Wednesday, December 2, 2009

The youngest EBNY contributor struts his stuff on the Pacific side. Future baller, future ripper.

Stepping off the plane in Newark yesterday I was assaulted by texts asking if I would be playing in the Diner Old Boys semifinal soccer game slated for three hours later in the evening. Ah yes, back in New York again.
Before leaving North County I made the decision to retire two boards mostly based on assumption that if I no longer had them I'd be forced to buy a new board the next time I go out there (or, more likely, stumble into another freebie used board gifted by a friend.) Either way, that sort of sloughing energy might produce some unexpected results. Besides, after getting Jackie Moonbags out on both participants in my "California quiver" he subsequently stated that I don't own a surfboard at all, just a couple floaty sorts of things that probably get in the way more than they help. So I stuffed the tensomethingorother foot warped screwball corkscrew banana and the ninesomethingorother squishy buckled toothpick under the house into the board graveyard with the ten or so other elder statesmen to be abused by all sorts of family and friend alike. And abused they will be. Into oblivion, I'm sure.
That last day though, that last day, the RM Clunker did its tenuously flexy job with aplomb on the walling-up pulling-tide set waves at Swamis; feeling, as it always has, as if it were about to snap mid face; feeling, as it always has, that every knee paddle would leave a lasting indentation. Laid to rest with laurels, these boards were.
We won our game last night. Or tied. I never did figure out the final score. All I know is that I gave Raisin one hell of an assist.
Onward into the cold Atlantic.


rebeccajane said...

A eulogy to a friend.

Patch said...