The Blockhaven Barbarians hadn’t won a curling match since 2125. Yet we kept at it. We kept practicing, and kept playing. But looking at the Marleyville Madmen whom we would face this afternoon, I wondered why. Their braincases were as bulbous as ripe melons. 

I yearned, in borrowed nostalgia, for the curling competitions of my great-great-grandfather’s day, back when one was allowed to throw the stone by hand, step on the ice, and work the brooms. It was harder now in the modern, no-touch sport. Some days I couldn’t even throw the stone without feeling like I was going to give myself a brain aneurysm.