The Haunted Trolley

Halloween may still be a few days away but things started to get pretty spooky tonight at my local Jewel superstore.

I was walking through the car park when I heard the familiar sound of shopping trolley wheels moving briskly across concrete. I turned my head expecting to see a cart being pushed by a running child or an adult in a hurry, but what I saw was startling - an unmanned empty shopping trolley moving rapidly across the car park and increasing in speed. Looking around I could see nobody who was in a position from where they could of set the cart in motion. The haunted trolley continued through the dark night, travelling of its own accord until finally crashing violently into a parked car. I continued walking towards the store with a shiver running down my spine.

Watch out, the cursed trolley could be coming down a street near you...

A Cunning Plan

The plan I had set out for my Tuesday evening was devilishly good. I would send Titus Andronicus hurtling from the speakers at an obnoxious volume, bake a pecan pie, then in the two hours it takes to cool I would go to Chi-Slam Table Tennis Club, where I would work up an appetite fit to demolish a freshly baked pie upon my return. It was a plan so masterful that I had to restrain myself from raising my little finger to my mouth and squinting Dr. Evil style on the train home from work.

With the pie baked and my ears ringing, I set off to Chi-Slam an excited man. Excited to test my ping pong game against some quality opposition and excited to discover whether my pie tasted as good as it looked upon removal from the oven.

At Chi-Slam, I decided it would be a good idea to play myself in against a moderately weak opponent before tackling some heavyweights. A large, rotund, bald man with visible globules of sweat colonizing his head, who was huffing and puffing away on table one seemed to fit the bill nicely. I set upon challenging him and after a short knock-up in which he bunted the ball around innocuously we began a game. Having played tennis so seriously for so long, I should have known better than to judge a player by his strokes and appearance. Here was a class player. 0-1. 0-2. 0-3. 0-4 I went down. No matter what spin I put on the ball he handled it comfortably. 0-5. 0-6. He is flicking my serves back for winners! 0-7. 0-8. Shit! Is he going to bagel me? 0-9. 0-10. Game point. Uh-ho. So much pressure. 0-11. Bollocks. We changed sides but the pattern of the game did not change. My opponent simply did not miss. After a few attacking forehands I thought I was finally on the verge of winning a point, when his high defensive shot span off the table so vigorously that the ball completely eluded my paddle as I went in for the smash. At 0-9 in game two I had lost 20 points in a row and was sweating more than my opponent. Then finally I won a point. Immense relief, followed by my remark of “this will be the turning point”. It was not, although my 11-8 loss in the third game was somewhat more respectable.

Not to be discouraged by my earlier humiliation, I bounced back to win a tight encounter 3 sets to 1 and then faced a well-built German man who was rather good, but unlike my first opponent this was obvious immediately. We were trading forehands crosscourt at an alarming pace, and then all of a sudden he would step back from the table and unleash a whirling topspin loop that kicked so aggressively off the table that any scientists watching would have been baffled. Ardy, the club owner, even came over to tell me that he was a good player. And he doesn't just say that about anyone. Unfortunately there was someone waiting to play the winner, so we had to play a game.  I was worried about a repeat of earlier events, but I did myself proud and won around five points in each game, even though the German did go somewhat light on me (for instance serving without any spin).
         “You play good tennis, huh?” he commented as we shook hands. I was encouraged by my progress over the course of the night and was determined to improve so that the word “table” might be added to his parting sentence next time.

Just one question remained unanswered. What would my pecan pie taste like? The pecan pie is my favorite pie and I was strongly hoping that my rendition of it wouldn't deter my fondness of this king of comestibles. Any worries were extinguished with the first bite. It was immense. Maybe even the best pecan pie I had ever tasted. I took down a quarter of it and went to bed a happy man.

A delicious pecan pie. Probably should have gotten my shadow out of the picture.

A Plumpish Goalkeeper and Football Humiliation

The Sheridan Park Soccer League is now well under way and going into yesterday’s game we found ourselves firmly rooted to the bottom of the table. Therefore it was rather ominous that we were facing the mighty T.O.T., who after three games were top of the league and yet to concede a goal. On the other hand, we had netted just once in our first three games and it was a last minute consolation goal resulting from a goalkeeping error. We badly needed a win and it didn’t look like it would come tonight.

The temperature was gradually shifting further and further below 50 and rain was plummeting from the sky with a sense of purpose. In other words, it was perfect football weather. When my roommate and I arrived at the park 20 minutes before kick off there were just four people on the field:  the two officials setting up the goals, a silhouetted man putting his boots on, and the opposition goalkeeper who was engaged in a vigorous warm-up routine. With his portly figure, dark floppy hair, and retro goalkeepers jersey, he resembled one of those journeyman keepers who drift around the lower leagues of English football until well into their forties. This goalie meant business and was completing stretching exercises, throwing the ball up into the air for himself jump up and catch, and kicking the ball a few yards in front of him then diving down onto the soggy turf to clutch it with a complete lack of care for how utterly soaked this was making him. This all seemed rather pointless, as given the anticipated gulf in class between the teams it seemed unlikely that he would touch the ball, let alone be required to throw himself onto the turf.

Their talismanic goalkeeper reminded me of legendary journeyman Neville Southall

 The stage was set for a dramatic upset that would replace Lukas Rosol’s victory over Rafael Nadal in the second round of Wimbledon as the greatest sporting upset of 2012. Except we didn’t get a chance to defy the odds, as we didn’t have enough players show up to field a team. In fact, ten minutes after the scheduled kickoff time we had just five players and had to forfeit the match.

Still eager to play, we challenged the T.O.T. players who had stuck around to a short sided game. The match cancellation had done little to diminish the keenness of their goalie, so we shot into a full goal that we was marshalling, while we defended a tiny goal marked by bags and didn’t play with a goalkeeper. What ensued was quite humiliating. They were remarkably skilled and a well-oiled unit, zipping the ball across to turf to one another with sharp movement and incise passing in a manner that made it incredibly difficult for us to get a touch of the ball. It was how I imagine playing Spain or Barcelona must be like. They beat us easily, although I hadn’t brought my abacus to the field so I was unable to keep score. We did score once thanks to their resolute goalkeeper being caught rather amusingly out of position, but he made amends later on with a spectacular flying save during which he must have been completely parallel to the ground at one point.

They say that football is a tiring game when your team doesn’t have the ball. I left the park exhausted, wet to the bone, and questioning every belief I have ever held about how good at football I am. It was, however, brilliant fun.

A Short Tribute to a Rather Useful Workout

Which workout takes no more than ten minutes yet if carried out properly constitutes good exercise? Which workout requires no warm up or warm down and unless you’re one of those sweaty beasts that roam this planet there is no need to shower after? Which workout can be done almost anywhere with a bit of floor space and requires no equipment? Which workout can be completed in almost any attire?

The answer is of course the ab workout! A marvelous invention from Mr. Ab, the ab workout can serve many purposes besides making you stronger. Need to work up an appetite for that big dinner? Ab workout!  Looking for a way to justify eating a large dessert? Ab workout! Want to get pumped for that sports game or night out? Ab workout! Bored? Ab workout!

So next time you have a spare five minutes or are slightly concerned about eating a big meal, just crank some music, bust out 50 sit-ups and 50 press-ups, and encourage your friends and family to do the same. 

The Whimsical Tale of My Haircut at the Barber School

In the interests of cost and practicality, I decided to get my hair cut at a Barber School yesterday. Despite the concerns of my girlfriend, I didn’t consider it to be an especially risky move. All I wanted was a simple trim and as long as I didn’t come away with a buzz cut I would be happy. I have always reckoned that I would look utterly stupid with any kind of buzz cut, and have thus stubbornly refused to shave my head at any point in my life, even when sporting teams I’ve been on have tried to persuade me to join in their apparent show of shaven solidarity.

As soon as I walked in the door of the Barber School a low buzzing sound filled my ears. I looked around and my eyes were met with the terrifying sight of a line of ten or so people receiving buzz cuts from barbers who either had a buzz cut or hair that clearly hadn’t been cut for years. Every single customer was receiving a buzz cut, including one woman. I wondered whether this place only did buzz cuts, and you got one no matter what you asked for. I enjoyed imagining a dainty old lady coming in and asking for her hair to be washed, permed, and dyed – only to emerge with a buzz cut.

Not to be deterred, I paid my $8 and waited for my barber, or should I say ‘student’ to arrive. Now given that I had experienced student behavior firsthand for the past four years, I would have very much liked to have vetted my barber/student with a few questions before I let him loose on my locks: Are you a freshman? What is your GPA? Did you go out last night and if so how much did you drink? My fears were compounded by the fact that I had already parted with my cash; meaning that the only incentive for my student to give me a decent chop was a good grade, and there are a worrying number of students out there who just don’t give a crap about their grades.

As soon as the haircut commenced, the buzzing noise suddenly got much louder. It soon became evident that the spike in volume was caused by a trimmer going around my ear and towards my neck. “Wait a second!” I shouted. The student calmly informed me that he was only doing this part with the buzzer and would break out the scissors soon. However, his reassurance did little to settle my nerves. You see, this was quite an important haircut. I was going out for a nice dinner with my girlfriend for our anniversary that night, I was going to a wedding at the weekend, and most alarmingly I was getting the cut during my lunch break and I had no desire to return to the office looking like an idiot. This was a high pressure haircut, if ever there was such a thing!

A considerable amount of time passed and the buzzer was still in play. Furthermore, I hadn’t heard or sighted a single pair of scissors in the entire building and I had been turned to face away from the mirror, so I had no idea what was going on. Eventually the scissors came out and the student began snipping cautiously. More time passed. Finally, he decided he had had enough and showed me his work in the mirror. Now it wasn’t terrible. It certainly wasn’t a good haircut, but I hadn’t the foggiest idea how to tell him to improve it. “That’s fine” I said.

The student seemed as unsure as I was and quickly scampered off, returning with the instructor, who was a very funny man.
                “Why do you always have to use an adjective?” He remarked. “Calling me the big guy! How would you like it if I called you the small guy?”

“You’re the big guy” the student responded with a light tap of the instructor’s stomach.
The big guy set about fixing my hair and the three of us had some great banter.
                “What brought you here, besides a plane?” He asked me.
                “This guy dreamt of going to college…” he said looking across to the student “…while he was sleeping during high school!”

By the time the student and instructor had finished taking turns with the scissors, I had been there for almost an hour. I did not mind. It had been a fun experience and I hadn’t left with a buzz cut. Actually, my haircut was so cautious that nobody even noticed it when I returned to the office.

This Week in Sport

A roundup of this week’s cause-less athletic endeavors.

Monday: Ran to Jewel to buy chocolate and sour cream. Possibly counterproductive.

Wednesday: Ventured to Chi-Slam where I was handed a lesson in table tennis by an Asian man who was in disgustingly good shape. He wasn’t just in good shape for his age (probably over 40); he was a fine athlete by anybody’s standards. The fact that his legs were both way stronger and far more toned than mine, coupled with the grin he bore afterwards, made the defeat taste rather sour.

Thursday: The second soccer game of the league went the way of the first – a defeat. But this was a much improved performance from both the team and myself, and we did manage to score, even though the goal came when were already 2-0 down with just 30 seconds left on the clock and resulted from a goalkeeping error.

Lagwagon perform Weak at The Bottom Lounge on Thursday night.

Friday: If you don’t think that going to a show constitutes exercise then you obviously haven’t seen Lagwagon before. The punk legends may have made significant inroads into their 40s by now, but they still rock as hard as anyone and reeled off old classic after old classic. The crowd was riotous – jumping, pushing, moshing, and singing along like our lives depended on it. After being flung around in the melee I found myself in the second row, where I was so close to band that I actually had a cheeky strum of the bassist’s guitar at one point. It was simply awesome and I left drenched in sweat.

Saturday: Saturday’s athletic pursuit – walking – may not have been the most strenuous, but it was very enjoyable and refreshing. My girlfriend Steph and I headed out to an orchard and then the Indiana Dunes, which were beautifully awash with fall colors. From the beach we could look across Lake Michigan to Chicago, where the skyscrapers looked bizarre rising up above the water, like they had been drawn onto the sky with a pencil. From the beach we could also see two coachloads of kids who refused to believe that beach activities are weather dependent. It was well below 50 and the wind chill increased the bitterness, but some of these kids were lying on towels, others were playing beach volleyball barefooted and some of these seemingly cold-blooded creatures even wore shorts and t-shirts. None looked as cold I was, although I donned a wooly hat and four layers, the exterior of which was a big winter coat.

An enchanted forest in the Indiana Dunes State Park.

Sunday: Was it too cold to go running without any kind of under armor or jacket? Probably, but I went for it anyway and busted out four miles in the crisp fall air. Despite having to make a sprint finish to keep up with my roommate Steve, I failed to generate enough body heat to overcome the coldness and was relieved to get back inside, where I completed an ab workout on a flattened cardboard box that is currently deputizing for a gym mat.