COLUMN: I want to be a stone jockey when I grow up
As a man keen for high adventure, I was not content this past Monday to merely sit on my butt studying, or even have another fight with that pesky Flowbee. I sure didn’t want to wear a hat for four straight weeks again, so I got out of the house and looked for something exciting to do.
What I really desired was to celebrate Agriculture Week by cownapping one of the fake bovines on campus and escape on a large tractor. Seeing as how we haven’t gotten to the section on hotwiring farm vehicles in my engineering classes, I quickly realized that a wild, yet slow-moving tour of the north campus dorms would be out of the question. I suppose this worked out well, because I’ve never driven a tractor and wouldn’t want to “accidentally” harvest small freshmen in what could be the university’s first combine-related incident.
Disappointed and forlorn, I meandered back through the Taggart Student Center and thought about sharpening my nine-ball skills only to discover that “none USU studants” are allowed to use the Bull Pen, as indicated on its sign. Unsure of whether to be more alarmed by bad spelling or horrific grammar, I quickly left the area hoping not to get attacked by some hefty European man named Sven. A pool hall manager like that would never need to speak or write English well to get his way.
All of a sudden, like blunt-force trauma to the back of your head by your buddy when you say something inane, I decided I needed to go curling. No, I wasn’t going to spend obsessive amounts of time with my hair in front of the mirror or equally neurotic amounts of time in the gym getting buff. I’d rather spend a couple hours hurtling large blocks of granite at unsuspecting victims than any other activity a Monday night could offer.
After packing up my gear (as if I keep a closet full of curling apparatus), I headed down to the local ice sheet to learn the provocatively hip sport of curling. Unlike most Olympic sports, where you have to start learning to bend and flex in awkward ways at 4 years old, curling is designed for older, less-nimble folks like me. So, I’m happy to announce that my Olympic dreams are still alive, assuming I have a desire to move away to North Dakota. Not bloody likely.
Originating somewhere in Europe more than 400 years ago, curling was invented as a revenge-motivated pastime for unskilled ice-fishermen. Angered by their friends’ inexplicable angling success, these fiendish folk grabbed large boulders and slid them across the lake in hopes of scoring a take down. One point was awarded for scaring their “target,” five points for plugging the fishing hole, and 10 points for a direct hit. Curling soon became way too violent, so the Scottish took over, motivated by sheer boredom from the lack of Nessie sightings, and developed what we know today as the modern game.
As if walking on ice weren’t hard enough, the friendly people of the Cache Valley Stone Society expected me to slide around with 42-pound stones and space-age brooms without hurting myself. Seeing as how my average book bag mass exceeds 50 pounds every morning on my way to class, I felt ready for the competition. In addition, after spending summer at home and thanks to my persuasive mother, my sweeping skills are at an all-time high. So, with an eager heart, I stepped onto the ice and the skip told me to put on a slider, set up at the hack and lead off the first end by throwing a medium-speed counterclockwise draw into the center of the house.
About as confused as a mule on roller-skates, I said, “Sure thing boss,” and slid my stone toward the other end of the gelid floor. Landing exactly where the guy with the beard wanted it, I received a rousing applause and knew from that moment I was bound for stardom. Who knew that lawn bowling on ice would be so competitive, strategic, and dang cold? The only respite to frozen fingers was the opportunity to sweep vigorously when other teammates had a turn to throw their rocks.
Obeying every whim of the captain, I had to propel myself sideways like a giant, injured crab and sweep the ice in front of the large stone rushing toward me. This act apparently makes the rock slide better, but I doubt it. Veterans just want to make the new guys look dumb and fall on their butts.
Luckily, I never fell down on Monday – well, not until I got off the ice and tripped over the curb outside, but that incident won’t affect my chances at the world championship bonspiel next year. Oh yeah, I learned lots of cool new curling words too.
If you’re lucky, I may invite you to my next curling escapade, but don’t nag me too much, or I may just have to call on my pal, the trunk monkey.
Garrett Wheeler is a graduate student studying electrical engineering. Any comments, suggestions or size-17 curling sliders can be sent to him at wheel@cc.usu.edu.