Rivethead - Ben Hamper [83]
I got together with Doug, Eddie, Dick and Jerry and we created this grand diversion that we called Rivet Hockey. Rivet Hockey could best be described as a combination of foosball, soccer, the Civil War and every Charles Bronson movie made after 1972. It was total mayhem, a Neanderthal free-for-all that was both violent and one hell of a lot of fun.
The game was simple. Position a rivet on the floor, scope out an opposing linemate, and kick the rivet as hard as possible toward the linemate's foot, ankle or shin. In Rivet Hockey, pain was the payoff. To connect on a direct hit to a tender tibia, to exact blood through an opponent's pant leg, was equivalent to kicking a fifty-yard field goal in the Rose Bowl. Remorse was forbidden. Revenge was encouraged. Ruptures were illegal. Every rat for himself.
As for selecting a Rivet Hockey victim, you had to be very cautious not to put the scope to a linemate who saw no redeeming humor in having his legs and ankles blasted by screamin’ chunks of metal. There were some of our neighbors who just weren't buyin’ Rivet Hockey. They were only here to make a buck. These grumps gulped coffee, gnawed on salami sandwiches, pawed through girlie rags and sat out the death march of the minute hand.
We had problems with one guy we all called Mighty Joe Young. No one knew his real name and no one was about to ask. He looked like some kind of science project from Muscle Beach—250 pounds, invisible neck, hands like hams and a scowl as big as Utah. Unfortunately, they plopped Mighty Joe right in the middle of our battlefield. His presence began to alter everyone's game plan. Our savage line drives were exchanged for wimpy high-percentage pokes. The whole deal began to reek of cowardice and retreat. No one wanted to risk peggin’ this monster in the flannel shirt.
As self-appointed commissioner of the North Unit Rivet Hockey Association, I felt obliged to act. I gathered up all the players and we retreated at lunchtime to Jerry's van for strategy and Budweiser. Janice tagged along to take down the minutes.
I began. “Listen, guys. My father was a shoprat. His father was a shoprat. My father's father was a shoprat. I'm bettin’ that your fathers and their fathers were shoprats.” The guys all nodded. So did Janice. “The point is this. We come from very noble stock. Realizing this, do you believe for one moment that our forefathers would have put up with this crap? Here we've hit upon a great diversion, one that'll distract us from that goddamn clock, and we're backin’ down like a bunch of panty-waist bank clerks. Wouldn't our fathers have embraced Rivet Hockey and fought to the bitter end for its survival? Huh? HUH?”
My co-workers pulled on their beers and pondered. I forged on.
“Well, I think the answer is obvious—HELL NO, THEY WOULDN'T! They would have thought Rivet Hockey was a bad fuckin’ joke. And that, my friends, is precisely my point. WHEN THE HELL DID WE EVER DO ANYTHING OUR FATHERS WANTED US TO DO? NEVER! After all, we're workin’ here, ain't we? My suggestion is that we go back in there and kick the shit out of some rivets!”
My hokey speech worked. Mighty Joe was soon conquered. He still wasn't real fond of bein’ pegged with a misdirected rivet, but I think he began to realize that our malice wasn't directed at anything that walked on this earth or chewed on lunch meat or wore a flannel shirt. Shit, we liked just about everybody. Our only adversary was Father Time. And by slammin’ rivets up against each other's shins, we were only out to jump that bastard and maim him something