Other games tonight saw Brunswick Mining defeat Jim Duncan, GE over Norhtern Light and Wells Chapman over Lounsbury Avalanche.
Good curling all!

Since 1898 in Bathurst, since 1908 at the Bathurst Curling Club. An all volunteer club except one.
Photo by David S. Spence⁄The Gazette
In this obscure — and to most, baffling — game, players are encouraged to throw stones at houses. Just not those kinds of stones, nor those kinds of houses, though the sport of curling can at times require quite a bit of sweeping.
Thing of it is, like her husband Ron, Judy Gilbert is a curler too. And judging by the casual grace of her efficient lunge and the repeated ‘‘Lovely curl!” accolades she wins from team skip John Bittner on Sunday night at the National Capital Curling Center, she is not at all a shabby one.
Like last Olympics, Ron Gilbert will be at the games, with a front-row seat to what could be curling history as the
And if the stateside buzz so far carried by the women’s team is any indication — a widely enamored press has dubbed them the ‘‘Curl Girls” — Gilbert might be witness to a vastly more significant moment: when the fringe sport curling breaks through to a mainstream audience.
Like a good curler, he isn’t holding his breath. He knows that for the uninitiated spectator, curling can be a lot like watching paint dry.
What isn’t immediately obvious that the uninitiated will miss at first, even second, glance, is the profound nuance that defines the centuries-old game.
Explaining it, on the other hand, can be an exercise in the seemingly absurd.
‘‘I can’t say, ‘Well, they’re coming out of the hack and trying to put the rock in the house past the hog line.’”
As he throws his stones with his abrupt lunge Sunday night on the ice at the
Though it does take strong, hardy posture, considerable flexibility and unwavering balance to settle into the lunge position without pulling a muscle or slipping a disk, he doesn’t fool himself that curling is going to whip him into shape — ‘‘We’re not great physical specimens,” he says.
The physical demands are not such, however, that a die-hard septuagenarian curler like Olney’s Jane Bittner can’t take part Sunday night despite her two artificial knees. No, all she needs is her ‘‘geezer stick,” she jokes, a pole that fastens onto the stone’s handle which she uses to push the rock without all the fuss.
Curlers are used to the befuddled disbelief that any sport that involves sliding a 42-pound polished granite rock down a sheet of ice could in any way be legit.
After 20 years, Ken Wray of
‘‘Everybody at the office knows that I’m a curler,” he says. ‘‘They look at me quizzically, like, ‘Curler? What’s a curler? Oh yeah, that’s where you slide the rock down the ice.’ And of course, they rip me for it.”
Jerry Kelley of
He remembers his first few throws sliding off course as he struggled to balance his weight on one slick Teflon-soled shoe.
But the touch came around after five or six games, and soon came the angles, he said — being able to clearly visualize the caroms needed to nudge an opponent’s stone with just the right weight in just the right direction.
Now he has a sense almost of being a sort of ambassador for the sport, he said, a feeling not uncommon among curlers.
‘‘You get the feeling that you’re part of a more exclusive club. Curling is a little bit different, so it’s got that bit of a mystery to it.”
The Potomac Curling Club hopes that mystery will be blown wide open next month, the winter games sparking a surge of interest as they did four years ago.
The club, which has been drawing northern transplants and home-grown curlers to its membership since 1961, boasts some 200 members, with curling available every night of the week for as far down as 8-year-olds.
Through the several ‘‘bonspiels,” or tournaments, the club throws throughout the October-through-April season — even traveling to take on clubs on the Eastern Shore, in Philadelphia and in New Jersey — the club is nurturing that one-of-a-kind curling ethic, which invariably involves a smile, a shake of the hand, the promise of a few rounds of owed beers, and as always, a ‘‘Good curl.”
Sunday UCT Curling Results
Val Saulnier over Alvin Lavigne
John Ferguson over Emery LeBlanc
Albert Mazerolle over John Gorman
Raj Chettiar over Roe Doucet
Monday Night Curling Results
Godin over Bishop
Elhatton over
Maher and Saulnier tied
Chettiar over Lavinge
Imbeault over MacDonald
Tuesday Afternoon Senior Curling Results
Jim Aubry over Pat Maher
Bud Hanley over Gerry Roy
George Barclay over Emery LeBlanc
Guy Gallant over Biff Homiak
Jim Duncan over Ken Leaman
Tuesday Night Curling
Wells Chapman over GE
Jim Duncan and Northern Light Rescheduled
The Winter Olympics are all about the thrill of the games. The breakneck speed of downhill skiing. The soaring majesty of the 120-meter ski jump. The slam-bang drama of hockey.Then there's curling.
A cross between bocce and shuffleboard, curling is played with heavy stones on ice. The game is simple: two four-person teams slide their stones to the opposite end of the ice, blocking and knocking out each other's stones as they aim for the center of a circle.
Captivating, it isn't, or so I thought until my father called while I was covering the 2002 Winter Olympics in
"Where's the curling?" he asked almost daily.
Turns out my 6-foot-3, football-loving father had developed a keen interest in the Winter Games' most odd-looking and yet oddly appealing sport -- which NBC seemingly never aired, according to the TV Guide listings.
I was amused by my father's interest in curling, so much so that I found myself giving it a closer look, although still discreetly. After all, this was a sport of big rocks, brooms and tournaments known as bonspiels.
I just didn't get it.
Then, the
Devious, I thought. To decline was to show blatant ignorance. To accept was to risk potential ridicule.
Who knew ridicule could be so cold and bumpy.
Curling, unlike hockey and figure skating, is staged on pebbled ice, which helps the propelled stone to curl -- or move. It's believed the sport began in 16th-century
A pack of two dozen reporters waddled across the ice for a 10-minute briefing on how to curl, appropriately conducted by a Scotsman, whose kilt and accent added a little authenticity to the night. "Usually, you would need a whole weekend to learn how to curl," he explained.
Great, I thought, we get the "Cliff Notes" version.
Lesson one: Don't try to pick up the 42-pound stone unless hernia surgery sounds like fun. When you "throw" the stone, it actually just slides across the ice.
Lesson two: Release the stone before the first hog line (21 feet from the start) and get it past the second hog line (21 feet from the finish). Or, in simpler terms, let the stone go and pray it moves.
Lesson three: If you're a sweeper, the object is to brush the ice, creating a thin film of water to reduce friction and allow the stone to move into the house -- a round scoring area that is 12 feet in diameter. For rookie sweepers, the real goal is to brush back and forth like crazy and run like the dickens.
Sounds simple enough, I thought as I joined a half dozen other wanna-be curlers.
The group next to me went first. A solidly built, 5-foot-10 male reporter crouched down in what looked like a track sprinter's starting block. He grabbed the rock by its handle. Then he pushed off, stone sliding in front of him, right foot jutting out, and released the rock.
The stone skidded about 25 feet. The reporter toppled over.
Everyone clapped as loudly as they laughed.
I glanced over at Times photographer Karl Mondon, who was there to record my curl-capade.
Karl smiled.
Suddenly, I felt that jolt of queasiness usually brought on by airplane turbulence.
I inched my way toward the tee, scooting the stone along with my foot.
Kathy Avery, a member of the local curling club, helped position me in the starting block. She smiled with more empathy than Karl had.
"Slide the stone forward, then pull it back and when you slide it forward again, just let it go," Kathy told me. "Piece of cake."
Sure, for her it was easy. Kathy had been curling for 30 years, not 30 seconds.
I did just as she said. Forward. Back. Forward again.
I let the stone go. My foot moved about six inches. The stone moved about the same.
But I didn't fall over.
Karl shook his head.
He recognized a pathetic attempt when he saw one. The next thing I knew, Karl was dragging 2006 Olympian Maureen Brunt to my side.
"She needs help," he told Maureen.
Much as Kathy had, Maureen plopped me down in the starting block. She showed me how to drop and slide my knee along the ice to give the stone more "umph."
This time, I couldn't very well take the chicken's way out with my Olympian mentor watching.
I gave myself a good push off, careened across the ice and reluctantly released the stone.
It flew. I wobbled. And boom, down on my butt I went.
"Look how far your stone went," Maureen said excitedly, waving down the ice.
Sure enough, the sweepers had taken the stone all the way to the house.
I had a bruised bottom but no longer a bruised ego, even knowing Karl had captured my humbling moment in all its digital glory.
On the next lesson, Maureen showed me how to hold the broom so that it dragged along the ice, instead of jutting out like a lance.
"It will act like a brace," she told me. I liked the sound of that.
On my third try, I launched the stone and stayed upright.
Maureen moved on. Apparently, I was ready to be on my own.
I tried my hand at sweeping, too. Turns out those 42-pound rocks move faster than you might think. The broom and I never could keep up.
Not that I minded. I already had my one moment of glory.
That night, I really got a closer look at curling -- and thanks to Karl's photos, the experience was anything but discreet.
As I left the rink, I dug out my cell phone to call my father. "Guess what I did tonight?"