The Hockey Player

Several years ago on a Saturday morning at a grotty after party in South London, I met a guy who we shall call the Hockey Player, because as it happens, he played Hockey!

The Hockey Player was a handsome athletic fellow, who was easy and fun to be around. We did all kinds of things together - We went on picnics, cooked dinner, explored the city on foot, shared books, watched films and we even wrote letters to one another when we travelled abroad. As I think about the times we shared, which was over the period of a few years, I wonder why our relationship didn't fully develop into that of boyfriend and girlfriend... But then I remember the evening the Hockey Player got upset over a cricket bat.

Before I proceed, let me reference a dictionary for those of you unsure of what a cricket bat is, for it is a central part of this story.

"A cricket bat has a narrow handle and a broad flat end for hitting." It is used in one of the most British of pastimes and the broad flat end of the bat, is approximately 38 inches in length, typically made of willow wood and is "...shaped like a paddle, consisting of a padded handle similar to - but sturdier than - that of a tennis racquet."

Now the Hockey Player and I had a good chemistry in the bedroom. Over time we developed a level of comfort with one another, that led to some interesting evenings under and above the duvet. And so on the night in question, I felt it only natural to include the said cricket bat, that was leaning next to his bed, in that evening's activities. After an hour or two romping with one another, the Hockey Player decided to lay on his stomach and rest his head, downward in a pillow. It was then, that I took the cricket bat to his beautifully crafted bottom and tapped it, in an ever so cheeky fashion. At first he enjoyed it, smiling and moaning with delight - until he opened his eyes and looked at what was stimulating his behind. "That's my fucking cricket bat with the signatures of the England team on it. What the fuck?!"

I was taken aback and thought he was joking, but soon realized he wasn't...

"Seriously Hockey Player? You're snapping at me over Allan Lamb and Mike Atherton's scribbles on a bat?"

After an awkward moment or two, I left his bed and dressed myself, whilst he pleaded for me to stay the night. Embarrassed, I apologized to him for misusing a bat which had a sentimental value I didn't know of, before promptly leaving. The next day, he apologized for his outburst and though we ended the conversation on a good note, I decided afterwards I wouldn't see the Hockey Player again, because I knew I would no longer be turned on by someone who is passionate about a sport so boring and so intense about a team, whose common tendency is to lose. (...which is sadly the case with most of the British endeavours in the sporting arena.) Frankly, I am better than losers and boys who get childish over their silly toys.

Me; fussy? Perhaps! Oh well, I am better off without such nonsense...

The end.