Blades of Sorry

The perils of shinny

In many ways playing shinny is a lot like playing hockey circa 1850. Nobody wears pads, 14 people can play at once, penalties, bluelines and face-offs don't exist, and snow is constantly interfering with the puck. There is the constant threat of getting hit in the shins, and as one guy found out, having your skates fall apart.

Quote: "I was just skating along and it exploded underneath me."

I was there. I can't attest to any explosiveness, but I can attest to it being a game-stopping moment. I don't think any of us had seen that happen before.

Odd things happen when you play shinny. It is the rugby of hockey. I have a deep cut on one finger and two gashes on my feet, not to mention myriad bruises on my shins.

I've played numerous times in the past few weeks. As the only girl, I feel as though I'm representing femaledom, but I'm afraid personal tics will reflect on the rest of my sex. For instance:

1) I apologize a lot. I have to stop this. Last week, while reaching to say sorry, I accidentally patted one guy's ass. Was that a sorry he was looking for? Probably not. But maybe it helped ease the sting of me whacking him with my stick.

Sore shins? Here's a slap on the ass.

2) I'm the only one who talks to myself on the ice. Everyone else is eerily quiet. Some are plugged into their ipods. But my talk is more into the ether, than to myself. Most of it could easily be transplanted into a Batman comic.

Kaplouie! Yikes! Splat!

It's an additional service I provide, adding a soundtrack for blind fans.

3) While I know not all women would deal with this, when I take off my toque, I create a stand-off between my hands and the sweaty hockey hair mess that's worse than vines blocking Incan ruins. For the record, I'm not trying to give the game insinuations of a Harlequin romance. Whipping my glistening hair around and running my hands through it is my version of squirting water into my face.

There are some girl skaters, but none I've seen play hockey (other than a classmate). Most of them are on the skating oval two zamboni lengths away from the hockey rinks.

Yesterday, there were actual speedskaters there for a competition.




But I got no pictures. All I got were these men smoking and watching the zamboni as though it were an enemy tank.

Speed skaters are winter clowns. You want to laugh when you see them, but then you feel sorry for their ridiculous outfits and movements.

They can't stop like hockey players so they slow down and then hop as though on coals. I feel embarassed watching them, and I blame this for not having taken any photos.

I'm sorry speed skaters. Your spandex body suits are a little too real, and this flask is not deep enough.

I thought it would be fun to hang out at the oval in a bear suit. You know, distracting the skaters or yelling bits of encouragement. Possibly conducting some interviews. I think I need to help them feel less self-conscious, and it will require going the whole way.