Dear Mr. Pierce,
Thank you for your email of January 24 2011.
I am afraid I must voice my displeasure at the obvious favouritism being displayed towards National Hockey by gym management authorities.
Once I played hockey. I trained for the try-outs for months. Lunges, Mr. Pierce; I did a lot of them. Star jumps – onlookers swore they could make out Orion’s Belt. Kangaroo jumps – unfortunately my skinny legs were not sufficiently endowed to propel me and I soon realised I was merely compacting the same piece of dirt for thirty seconds.
The big day arrived, as I had been told it would, on a Thursday. I strode confidently onto the pitch, carrying with me my 15 hockey sticks in my custom-made hockey stick quiver. Heads turned. “Yes.”, I thought to myself, “Yes.”
“Who is this embodiment of Spartan athleticism?”, I could almost hear them think.
“I am!”, I announced out loud. Eyebrows, Mr. Pierce. They raised.
I took those nancies’ try-outs at a fucking stroll. (Well, not exactly – I actually ran really really fast most of the time) I allowed no cone to stand in my way. With my quiver on my back, my hands were a blur of changing sticks; first the 1 Wood, then the croquet mallet. I produced my turf shovel with sumptuous timing.
I returned to the gym precisely a week after try-outs to view the team selections. No surprise. First name on the team sheet. “Yes!”, I shouted as I fist pumped like a piston. “Absolutement!” (That’s French for ‘awesome’)
Our first game was later that week. I arrived early to limber up and was surprised that when team uniforms were handed out, I received a skirt. Hockey is a confusing sport at the best of times so I just went with it. And so the game began. I was disconcerted at first, being the only member of the team with hairy legs and armpits, though I took comfort in the fact that a quarter of my team mates didn’t even have legs and were wheelchair bound. The others all seemed to have oversized heads, had difficulty pronouncing the word ‘pass’ around their lolling tongues and a propensity to engage in hugging the referee, informing him that he was their best friend in the whole world. Weird, hey? Not as weird though, as when I was sent off for foul play after one of my team mates wouldn’t stop holding my hand. Apparently ‘mad fuckin’ capper’ is a word not to be used on the hockey field.
It was only once sitting on the bench that I realised I was the only team member with a man’s name. I still can’t figure it out to this day.
Needless to say, this was the end of my illustrious hockey career. Your email has confused me though. Being bound to wheeled transport devices, how do hockey players use the squatting rack? How do they find the mental coordination to utilise a bench press when they can’t even master bladder control? What does CPI even stand for?!
Mr. Pierce, you must stand up for your fellow club members and demand at least an equal share of gym time. Are the National Hockey players even mopping up their drool once finished working out? I doubt it. Should you require me to chair as an intermediary between your club and National Hockey, you need only ask.
I remain, sir, your china.