Last Wednesday
(Nov. 29), during an early morning walk in Prospect Park with T, our hound dog,
I came upon a small group of dog walkers who were familiar to me. (And T too,
for that matter. When I say the word “Friend,” he’ll stare at me, then scour the
vicinity, spot the folks and canines I’m referring to, and high tail it over to
them. (It could have as much to do with the Liv-a-Snaps that more often than
not “friends” will deposit into his mouth but that’s splitting hairs.)
It’s a cold
morning and one of the walkers is wearing a Roots wool cap that I don’t see
around Brooklyn very often, and prominently displayed on her jacket a button
that says GO CURLING.
On closer
inspection I could see the Roots cap had some serious curling decals on them;
the 2002 Olympics Women’s Curling cap, when the Games were in Salt Lake City.
Curling? In
Brooklyn?
She said, yes, at LeFrak.
My, where is that?
I replied.
At the skating
rink, not far from here.
(I didn’t know the
nearby skating rink was called LeFrak.)
Really? Curling?
Yes, every
Wednesday night and Sunday night.
I thanked her
profusely, and began to think that when I retire from The Post (I currently work late on
Wednesdays and Sundays), I’ll be able to curl. Just like I did throughout my
childhood and young adulthood in Owen Sound and Brockville, in Ontario.
(That is, if I’m
still in Brooklyn when I retire; these days that’s not necessarily a given.
Back in Ontario, senior curling leagues are as common as free medical clinics …
)
Next: Running for Your Life: Renaissance Reverbs
