Table Hockey Hijinks [portable] -

This is where the hijinks begin. Dave knows my defensive strategy is "flail wildly." So, as he winds up for a slapshot, he deploys his secret weapon:

We shake hands. "Good game," we lie. Dave wins the face-off (read: he slaps the center rod so hard the magnet falls off the puck). He charges down the left wing. table hockey hijinks

Red 6, Yellow 5 (The Ceiling Shot), Dignity 0. This is where the hijinks begin

The puck stops dead on the goal line. Half of it is over the red line. Half isn’t. Dave claims it’s a goal. I claim he needs glasses. We spend ten minutes arguing about the "intent" of the puck. (Spoiler: The puck has no intent. It’s a piece of plastic.) Dave wins the face-off (read: he slaps the

Let me walk you through a typical Friday night at my place, where the only thing thinner than the air is the ice. It always starts innocently enough. Two beers on coasters. A bowl of pretzels that will inevitably be knocked into the abyss. My buddy Dave and I approach the table. We have the classic 1970s dome-style table—the one where the players are little plastic cones with painted-on smiles that look less like athletes and more like cult members.

Dave gently vibrates his goalie rod. It looks like his netminder is having a seizure. It’s illegal. It’s dishonorable. It blocks 100% of my breakaways.

The buzzer sounds.