As I entered the curling club, I wanted to think of it a a field of battle, but it was just a long sheet of ice painted with lines and circles. It was hard to mythologize.

The old man stood on the ice, right on the button. I walked quickly toward him, desperate not to let him know how terrified I was. This was my only chance to prove myself; if I failed here, I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to look him in the eye again.

He stared me down while the rest of my team – ‘rink’, I reminded myself – shuffled in behind me. They were all locals, people he knew better than I, but he gave them the same stare down that he had given me. He was nothing if not consistent. “We’re going to draw to the button to see who goes first?” I asked. That’s what the book on curling at the local library told me was the usual way a match started.

A sneer broke across his face. “This is my club,” he said, “my game. You want the hammer, kid? You’re going to have to earn it.”

I had the feeling it was going to be a long game.