This small(ish) stone.

It all begins with a stone.

Then it goes like this: you push out of the hack to deliver your stone to the house, trying to get it as close to the button as possible.  Sure, I may sound like I’m speaking MadLibs, but these are the real words, people: the illustrious language of curling.  (see illustration of hack pushing (fig A)/stone delivery (fig B) below)

A.

B.

Unlike some other physics-based games (yes, all games are based at least in part in physics, but I’m referring to those whose strategy is determined by friction, momentum, and geometry– think bowling, pool, or shuffleboard) curling requires a kind of enthusiastic stick-to-it-ive verve to achieve success, hence why I was totally charmed by the game.

Let me start at the beginning.  A couple of weeks ago, we were hanging out with our legitimately Canadian friend Kyle (yes, I have several legitimately Canadian friends here in the Great White North, but I often find myself surrounded by immigrants, particularly ex-pats–whose company I do enjoy despite its tendency to water down my Canadian experience).  And Kyle invited Justin and I to participate in a curling tournament.  I probably don’t have to tell you that the obvious response to such an invitation is, without question, a hearty and resounding “yes!”

In my ongoing quest for Canadiana I’ve had some success (maple-smoked salmon) and some failure (maple-flavored beer).  But here was a chance to authenticate my indefinite stay here in Canada beyond the maple leaf–and it’s literal and symbolic produce.  And I was psyched.

We found ourselves in the North Vancouver Winter Sports Centre.  Under the roofs of this admittedly giant complex were both tennis courts and hockey rinks, girls in sequined leotards with thick nude tights and boys in hockey pads and jerseys, an adults-only lounge and even a swimming pool.  It was not unlike the upper-middle-class, moderately-gender-segregated country club of my childhood–only Canadian.

So, you walk through these doors and things get serious.  First someone hands you a broom.  Then you hit the pebble.  You gingerly step one foot on the slider and one on the hack.  You squat down, note the icy cool in your loins, and grab the stone.  Then you brace yourself (you’re on ice after all) with your broom, and you begin delivery.  With a burst of momentum and balance–if you’re wondering if balance can burst, I say to you “yes” and “go curling”–with a burst of momentum and balance you spring from the hack and, with any luck, you glide with some grace across the ice, ever so gently releasing your stone toward the distant house.  From your destination, the skip commands your teammates: “Sweep, sweep, sweep.  Hard!”  And with furious determination, they escort your stone across the ice in a flurry of legs and broomsticks.  “Sweep, sweep!” You watch hopefully as it soars past the guard and toward the button. “Sweeeep–off!  Off, off,” yells the skip.  Brooms lift and you stand back, willing the stone to edge forward or hang back, awed at how a hunk of granite can move in a way that is simultaneously sluggish and aggressive.

This is the joy of curling–the way a weak throw can, with some savvy sweeping, slide far.  The way a weighty hunk of granite can curl itself delicately into place.  The way your abs are surprisingly sore from the frantic action of heavy sweeping.  The anticipation as the skip crouches down, hand on the hammer, ready to clean the house.

An addendum:  When asked what I should write about curling, Justin responded, “It may look dumb, but curling is dangerous.”  His ankle is still sore from one of his three banana-peel style slips on the ice.  So, to provide a balanced perspective, I must acknowledge, curling is not for everyone.