Socks Brothers Present: "The Bigger Bang Theory." Not your Grandfather's Game of Floor Hockey

High Socks: Welcome back, Low Socks. It's been a while. The sports world is flying right now with the NBA/NHL playoffs in full swing, the NFL draft kicking off, and early season baseball starting to pick up steam. But I know that you've always held a special place in your heart for the game of floor hockey. Care to share with the class??

Low Socks: Thanks, HSL. Glad to be back running the court with you. I do hold a special place in my heart for floor hockey. Not just any floor hockey, mind you: I'm talking about the kind with slippery floors, a tiny gym, and those lightweight foam sticks. Get your paws on one of them and you immediately feel powerful...almost like holding a bolt of lightning from Zeus' arsenal.

Before you call me crazy, let me enlighten you about the history of this earth. Leave it to the high courts to judge the validity of a certain theory of evolution or the story of creation. I think I've got one better for ya. Call it "Sam's Theory of Foam Stickitivity." No equations, no relativity, no natural selection; just some good old fashioned foam-on-foam fun.

Picture this scene.

Two guys on opposite teams scramble for the loose puck wherein each player tries to take control of it...and WHAM...the blades collide, causing a massive sonic boom resonating throughout the whole place. This is what happened four billion years ago, but has somehow lost support among scholars in recent centuries, which is why you've never heard it before. Is that the answer you were looking for, HSL?

High Socks: Let me just start out by saying, "Wow." I've heard a lot of wild conspiracies and theories relating to the beginning of this here world, and none of 'em made as much sense as that one.

I am quite familiar with the "Floor Hockey Stick Bash." Every time I am startled from a sound sleep by a loud crash in the middle of the night, my first thought is always, "Foam Stick Face-Off." Then I come to my senses and realize it was probably a big clap of thunder, but I'm still never entirely convinced.

The floor hockey games that took place in elementary and middle school were probably the purest form of competition since those epic Gladiator fights-to-the-death in the old Roman Coliseum. If you lost a close game to a buddy on the opposing squad, you didn't talk to that guy for the rest of the day, or maybe even a week. Hell, I'd understand if it meant the end of that relationship completely.

It meant that much.

Low Socks: Well gosh, I've never lost a friend over a battle on the ice, errr, floor, but I'll tell you one thing: if I lose a floor hockey game, don't come and pick me up from school Mom. I'm walkin' home.

I would like to share some insight into the mind of the "guy that plays ice hockey recreationally and for some reason thinks his abilities translate to the floor." I know you have experience handling the puck and operating near the blue line, but that goes right out of the window once you pick up that foam stizznick. You put Sid the Kid out there versus the 7th Grade All-Stars, equip everybody with the styro-stixx, and I can guarantee you the playing field will be level.

"Oh, hello there, Foam Stick, nice to finally meet you; my name is Wrist Shot and this is my good friend One-Timer."

It's no big surprise these guys have never met...

High Socks: Couple things.

To your earlier point about not getting picked up by Mom after a tough L: I respect the passion there, but don't your feelings change if you know she's waiting in the car with a bag of Honey BBQ Fritos and a cold 20 oz. Cherry Coke? That combo always had its own special way of curing the afternoon blizz-nues.

To your second point, I remember "Ice Hockey Guy" all too well, and to this day, marvel at his belief that the skillz would translate from pond to playground.

You feel like telling this lush, "Look man, it's 4:30 on a Wednesday afternoon. We're playing 3-on-3 floor hockey in a shoebox auxiliary gym with about three fans in attendance. The temperature in here is about 112 degrees. The referee is a guidance counselor that does far too much guiding and far too little counseling. The goalie's "equipment" consists of a couple mangled youth-small shin guards and a horror film mask that doesn't even have eye-holes to see out of. We're just out here to grab a couple smiles and get home safely to our families, so please for the love of all that is good and holy; stop trying to "curve your stick," stop body-checking the 55-pounder on the other team, and last but not least, stop smashing the styrofoam into the ground every single time you want the puck. I see you over there; I'm just not passing it to you."

Low Socks: I suppose this is a good time to wrap it up. Don't get me wrong, I love talking about floor hockey just as much as the next guy, but your point about shady guidance counselors left me feeling kind of ill. I say let's make like the white cap of a foam stick and break this thing off.

Thanks for the time, HSL. Where's the exit to this place, down the hallway on my left?

Oh yeah, and one more thing.

Is there any way I can get the last hour of my life back? Just wonderin'...

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