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TO MAR. 15, 2002
Sure, the scouts say I’m no good: too old, too slow, too many teeth. And when I took that puck between the eyes, they called it “forced retirement.” But words such as “past your prime” and “mentally unstable” don’t mean shit when you’ve still got heart. While the other team (pictured) keeps skating around in circles, I’m out here day after day honing my skills, driving the net in my rental blades like Dorothy Hamill on steroids. But I’m not gonna lie: It’s been a rough season. Last game, I got thrown out for cross-checking some old lady. Back in the Iron League, that would have been two minutes in the box, tops. Of course, back then, we didn’t wear helmets, either. Oh, you think you’re tough, pretty boy? You wanna drop the gloves with me? They don’t call me “killer” for nothing. I’ll pull that reindeer sweater over your head and knock you (and your little sister) back to Never Land. That’s right, this is my rink. I can hear the crowd cheering me now. It’s overtime in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. I’ve waited for this moment all my life. Put me in, Coach, I can do it! Try and stop me from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m. Monday to Thursday; from 10 a.m. to midnight Friday and Saturday; and from 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. Sunday, to Friday, Mar. 15, 2002, at the National Gallery of Art’s Sculpture Garden, 9th and Constitution Avenue NW. $5.50 (per two-hour session). (202) 737-4215. (Matthew Borlik)