The Show of Talents is an annual event held by the Student Athletic Advisory Committee (SAAC) which demonstrates the highly impressive talents of each sports team. From cross-dressing as spice girls, to cross-dressing as the Tigers Eyes dance team, these athletes can truly do it all.
After attending the Show of Talents last week, a few running jokes gave me some insight into the world of CC sports that I never had before. Some of the lessons I learned included: the men’s lacrosse team is unanimously disliked, the swim team is incestuous, and finally, nobody knows the hockey team. While all of these discoveries were interesting and each one merits its own story, the one I decided to research was the final revelation: that nobody knows the hockey team.
“How could this be?” I wondered. In a world where athletics are often directly correlated with social status, how can some of the most talented athletes at our school be considered antisocial? Could it be their age? Their time commitment? Their culture? While the answer is surely all of the above, this week, I decided to tackle one barrier: the language barrier.
In all of this theorizing it occurred to me that as much as I value language, there is a whole dialect I have neglected to learn: sports jargon. This week, in an attempt to bridge the gap between hockey players and NARPs, I truly went the distance. This week, I learned to talk the talk (eh).
Some simple research on my part, eavesdropping, and interrogating led to the following list of my favorite nonsensical hockey terms:
Apple: Another word for assist.
Bender: Technically, this describes someone whose knees bend inward because they are so bad at skating. This person likely has a wooden stick. See also, NARP.
Dangle: To fake out an opposing player.
Duster: A player who gets no time on the ice.
Fishbowl: A helmet that is all plastic.
Hatty: A hat trick, three goals in one game.
One-time: To take a shot right off of a pass.
Sauce: To pass the puck.
Snipe: A beautiful goal.
Top Shelf: To score a goal in the upper part of the net.
In an attempt to further my bond through language, I reached out to multiple players of the team. Despite my extreme charisma, I had no luck. My texts were ignored or refused and I was forced to experience their exclusivity first hand.
At a school of under 2,000, is it too much to ask for hockey players and benders alike to get along? I have to assume this is a two-way street. Maybe jokes like mine or the ones at the Show of Talents force us even farther apart by reinstating the divide. While this experience was less than successful, I won’t give up on bridging the gap. And if I could tell the hockey team one thing right now, it would be this: we may seem different in age, hometown, and interests. We may feel divided and it may seem easier to keep it that way, but for four years, we have one thing in common. Whether you know it or not, behind our jokes, athletes and NARPs alike will always be cheering you on from the bleachers.