Simple Pond Days by John Barlow

January 7, 2013 Leave a comment
The East Lankville Journal of Small Water Areas and Amateur Sports is pleased to present a new feature by Oversions owner and GM John Barlow.


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The quagmire that the Pondicherry Association finds itself in now has me recollecting quieter, simpler pond days.

The pond froze over beginning in late November, allowing us several months of uninterrupted play. We had two benches on either side, one affording a fine view of an abandoned gas station and a cracked, disused road. We had two goals, constructed from spent copper pipes, lobster netting and certain glues. Later, Pappy came down and nailed them into the ice using some sort of mysterious power tool. The task completed, the tool was shoved into his denim coat, never to be seen again.

Pappy bought us three pucks. “Use these wisely,” he said. “None will be forthcoming.” He watched us for awhile, taking a libation from a golden flask and then he made his way slowly across the drifts back to the barn. No one had any idea what he did in there.

I was a fine player, capable of an excellent slapshot and adept at defense as well. I had figured out a clever way to dump an opposing player via use of a long shoehorn that I kept hidden in my jersey. The fallen would glance up at me into the grey gloom– utterly flummoxed. Upon occasion, a penalty was called for but never admitted.

Bjorge was the finest player. He had come over from Sweden to live with three uncles in a cavernous white mansion on the hill. He spoke English poorly and had a puzzling medical condition which prevented him from recognizing faces. But he was the fastest skater and routinely unleashed a series of feints that could not be defended. Nor was it possible for me to utilize the shoehorn– by the time I fumbled for it in my jersey, he was gone.

Bjorge and I were both drafted. He had a short career with the Broad Hill Totems, I with the Dragons of the Barrens. We played against one another once or twice but by then it was clear that his skills had somehow faded. He was crushed viciously into the boards many times and before long he quietly retired.

I became a steel magnate shortly thereafter. The old pond was eventually drained and some kiosks placed there. The pond eventually returned (Mother Nature would not be denied) and the kiosks slowly collapsed and were ultimately submerged.

Categories: 2012-13 Season

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: Honest Joe’s

January 7, 2013 Leave a comment

By Ric Royer
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Right before dusk, I wandered over to Honest Joe’s. It was a two-story building on the edge of town, surrounded by weeds and trash. Beyond, was a cluster of acetylene tanks, a shed and then the railroad tracks. It was a sorry spot.

Honest Joe was behind the counter eating a sundae off a styrofoam sheet. Loud trumpet music could be heard through the tinny speakers. There were some guys at tables. I didn’t care for any of it.

I walked right over to Honest Joe and looked him straight in the eye. Then I pushed the sundae and the styrofoam sheet into his pants. The sheet fell away but the sundae hung there at his crotch for awhile. Then it fell to the floor. The noise was oddly loud and clunky.

He started to towel off. He got one area clean and then I snatched the towel away. “This is going out there between some of those tanks,” I said. “There’s nothing else. It’s all dust beyond.” Honest Joe knew the truth though he wouldn’t admit it until much later.

One of the guys stood up. “I’m putting those tanks on a freight tonight. Joe’ll get his towel back.”

I walked out.

It was a hot night.

Categories: 2012-13 Season, Royer's Madcap Experiences

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man by Chris Vitiello

January 7, 2013 Leave a comment

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For the final hour of our negotiations with the Players Union, I sat quietly in a corner with my whip extended.

I cannot describe the self-control that was required. I simply wanted to rise, soundlessly move across the carpet and thrash everyone mercilessly.

But I abstained.

In the decorative ham world, there is no room for negotiation. We do not sit around tables in windowless rooms. We do not order large trays of colored bagels. There are no soup tureens with little cans of fire beneath. There is no ice.

My first partner once attempted to give me a birthday party. I was asked to cut the cake. I took the knife and with absolutely no expression on my face, quartered it perfectly, sliding each section across the table and into a trashcan. The icing left a long smear upon the surface. Then I turned over the cardboard bottom and then the table. “I HAVE SPOKEN,” I said, dramatically. Everyone knew after that.

I took the rest of that day off and went to a mall. I entered a men’s store, elbowing several people out of the way, still maintaining that cold, expressionless visage. “You will sell me two suits, both as black as night,” I told the clerk. “I will NOT be measured.” The clerk eyed my form fearfully. “Socks?” he asked. I thought about this. “Yes, you will sell me two pairs. Black. Black as the bottom of the grave.”

“And the beneath-pants,” he said, his voice quivering. “We have…white soft cotton…they hug the nether regions. And we have longer…longer beneath-pants. Some have designs.”

“NO,” I yelled.

Twenty minutes later, I left with two suits. They have served me in the precise manner that I desired.

Categories: Musings of a Decorative Ham Man Tags: ,