Notes From My Knapsack 2-19-06
Jeff Gill

Curling Rocks (Granite, Actually)

Curling fans no doubt are unsure how to welcome all us johnny-come-lately aficionados of the sport.
Salt Lake’s 2002 Winter Olympics, aside from teaching most of Licking County the difference between luge and skeleton, helping bring curling out from the Canadian studies ghetto to the place of prominence they now enjoy.
Cub Scout Pack 3 had a great outing to the Newark Ice Arena, home of the Newark Generals ice hockey team (plus some mean hockey moms playing full contact sport after the wee kiddies left), but there was no sign of curling catching on in this area. The well-appointed concession area sold Blue Jackets jerseys, hockey sticks, and pads for all over, but no curling stones or brooms that I saw. Maybe they’re behind the counter. Make a trip some weekend this winter and ask ‘em.
Watching seven and eight year olds learn that a figure eight is not as easy as it seems when Dick Button is doing commentary was fun; your scribe turned a few figure threes, and the Little Guy finally decided, with no regret, to settle for a figure one before quitting his first foray into skating.
Many of us dads taking an unaccustomed turn on skates that we may have been on before, but not recently, noted too late the need to stretch. It was duly noted in many households the next morning, however. In our 30’s and 40’s we could sympathize with Michelle Kwan, who finds at 25 that some muscle injuries don’t recover as fast or as thoroughly in adulthood.
Everyone loved the story of Anne Abernathy, the 52 year old member of the Red Hat Society in her native Virgin Islands (which she represented as their only athlete in luge), going for a new record as oldest woman to compete in a Winter Olympics. Had she not broken bones on a practice run, she would have beaten . . . herself, always a good competitor for anyone.
Red Hatters of Licking County (and there are many of you, I know), salute your role model! She’ll be in the closing celebrations if not on a medal podium.
But I still want to watch more curling. No, really. There is a Zen, focused, cosmic aura about the whole sport. Seeking the center, the blend of slow deliberation and frantic sweeping, the human arc of arm and the earthy thunk of one rock thunking with an unambiguous tock into another, the movement transferring with stately inevitability into a new angle, the first stone settling into the pattern.
Even at 3 am, some of us are lured in to watch the mesmerizing coverage, though 5 pm works out better for so many reasons.
For the TV camera, there is the steely glare of the thrower, arm outstretched for a long moment after the stone leaves the hand, a balletic simplicity followed by the downright hoedown of the paired broom handlers. Plus, you get to whack your opponent, at least symbolically.
If you haven’t watched curling, you’re missing out. For the hospitable and renewed Newark Ice Arena, may I recommend curling as the newest attraction along Sharon Valley Road? At minimum you’d sell a whole bunch of hot cocoa.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio who falls down gracefully on ice; share your Olympic dreams at disciple@voyager.net.