What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?–Langston Hughes
Sadly, I’ve given up on many a dream. As a kid, I wanted to a be a pro ice skater a la Dorothy Hamill. I also wanted to have long hair like Crystal Gayle, marry Bo Duke and David Hasselhoff from the Knight Rider years and Don Johnson from Miami Vice and somewhere along the line I thought it’d be a good idea if I became a lawyer.
Well, none of those things ever happened. But one dream—my dream of 2009—is about to die a lonely, cold death on the cruel black tops of Tompkins Square Park. And while it’s a far cry from what Langston Hughes had in mind, I feel like this dream—this very doable, reachable goal that started out a plump, juicy little grape—well, this dream has wilted and dried into a hardened, disgusting raisin, left out to face the frozen tundra of winter in lower Manhattan all by its lonesome.
It’s my dream of dirty, post-street hockey sex.
Yes, I had a dream. A dream of joining a street hockey league, where my Sundays would be filled with hate-filled high-sticking on the court and hard-sticking hate-fucking somewhere in the bar bathroom of Doc Holliday’s across the street. And today, as my team discusses offense and defense and so forth on our listserv pending the playoffs this weekend, I have come to the sad conclusion that unless a miracle happens—a miracle on Avenue A!—my dream of dirty, post-hockey sex will indeed go unfulfilled, unrealized.
Don’t let this happen. I’ll be the girl in the orange socks on Sunday.