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Rangerjase · 01-28-2020, 09:36 AM

Training camp was finally coming to a close in a few short days. I had been feeling a little homesick lately - Detroit Falcons

has definitely not been feeling like home yet. For starters, I couldn’t find anywhere to get a nice Pastrami sandwich and a decent sour pickle. That was always my favorite post game/practice meal. You could easily find a good slice of Pizza, even though deep dish isn’t exactly “pizza”, more like some sort of soup or shepards pie, but there was nothing like that vinegary bite of a sour Pickle after a long practice to help with cramps and remind me of home. I had been talking to Toki, begging him to share where he gets his pickle juice from! But alas, Toki did not know me well enough to be willing to share that prized information (yet). And as we all know, where there are sour pickles, of course there is pastrami. And we need those meats! Grow strong like bull!

Like my hero Handzus, I had been training hard since 3am, working on my skating skills with an ice dancing coach. After being joined several hours later for some agility practice by a couple of the other guys, we were pretty winded from jumps, luxes, loops, twirls, and lifts. Coach blew the whistle and signaled for a break, so making our way over to the bench, we grabbed our water bottles for a quick refresher. Before I could even take a sip, I could smell it. The delightful aroma of vinegar, salt, pepper, spices, transporting my memories instantly to that corner deli back home where my dreams of pastrami and pickles lie in wait. The water cooler had been replaced with pickle juice! Some drink it to alleviate cramps, some drink it as a chaser for whiskey in a pickle back shot. As my teammates spat out their drinks in disgust, my eyes lit up wide as saucers. “Give me that jug!” I bellowed, ripping the top from the cooler and engorging myself on the delightful taste of what I presume to be the juices of kosher half-sour pickles.

From the corner of my eye I spotted Toki, who winked knowingly. My man had come through. I had earned his trust in practice, working hard enough and coming out of my comfort zone in our mixed doubles figure skating class. My flowing moves and powerful tosses had won him over, and was ready to reveal his sources, but his final test was seeing that I was truly the pickle connoisseur I claimed to be. Clearly, my reaction to the pickle juice was just what he wanted to see.

“Pickles are love, pickles are life. Love the juice, live the juice!”

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