I spent my lunch last Wednesday freezing my hands off shooting balls for no reason...simple stress relief, I think. No different, I suppose, than shooting pucks when you were a kid...or free throws...not really all that different from someone who goes for a run, or someone who jumps on a bike. I slipped over to "the courts" while I was in town, between appointments. "The courts" are a couple of converted tennis courts that have been made into a lacrosse-centric outdoor play area. I never like to overuse the notion of "only in Wallaceburg," but yes, only in Wallaceburg
I regularly visit my hometown, at least once a week, sometimes twice, to meet with kids who have landed on someone's radar and are in need of, well, talking to. That's me...the talker. Usually I'm up to the task...more than up for it...but sometimes I'm not. Sometimes the weight of another, unknown stress just drags me down and makes me much less than what I need to be...much less than what I should be. Those silent stresses are the ones that leave me freezing my ass off playing a kids game when I could be any number of other places. Those are the deadly ones. Those are the stresses that you can't wipe your feet of.
They're also the ones that remind you where you came from.