There was a lot of energy in the air - pulsating, and alive - at the recent Scotties Tournament of Hearts that was hosted in Calgary, and we had second row seats, close enough to smell the ice and occasionally, hear comments from the players. Curlers are generally a gregarious lot, and when I sat down, I naturally greeted the woman beside me. I was surprised with her annoyance - she seemed offended by having someone sit beside her. You could feel a cold wall being raised between us. No conversation, no sharing, no opportunity for commarotary.
That’s probably a good thing because I don’t think I could have resisted asking her about her rings: her bright blue metallic nails could not detract from the multiple rings she was wearing - at least one on each finger, even her left thumb. I wanted to ask her their significance, the story associated with each - she obviously valued them, showcased them. Unlike her, they were all delicate and whimsical, many having a variety of small stones accentuated by diamond chips, piled haphazardly, twisted, the flesh cushioning them like they were never removed making her fingers look even thicker. No engagement ring. A lifetime of stories and events for all to observe and I want to hear them all.
Instead, I focused on the games - four sheets of ice, four games, one being televised and projected on the big screen. I discovered that I could watch three games - not the far sheet unless it was the one being televised, but it was possible to watch three simultaneously, and I found it riveting. Regardless of the woman beside me, I was with a community of curlers and we were unapologetically committed and enthusiastic, moaning and groaning with missed shots, and exclaiming appreciation and applause for the good ones, of which there were many.
Hockey may be the official winter sport in Canada, but curling has a place in the Canadian psyche - in our hearts. Having grown up in an age when girls weren’t allowed to play hockey - hard to believe the objections that justified it - I don’t have the same appreciation or love for hockey. While it is a fast paced game with hard hits, curling is a battle of patience - a tight tension between strategy and execution on an ever changing ice surface. Curling is a sport of contrasts: the elegance of the delivery juxtaposed with the brute force required in the brushing. It’s a sport of intense but polite competition - no jeering - where you get to throw rocks, yell - sometimes scream - but in the end you shake hands, and win or lose, you get a drink. A very civilized sport.
But curling is also compelling because of its aesthetics - granite and ice are a beautiful pairing. Just saying “ice” mimics its qualities: hard, cold, ancient, with its subtle yet distinctive smell, and the sound it makes whether it is underfoot, or under a skate’s blade, or best of all, the slow and melodious harmonies of granite traveling over it. It’s not a mere sound but more of a song, slow and complex, and when curling rocks hit, collide with force, they emit a resounding crescendo - a roar.
Perhaps the ancient caveman part of my brain recognizes that roar because it certainly responds to it, recognizing the sound of ice pulverizing granite as the great ice sheets retreated. It resonates with me: ice and rock, rock and trees, trees and sky, sky and stars. Connection. Simple connection, primal and perpetual.
And curling is a reminder of this connection, a connection that pulls at our hearts, making this event truly a tournament of hearts.
