So I was changing for hockey and in walked a bass player. (There’s a picture here. The CBC hid the picture but it’s there; he’s the one second from the right, with the buttons. His band plays a song called ‘Anal Leakage’ — it’s on the CBC page.)
I was glad to see him for at least two reasons. First of all, he represented A Sub — before he arrived it was looking like we’d be playing for an hour with no one on the bench. I hate that. Secondly, his arrival meant that I wasn’t the last person through the door. I hate that too.
Part of my ‘changing-into-hockey-equipment’ ritual involves spreading shampoo all over my hockey glasses and wiping it off. I mean, spit works too, but it’s a little grosser. When I was doing that today, there were only the two of us left; he asked what I was doing, I explained. He inquired about my hockey glasses — I mentioned that I’ve had them for a long time — a very long time. They used to be my everyday glasses until I took a softball in the head while playing shortstop. (I think — I don’t remember that day all that well.) How long ago was that, he asked. Nineteen seventy-eight.
“Oh. I’m as old as your glasses.”