was over. I glanced at the simple, yet completely alien, scoreboard, had no idea who’d won, took a sip of beer, and decided I didn’t care. I happily removed the fiendish boot condom and made my way back to the bar.
More beer was consumed and I grazed on the potluck detritus. Someone had a tiny speaker bluetoothed to an iDevice and I tolerated the inevitable urban shit music. Some forgettable helium voiced widget sang while electronics tried to cover up her lack of talent. Folks (especially the younger set) seem to like that shit. Soon there was dancing. That’s my cue to slip out the back door. I’m perfectly happy with other people dancing but want nothing to do with it myself. Plus, I was out of beer.
You know you’ve had a great night when your whole-body aches from head to toe, you’re buzzed, and you’ve just slipped out the back door.
I highly recommend curling as the sport of Gods.
A.C.
P.S. Epilogue, for the nanny state nincompoops out there, I didn’t hit the road in that condition. I retrieved my bucket of beer and a toothbrush from my Dodge and then set out on foot. I walked through what seemed like a mile of snowdrifts to the nearby restaurant. There was a confusing discussion where I tried to order “metric” poutine (which made sense at the time but doesn’t now). From my booth I made a few phone calls (God knows how much I paid for them!). I cancelled my existing hotel reservation (“because I’m shitfaced in a place that isn’t Perkins”) and made a different reservation at a hotel I could see across the street (“I’m across the street in the not-Perkins”). I lived and the truck was happy to sit there all night. See? I’m all about safety.