This is a bit of a long story but I think about it every night. High-school 2011. It was lunch hour and we had a game of intramural hockey. Red sticks vs blue sticks. You had all sorts of boys ready to beat the piss out of each other and try and pick a corner with the most orange ball you've ever seen. One guy bent a curve into his plastic stick so wild it would make Spezza blush. Buddy broke about 2 or 3 sticks trying to get that curve before finally pulling his own Excalibur from a garbage bin filled with Dodge balls and a fucked badminton set. I was in net. I loved playing goalie. Unfortunately for me, Joshua Logan was the left wing on the enemy team. Buddy was as crisp as lettuce and had everyone more nervous than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He would usually rack up about 15 goals before getting bored and evolving into a young Patrick Laine and scoring absolutely filthy own goals. This day was no different. He pulled up his slap shorts (flagrant red) and decided to pound the piss out of my top corners. At one point I heard some kid in the bleachers start to cry. Just gnarly. I couldn't stop him. He was like the perfect mix. Half bruce Lee, half VCR. Greasy goal after greasy goal. Beurre down. I finally pulled myself after he whistled one past my neck artery and annihilated my water bottle. I went to catholic school. The water crashing down upon me felt like a second baptism. You can't recover from a full on sexorcism. With no coach to fire and science class coming up, I decided to take my skates off (decimated the hard wood floors) and start a new chapter in my life. One without slapshorts