Curling Safety, Urgent Care, and Mexican Wrestling (for non-curlers)

Thank you for being brave enough to read a story about curling.  This version of the story is modified so that normal people .. er ah .. non-curlers can enjoy it.  

A "sheet" on which the game is played.

Please understand that curling is somewhat similar to bocce in the manner in which it is played.  If you don’t know anyone whose last name ends in a vowel, and have never played bocce, think shuffleboard.  Sort of. The kind played with disks on concrete. If neither of those games rings a bell, may you enjoy whatever it is you do for entertainment.

After dinner, Mary and I were off to meet the other two members of our team at the Curling Club for our match against one of the better mixed teams.  They’d won almost every game since they formed their team. Our record was somewhat worse. Very much somewhat.

Our plan to just stay with them was working pretty well until just past halfway through the game, where we missed taking out numerous opposition stones.  We delivered our stones at theirs with the intent of removing them from the scoring area, but alas, to no avail. We had the last shot, but no high percentage possibility to use it on.  After extensive strategizing, perhaps better described as panicked guessing, we finally decided on a runback of one of our stones. Unless the shooter is really skilled, a runback is a low percentage shot where you use your stone to hit a guarding stone into the oppositions stones in scoring position.  In this case, a successful runback would cut the number of scoring stones for the opposition down from 4 to 1, and the blowout would be delayed once again.

Bolstered by the knowledge that I occasionally make the intended shot, the forcefully delivered stone was soon on its way.  Because the stones never move perfectly straight, the aiming point must be at a target somewhere laterally distant from the desired point of impact.  In this case, the broom used for the target (brooms are used for more than sweeping!) was in the right place, and the stone was delivered right at it.  

I'm right handed, so the teflon-bottom shoe is my left.
The rubber "gripper" is placed over the sliding surface
when sliding is not the desired means of locomotion.

When one delivers a stone, it is customary to slide out on one teflon-coated foot along with that stone.  Finishing the post-delivery slide after releasing the stone, I stood up and saw the runback hit the pack, removing 2 opposition stones and edging out another.  Happily, I turned halfway toward my starting point and pushed with my non-sliding foot so I could travel back to retrieve my broom and glove removed for delivering the stone.

The retrievables.

I didn’t make it.  Either my sideways-moving slider caught on some frozen feature in the surface, or I didn’t get my sliding foot out in front of my aging body’s center of gravity as I pushed with the opposite foot.  Regardless, I found myself airborne.  

Being slightly heavier than air, I was falling toward the ice, face-first.  I didn’t quite get my arm out in front in time. Instinctively turning my head at the last split-second, contact was made not with my forehead, but with the bony brow ridge over my right eye.  Nicely engineered, that bit of skull.

The sound was akin to the melodic “boink” of the 8-ball being contacted by the cue ball on a soft, high-angle shaving which gently sends the 8 into the side pocket of a pool table.  How appropriate that the sonic analogy is also for a low percentage shot. But to generate the same sound, the cue and 8 would need to be quite oversized. 

Immediately after contact, I jumped to my feet.  In all the years I’ve curled, with all the falls I’ve taken (a pattern?), I’ve never before put my head in any jeopardy.  I was thankful that it had only been a glancing blow and was not at all serious. So I pushed off again, a bit more cautiously, and slid back to grab the glove.  

“Better get some ice on that,” called out the single distant onlooker who had observed my performance.

Back behind the starting point, off the playing surface, I bent down and put my head on the ice for dramatic effect.  “How’s this?” I replied.

Then I noticed the ice beneath my brow was extremely slippery, and not nearly as cold as expected.  I rose up and saw red where the ice should have been white.

“Whoa...you need to sit down, right now!” cried one of the opposing players.  I sat on the bench just off the ice surface. Suddenly gauze and paper towels appeared, followed by an ice pack, and the gaze of multiple concerned curlers.  There are times when even attention seekers regret achieving the center. “Gotta get some stitches,” offered one of them, who carries RN credentials.

I sat and took it all in, begrudgingly admitting that not only was some medical attention necessary, but also that my curling was finished for the evening.  “Damn,” I thought, “I was curling really well.” There is no lack of self delusion in curling.

My teammate John had a different assessment of the fall.  “Randy chose a tough shot, executed well, and then fainted when he realized he had actually made it.”

Before leaving the ice to scissors-modify a few band-aids into butterfly bandages, there was one more issue to deal with.  The Scots have invented two games that have spread worldwide. Curling, of course, is the more important of the two, but since the Scottish needed something to do in that brief period when the ice on the ponds was insufficient to hold the weight of curling stones, they also invented golf.  While otherwise dissimilar, the two games share an important point of commonality. One can imbibe while playing.

50 year old photo of the red stone on the right
being swept to make it travel straighter.
The essence of curling has not changed over that time.

While sitting on the bench and applying cold pressure to my head, I called out to one of our opponents.  “Jason, can you please hand me my beer?”

Being of Canadian roots, Jason understood completely, so I was soon able to administer general as well as local anesthesia.  Lest you think that the beer had anything to do with the unexpected change in altitude of my cranium, the glass was more than half full, and was preceded by no others.  I was duty bound to consume it, or I’d be guilty of alcohol abuse. And it was particularly satisfying right at that moment.

We were soon off to a nearby Urgent Care.  Mary insisted on driving. Though we arrived 15 minutes prior to closing, none of the staff seemed terribly aggravated at an arrival extending their hours.  The whole urgent care escapade took 45 minutes...less time than it would have taken to even be acknowledged at the local Hospital Emergency Room.  

On the basis of higher internet ratings, we selected an Urgent Care that was not the closest to our home.  This turned out to be a fortunate choice. While discussing the merits of stitches vs. glue with the Doctor, he suggested glue might be a better option than stitches.  We had let it be known that we were escaping the curling zone to go to Mexico in a few days.

Finding someone on the Baja Peninsula to take out the stitches did not sound appealing, so glue it was. 

The Doctor set to work cleaning the wound and then layering the cyanoacrylate so that it would hold.  The stuff stings when it goes on. Since I was on my back, staring at the ceiling while on the treatment table, the dripping excess ran down from near the outside corner of my eye and into the hair near my ear.  Appropriately, the glue job gave half of my face the look of a Mexican Wrestler. When the opportunity presents itself, I will wrestle under the name of “El Lanzador de Piedra,” (The Stone Thrower).

Glue was the right choice, but I do feel a little cheated.  The incident did not contribute to my lifetime stitch count, which is well over 100.  I’ll have to research the conversion factor. Mary says the Doctor used 2 tubes of the medical crazy glue.  I’m guessing that the medical version costs a bit more than what you can get at the Dollar Store, but I suppose the same is true of needle and thread.

The other fortuitous happenstance was that the Doctor suggested a tetanus shot.  I doubt that any tetanus-causing bacteria lived on the ice, but I thought, “Why not?” particularly in light of the personal tendencies that fostered the aforementioned stitch count.  Perhaps the Doctor was prescient, anticipating that I’d rip my hand open on a chain link fence while visiting our southern neighbor.  

A tip of my Tam O’Shanter (Scottish hat) to the best Urgent Care ever.

So, what can be learned from this tale?

• When curling, avoid changing directions quickly.
• Never move backward on ice.
• The best doctors treat you not only for immediate maladies, but also for what will happen in the future.
• Wisdom is not necessarily correlated with age.
• Crazy glue is the best choice for crazy people.

Curling Safety, Urgent Care, and Mexican Wrestling (for Stone Throwers)

After dinner, Mary and I were off to the Curling Club for our match against one of the better mixed teams.  They’d won almost every game since they formed their team. Our record was somewhat worse. Very much somewhat.

Sheet B at the Rochester Curling Club

Our plan to just stay in the game was working pretty well until the 5th end, where we missed taking out numerous opposition stones.  We had the hammer, but no high percentage shot to use it on. After extensive strategizing, perhaps better described as panicked guessing, we finally decided on a long runback of one of our stones.  If successful, the shot would cut the number of scoring stones for the opposition down from 4 to 1, and the blowout would be delayed for at least one more end.

The gripper is new, even though the shoe is showing wear.
Why change what fits like a glove?

Bolstered by the knowledge that I occasionally make the intended shot, the up-weight stone was soon on its way.  The broom was in the right place, and the stone was delivered right on it. Finishing the post-delivery slide, I stood up and saw the runback hit the pack, removing 2 opposition stones and edging out another.  Happily, I turned halfway toward the hack and pushed with my non-sliding foot so I could travel back to retrieve my broom, glove, and gripper.

I didn’t make it.  Either my sideways-moving slider caught on some frozen feature in the surface, or I didn’t get my sliding foot out in front of my aging body’s center of gravity as I pushed with the opposite foot.  Regardless, I found myself airborne.  

Being slightly heavier than air, I was falling toward the ice, face-first.  I didn’t quite get my arm out in front in time. Instinctively turning my head at the last split-second, contact was made not with my forehead, but with the bony brow ridge over my right eye.  Nicely engineered, that bit of skull.

The sound was akin to the melodic “boink” of the 8-ball being contacted by the cue ball on a soft, high-angle shaving which gently sends the 8 into the side pocket of a pool table.  How appropriate that the sonic analogy is also for a low percentage shot. But to generate the same sound, the cue and 8 would need to be quite oversized. 

Immediately after contact, I jumped to my feet.  In all the years I’ve curled, with all the falls I’ve taken (a pattern?), I’ve never before put my head in any jeopardy.  I was thankful that it had only been a glancing blow and was not at all serious. So I slid back, a bit more cautiously, to grab my equipment.  

The other objects of my desire.
Neither the broom nor the glove are late models.
Why change what fits like a curling shoe?

“Better get some ice on that,” called out the single distant onlooker who had observed my performance.

Back behind the hack, off the playing surface, I bent down and put my head on the ice for dramatic effect.  “How’s this?” I replied.

Then I noticed the ice beneath my brow was extremely slippery, and not nearly as cold as expected.  I rose up and saw red where the ice should have been white.

“Whoa...you need to sit down, right now!” cried the opposing skip.  I sat on the bench just off the ice surface. Suddenly gauze and paper towels appeared, followed by an ice pack, and the gaze of multiple concerned curlers.  There are times when even attention seekers regret achieving the center. “Gotta get some stitches,” offered one of them, who carries RN credentials.

I sat and took it all in, begrudgingly admitting that not only was some medical attention necessary, but also that my curling was finished for the evening.  “Damn,” I thought, “I was curling really well.” There is no lack of self delusion in curling.

My teammate John had a different assessment of the fall.  “Randy chose a tough shot, executed well, and then fainted when he realized he had actually made it.”

Before leaving the ice to scissors-modify a few band-aids into butterfly bandages, there was one more issue to deal with.  The Scots have invented two games that have spread worldwide. Curling, of course, is the more important of the two, but since the Scottish needed something to do in that brief period when the ice on the ponds was insufficient to hold the weight of curling stones, they also invented golf.  While otherwise dissimilar, the two games share an important point of commonality. One can imbibe while playing.

50 years ago at the Rochester Curling Club.
This image provided to break up all that text above and below.

While sitting on the bench and applying cold pressure to my head, I called out to one of our opponents.  “Jason, can you please hand me my beer?”

Being of Canadian roots, Jason understood completely, so I was soon able to administer general as well as local anesthesia.  Lest you think that the beer had anything to do with the unexpected change in altitude of my cranium, the glass was more than half full, and was preceded by no others.  I was duty bound to consume it, or I’d be guilty of alcohol abuse. And it was particularly satisfying right at that moment.

We were soon off to a nearby Urgent Care.  Mary insisted on driving. Though we arrived 15 minutes prior to closing, none of the staff seemed terribly aggravated at an arrival extending their hours.  The whole urgent care escapade took 45 minutes...less time than it would have taken to even be acknowledged at the local Hospital Emergency Room.  

On the basis of higher internet ratings, we selected an Urgent Care that was not the closest to our home.  This turned out to be a fortunate choice. While discussing the merits of stitches vs. glue with the Doctor, he suggested glue might be a better option than stitches.  We had let it be known that we were escaping the curling zone to go to Mexico in a few days.

Finding someone on the Baja Peninsula to take out the stitches did not sound appealing, so glue it was. 

The Doctor set to work cleaning the wound and then layering the cyanoacrylate so that it would hold.  The stuff stings when it goes on. Since I was on my back, staring at the ceiling while on the treatment table, the dripping excess ran down from near the outside corner of my eye and into the hair near my ear.  Appropriately, the glue job gave half of my face the look of a Mexican Wrestler. When the opportunity presents itself, I will wrestle under the name of “El Lanzador de Piedra,” (The Stone Thrower).

Glue was the right choice, but I do feel a little cheated.  The incident did not contribute to my lifetime stitch count, which is well over 100.  I’ll have to research the conversion factor. Mary says the Doctor used 2 tubes of the medical crazy glue.  I’m guessing that the medical version costs a bit more than what you can get at the Dollar Store, but I suppose the same is true of needle and thread.

The other fortuitous happenstance was that the Doctor suggested a tetanus shot.  I doubt that any tetanus-causing bacteria lived on the ice, but I thought, “Why not?” particularly in light of the personal tendencies that fostered the aforementioned stitch count.  Perhaps the Doctor was prescient, anticipating that I’d rip my hand open on a chain link fence while visiting our southern neighbor.  

A tip of my Tam O’Shanter to the best Urgent Care ever.

So, what can be learned from this tale?

• When curling, avoid changing directions quickly.
• Never move backward on ice.
• The best doctors treat you not only for immediate maladies, but also for what will happen in the future.
• Wisdom is not necessarily correlated with age.
• Crazy glue is the best choice for crazy people.

This is Curling

Every 4 years, there is a huge upswing in interest in curling.  Coincidentally, this never happens during years when the world watches the Summer Olympics.  

Curling is the greater of the two well known games invented by the Scots.  These games have at least 2 things in common.  Though you may play on a team, you are really competing against yourself, which is incredibly frustrating.  The other commonality is that one can drink while playing.  “What’s the point of a game without a wee draught?” asked one of the originators, while carrying his rocks to Pond Stirling early in the 1500s.  

The lesser game, called Golf, was anticipatorially invented to pass the time when the ponds were not frozen firm enough to support stones and people.  This game has been banned several times, but continues to re-emerge in outbreaks likened to influenza.  It may be that acceptance of the lesser game is preferred to widewpread despondence during times of no curling.

Rocks were of many different sizes and shapes at the beginning.  After 100 years, handles were added for ease of use, and ISO 9004 standardized the stones used to 42 pounds or thereabouts.

But enough history.  

Though the game seems to confuse uninitiated observers, it is really not all that difficult to understand.  To start the game, the Lead gets in the hack and looks to the Skip to learn the desired weight, and if an in-turn or an out-turn is desired.  Then the stone is cleaned and delivered at the broom, usually with a push delivery in favor of the lift-delivery, which is not totally extinct.  The Lead slides out past the T-line and releases the stone, being careful not to release past the hog line, or to hog the stone.  The sweepers attentively accompany the stone down the ice, waiting to spring into action when the skip bellows the command to hurry hard, or whenever they feel the stone is light.  Sweeping affects both the arc and distance the stone will travel, so on the occasion of a plan B, sweepers must be at the ready even though the weight appears good.  Once in the house, and behind the T-line, a single opponent is allowed to sweep the stone or any to which it imparts energy.  

Then it’s the opposition’s turn.  Shots alternate between teams, with each member taking 2 shots alternately with their counterparts on the other team, first Lead, then Second, then Vice-Skip, and finally Skip, until the hammer is thrown.  At the completion of the end, all the stones in the house of the same color, which are closer than any opponent’s stone, are counted.  Just like Bocce.  If that game is also a mystery to you, ask anyone of Italian descent.  All Italians are required to understand Bocce scoring by the age of 5.

The Italians are also in the mix in international competition.  However, the Canadians are generally the teams to beat if a medal is your goal.  This is due to an inbred affinity for ice.

That’s about it.  Pretty simple, eh? (“Eh” is Canadian lingo meaning “huh” in this case.)  On the very small chance that you don’t completely understand even after reading this, you can learn more by going to the open house at the Rochester Curling Club.  http://www.rochestercurling.org/?q=content/open-house

They may even explain why curling is the only sport where:

• Men are actually effective in using a broom.

• A man can tell a woman she is wide and heavy without being in danger of bodily harm.
• Pebbles on the ice actually improve play.
• A little nipping is preferred (ask the Iceman).

Wausau

For me, Wausau (Waw-saw), Wisconsin is more of a time than a place.  Once each year, my family would make the 20-hour car ride from Rochester, NY to visit my Mother's parents.

Dad used to drive the entire way in one shot.  Craziness, but he had limited vacation and was as close to the Man of Steel as anyone I've ever known.  I chose to arrive via the rental car I picked up at the Dane County Regional Airport just outside of Madison.

The old train station provided the iconic logo for the Wausau Insurance Company, long since absorbed by Liberty Mutual.  I have to wonder if I'll be writing similar words about "Kodak" in the near future.

Kresge's is no more, but this fine square has taken its place.
I'd like to sit and take in a concert when it's a little warmer.

My Grandfather managed the Grand Theater many years ago.
The temperature readout may be a little off.

We ate at a diner he probably frequented,
and then walked over to the theater.

I couldn't take pictures inside the theatre because a copyrighted show was setting up.
Huh?  Don't look.

The Wausau Theater Company made the decision to close the Grand during the depression because of its relatively high cost of operation.  When the smaller Wausau Theater was showing Eddie Cantor's wildly popular "Whoopee," there were so many moviegoers that they could fill both theaters.  But there was only one print of the film.  Seizing the opportunity, my Grandfather ran the reels across town on his bike so that two shows could run off one print.  Soon the projector was running at the Grand and the place was packed.  The theater remained open from that day on.  Queue "Happy Days Are Here Again!" right after "Makin' Whoopee!"

Sporting Lumberjack high fashion,
I posed with the list of names of those supporting the remodeling of the theater.
"Hi, Mom!"

This blurry shot shows the brand new Wausau Curling Club.  Impressive!
It turns out my little travel camera doesn't like extreme cold.

Well of course they're close.  They're right over there.

A huge viewing area overlooking the 8 sheets of ice.
I'd never seen so many curling stones in one place.

Underutilized.
Want to get a game going?

The warm room, where everyone gathers after a game, is also huge.
The blurry man told me I was welcome to play the next time I was in town.

OK, so I'm fascinated by the facility.
To put it in perspective, the population of the Wausau area is about 135K, 
and they have 8 sheets.
The Rochester area has over one million people, and 4 sheet of ice.

The old homestead.

I used to play wiffleball with my Grandfather in the driveway by the hedge on the left (on days when it was a little less snow-covered).  Someone fouled one off into the hedge, so I went in after the the wayward ball.  The bees living there took exception to my presence, and one stung me in the ear.  I bravely screamed and ran into the house to the waiting arms of my Grandmother.  While she was looking for the meat tenderizer, "Grampie" came in to announce that he had done in the offending bee.  

It made me feel better to know that my assailant had come to justice.

This is the house  my Great Grandparents lived in.
They lived in the left side.
Or maybe they lived in a similar house down the street that has since
been torn down.  Does it matter?

The trestle over the river.

Behind my Great-Grandparent's house was a railroad siding that angled across the Wisconsin River.  One sunny afternoon, my fearless father decided that we should walk across it, just to get to the other side.  I was terrified.  My pleading made convinced him to turn around just after we were half way across.  

Every step scared me.  The railroad ties were just far enough apart that I could see myself falling through them and into the swirling water far below.  Or maybe a smoke-belching steam locomotive would barrel down the tracks right at us and we'd have to run for our lives.  Or worse.  Maybe I'd slightly misjudged the space between the ties, and I'd fall partway through with my head getting stuck between the 6 by 6 timbers.  At the moment I fell, I'd hear the train whistle.

Dad may have thought I was a scaredy-cat, but the truth was that I was very good at assessing all the possibilities.

Looking down on from the Rib Mountain Ski Area.

Wausau lies below.
Rib Mountain is the highest point in Wisconsin.
Some say that Timms Hill is 25 feet higher, but all the locals know that can't be.
That's a hill, and this is Rib MOUNTAIN!

When Greg and Pat dropped me off back at the hotel around noon, I went directly to the rental car and turned the key.  "Ruurrr, Ruurrr, Rooooommm!"  It protested mightily, but did manage to start.  And then it made all kinds of nasty noises as it came up to temperature.  "What's the big deal?" I thought.  It was only 15 degrees F below zero.

Due to weekly car rental rates and airfare,
it made more sense to drive back to Madison to catch the flight home.
The moist exhaust from the paper mills south of Wausau
made for some spectacular clouds.

The wind across the prairie made for some interesting conditions.
The Northeastern edge of the prairie in in Wisconsin (who knew?), 
and Mr Wright's Taliesin was only a few miles to the west.
Next time.

All along Interstate 39, westside trees and fences provided windbreaks.
I might still be there if that was not the case.
Decide for yourself if that was fortunate or not.