there's no crying in hockey!

So, my team, of which I'm the goalie, lost our game tonight 17-1. That is NOT a typo folks. That is the honest-to-goodness truth. And while hockey is a team sport and we theoretically share in the loss equally, everyone knows this is not true. For I am the goalie and despite what might be happening (or not happening) in front of me, I am the last line of defense. I'm the one ultimately in charge of keeping the puck out of the net. And tonight, despite my best efforts, I failed miserably.

Knowing I feel this way, you can appreciate how embarrassing it was. It was like getting dumped in front of friends and family - maybe stood-up at the altar. And then, wait, there she is. But she only showed to punch you in the face. PUH-POW! And she's back out the door. For the ladies, it was like walking around with toilet paper on your shoe all day. Wait - worse than that - like walking around with a toilet on your shoe all day. Convenient, yet cumbersome.

With all the scoring comes frustration. The frustration coupled with the fatigue associated with attempting to prevent so many goals, leads to flailing. Flailing away at the puck, trying to anticipate passes, losing form, getting sloppy. This fundamentally unsound play can only lead to more goals and Roger weeping bitterly in the back of the net. Ok, I didn't do that, but it probably would have been more effective.

The frustration and flailing kind of reminds me of RS4. She was always ultra-crazy/aggressive. But I had longer arms. Despite all her swinging, kicking, scratching, she couldn't really get me. And that only pissed her off more. But, still, even as pissed as she could get, she couldn't really hurt me (unless she tomahawked me in the head with a golf club - that smarts). Tonight, I was RS4. No matter how hard I tried or how much I flailed, it didn't really matter.

The worst part of the whole thing though is post-game when everyone tells you "good game." Not the hand-shaking, "good game," but the extra, later on "good game." Listen. 17 goals allowed is not a good game by any stretch of any LSD-enhanced imagination. Even if all the goals were "not my fault," it doesn't matter. 17 goals is not a good game. Hell, 10 goals is not a good game. Even, if you thought it was a good game, don't run the risk of making me feel even worse for sucking. It's like saying, "Nice legs, Heather Mills." Maybe it's true, but she'd probably take it the wrong way.