Gerard’s Blog: Handing It to the Stick, Sticking it to the Hands

My memory of last night’s hockey game was that my stick felt like a noodle in my hands.  Every shot was wide.  There was no power. Passes felt soft and uncertain, even indifferent.  It was as if my stick had an alter ego, as if it did not want to be a hockey stick last night. How does a hockey stick get an alter ego, anyway?  What would inspire it to have another personality? 

Since this is the “dark” month, the month of cabin fever, it would not be outrageous for me to go downstairs and have a heart-to-heart with my stick.  Or would it? Instead of talking to my stick, I took on the equally concerning tact of examining other influences that might have caused the noodle-like behavior of my stick.  That brought to mind, my hands.  Now, that sounds more logical. 

Yes, obviously the noodle intrusion was hand-induced. Yesterday, was a day of sadness.  Rotting squash were discovered in the cold room.  Not so much rot, as soft.  One gentle squeeze from Suzanne (when I wasn’t the recipient), and she proclaimed, “freeze spots.”  As with the pumpkins, we had run the temperature too close to the freeze mark during this last cold snap.  And now we were witnessing the price.

So, to the cutting board and kitchen I went.  Cutting and scooping.  Cooking the salvageable parts. It was the spaghetti squash that were most affected.  The ones closest to the cold air intake.  So, I spent a portion of the afternoon chopping and cooking and scooping the noodle-like squash. And recalling that afternoon activity, was my Eureka! moment. 

Clearly, my hands had adopted their “noodleness” from the spaghetti squash!  There was a transference of energy during the handling / cooking process, something that seems entirely plausible in January, in Dawson City, in the Yukon, just after a long dark cold snap, when one is feeling a little down, a little needy, a little trapped, and when one is looking for an excuse for poor hockey performance!

But, now having re-read the above, I find myself searching…  Clearly, my hands are controlled by my brain.  Could it be that the problem did not lie with my hands, but that my brain ….

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