Monday, October 19, 2009

Monday Memories...Lucky Number Seven

Well, there's a bit of irony...Calling this post "Lucky Number Seven" of the Monday Memories, and it has to do with one of the more painful(both physically AND emotionally) moments of my life as a world class figure skater...Please, read on, from February 10th, 2006:

Friday, February 10, 2006

 Damn The Olympics: A Tale Of Thin Ice...

So it's Friday here in the Hassee...Sorry, I guess you thought that was supposed to lead to something didn't you ? I do sincerely apologize, I was just stating the obvious...That's just the facts...It IS Friday here in the Hassee, Of course it's Friday all over the place...Let's see what else is there to say...Oh yeah, the Winter Olympics start tonight...And I don't give a rat's ass...That's right, I would not relinquish a rat's ass to watch the Olympics...Now, why I would ever be in possession of a rat's ass, I don't know...But I wouldn't give it away for the Olympics..I guess that's what I was saying...I guess I have never really understood that statement, I don't know why saying(or typing- as the case may be) "I don't give a rat's ass " means exactly, I understand that through usage and time the implication is that I don't care, but I don't get the literal correlation between caring and "giving a rat's ass".

    Okay, that is enough of that, but back to my not caring about the Olympics...I might be able to care...If not for the "incident"....What ? I have never told you about the "incident" ? Well, shit on a shingle, y'all gather 'round here, grab yourself the beverage of your choice, have one of these here Nutter Butter cookies, and I'll spin you a yarn of Olympic proportions.

     It all started 4 years ago, shortly after the last Olympics the fuck they were...I was at the rink, practicing my ice dancing with my coach Svetlana, and doing rather well, if I do say so myself...I had really come a long way since I had wrenched my knee in a hackeysack accident back in 1994(damn that rainbow colored ball of beads !!! Damn it straight to hell)...The healing path had been long and gruelling and winding and chilly and populated by naysayers, but thanks to the lovely Svetlana, I was almost all the way back to my pre-hackeysack condition...But I had also apparently attracted the ire of the other ice dancers, particularly James "Jimmy" MacDougal, whom Svetlana had dumped as a student in order to train me instead(what can I say ? I have great calves, they can be almost hypnotic), and for that, he blamed me...I was also unpopular for my bold musical choices..It seems that a 30 minute "Dark Star Jam" from the Fillmore by the Grateful Dead was not appreciated...And my replacement choice of "London Calling" by the Clash was not received enthusiastically either, but that one was at least allowed...But I regularly found graffiti on my locker, along the lines of "Fat Irishmen Can't Skate" and "London's Calling you a dickhead" things like that...But I was not deterred, I had promised a boy dying the hospital that I would win a gold medal, and damnit, no small minds were gonna stop me.Okay, well, he wasn't dying, he was actually in for a simple hangnail operation, but he was in pain and had low spirits just the same, and my gold medal promise sure put a smile on his face...And isn't that what it's really all about ? Smiling children ? I like to think so.

      Sorry, where was I ? Oh yeah, the ice dancers hatred for old Paticus...Well, one day I was practicing with Svetlana, I was working on my basic choreography...The simple jumps, the arm waves, my jazz hands...And things were going really well, if I do say so myself...Until....I skated into the west corner of the rink in order to start my routine from the top, when my skate caught in the ice, pitching me forward and impaling me on a very poorly placed pitchfork..The tines of the fork lodged themselves in my left knee, effectively ending my ice dancing career...I broke down crying on the ice, both because I realized that my Olympic dreams were fading faster than the blood was pouring out of my wounded knee, and also because a pitchfork in the knee is a really painful thing.

   A trip to the doctor confirmed what I had suspected, my ice dancing career was over...Svetlana quickly returned to training MacDougal, a move I understood, as she had Olympic dreams of her own...I couldn't begrudge her that...The IOC conducted an investigation into the incident, but they were going through the motions, they put that drunk Pulsipher on it, he couldn't find a zamboni at a hockey game, that hack, and surprise he found no incident of foul play...The IOC had won, and the pot stirring Irishman was off of Team USA forever.

    But that was not the end of it, my friend Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer happened to be visiting, and she noticed that the ice where my skate got stuck was a slightly different shade, and upon further inspection, proved to be coated with white raspberry slushie syrup, an exclusive flavor of Big Paul's Gas Station and Sipperia, who just HAPPENED to be the sponsor of one Team USA ice dancer by the name of James "Jimmy" MacDougal...Coincidence ? I think not !! And neither did the sheriff, he brought Jimmy in for questioning and the kid sung like a canary, but it turned out he was the small fish, the head of the Ice Dancing Federation had promised him the choice endorsements if he removed the "undesirable element"(i.e. - yours truly) from the Olympics...Well, it was small consolation to me and to that poor hangnailed boy, but at least justice was served in the end...And there it is my friends, the reason why I don't give a rat's ass about the Olympics...Here, have another Nutter Butter...They're shaped like peanuts, isn't that darling ?

1 comment:

*jaime said...

I love this one. Thanks for reposting