It's not that I don't like sports; sports don't like me

When I accepted the position at the Nouvelle, the icing on the cake was the fact that the paper had a sports reporter.

“No more pretending to know what’s going on during a sporting event,” I thought to myself. “No more wondering why the hockey players get penalties or why basketball players throw the ball in from the sidelines.”

Now before all you sports lovers out there start cursing my name, hear me out. It’s not that I don’t like sports; I think they’re a great way to be healthy, active and social. But it’s just that sports don’t like me.

Just a few months ago, I went to cover a volleyball tournament in La Crete – volleyball, the worst of them all: this sport haunted me almost as much as baseball did as a child.

I wasn’t in the gym for two minutes and I was hit with the ball. There were over a hundred people in the room, but no, that ball chose me. See what I mean?

Still, my dad told me “Ashley, if you want people in Bonnyville to like you, you have to go to the Pontiac games.” He knows as much as I do that as soon as I open my mouth at a sporting event,

I’ve no longer got anyone fooled, so we decided I’d just go and sit there.

Well, I can’t help but look at the woman’s gorgeous boots across from me, they’re basically calling my name. And everyone knows you have to get hot chocolate during the game, because between periods it’s too busy. And those kids over there are really cute. And then before you know it, the game is over and I have no idea what happened. Again.

Last Friday, my editor Melissa dragged me to a Pontiacs game. I tried really hard to ignore the pretty boots and cute children, but the food was no match for me.

After the first period, we went to get some fries. Already we were on the wrong track, because now the line was really long. After we ate, we couldn’t help ourselves — I think the soft pretzels just found us, so we had to eat them too.

When we walked back in to what I thought was perfect timing, Melissa saw the zamboni and looked at me with sad eyes: “We missed the entire second period!”

At least we were still winning, I tried to reassure her, as I finished my pretzel.

We found some seats and I realized I really had to step it up here, so I began throwing out random hockey words, such as “That was icing!” even though it clearly was ... well, I don’t know, because that’s about the extent of my hockey vocabulary.

I told her I was going to pick a favourite and cheer for that person from now on, you know, to impress the locals. However, I soon realized that with the helmets, gear and jerseys, there was no way I could keep track of who was who.

Therefore, I have chosen the goalie: Dylan Wells. Firstly, because my brother’s name is Dylan so I’ll be sure to always remember his name and secondly, being the goalie I will always know which one he is.

So, to be fair, I think it was quite successful. I didn’t get hit with the puck, I used some of my hockey terminology to impress my boss and I even picked a player to cheer for.

And I also got a pretzel.