March 2, 2008
Column 315
A man called Horse (but not for long!)
His name’s Greg Hurst but they call him BlackHorse. I don’t know why…
What I do know is this: Hurst is one of the most enthusiastic proponents of our game to be found anywhere on the planet. He’s an amazingly prolific poster at the popular SEWA darts website forum (http://www.SEWA-Darts.com) with nearly 6,000 entries to his name.
So we have a fair bit in common. We both love the sport of darts. We both write a lot about it. We both have stupid nicknames.
We even both once owned a red 1969 Impala convertible. I wrecked mine attempting a “360” on a snowy side street in Flint, Michigan in 1970 – smashed it into a tree in some guy’s front yard. Don’t tell my old man, as 38 years later he still blames himself, thinking I innocently lost control because he delayed replacing the threadbare tires.
There is one more thing BlackHorse and I have in common, or so it might appear to those who have read some of our online exchanges: we each think the other is an idiot.
I understand why BlackHorse has issues with me. That’s because, well… sometimes I am an idiot, plus I once posted on another website that he writes drivel, which, well… like me, he does sometimes. I am an expert on drivel. I know it when I see it travel from my fingers to my computer screen.
I shouldn’t have made the post though. When BlackHorse made the post that I reacted to he was just excited, as was I (and everyone else in the world who isn’t British) a couple of months back as his countryman John Part was steamrolling that 9-year-old Shepherd kid en route to his third world title.
Why do I think BlackHorse is an idiot? Truth be known I don’t (I just like to rib the bloke), although I freely admit there have been times when I’ve privately wished someone would send him to a slaughterhouse to be sectioned and shipped to dinner tables in Japan. One such occasion occurred last week when he told me to “go (insert the worst word you can imagine here) myself” three times in the span of about fifteen minutes.
But actually he seems like a decent guy, at least a lot of people say he is, and certainly he shares my obsession for the game.
And it turns out – HOLY CRAP – that Blackhorse is a member of the IRON WORKERS UNION, which probably means he’s a big dude with stubble and giant tattooed forearms who can break my knees. Possibly he even knew Jimmy Hoffa.
I must have been out of my mind to intentionally cause him grief.
So as a lifesaving measure, I extended an olive branch and offered to meet BlackHorse at the Greater Vancouver Open, near his hometown of Surrey in British Colombia. I offered to buy all the beer and contribute to his favorite charity (which I figured ensured I’d be donating to myself) if he beat me at darts. If I found the winning double first my only request was that BlackHorse change his screen name to Nancy.
Not surprisingly, this request irritated a couple of politically correct people who are probably homosexuals and going to vote for Hillary Clinton. One person (whose name I am not going to mention because, well… he might be a member of the frickin’ IRON WORKERS UNION) said he knew a girl named Nancy who could whoop my ass silly. It sounded kind of exciting to me so I asked him to set up the match and have her wear a bikini. Yep, I’m an expert on sexism too.
I doubted BlackHorse would accept my challenge but he did, immediately, which is worrisome. He even suggested I bring a bunch of my books but then reconsidered, pointing out that by the time we met it would be warming up in Vancouver “so we won’t need any bonfires.” So he’s goading me…
It was as we began to sort out the details that I realized it might be unwise to venture into a foreign country where pretty much everybody brandishes a hockey stick and tough guys like BlackHorse and his buddies aren’t shy about tossing a few loonies around in the bars.
So loony that I am, I suggested we meet at a tournament in Portland instead. Portland is in Maine, of course, and about as far from the dangers of Vancouver as you can get without crossing an ocean.
Well, it turns out that there is another Portland and it’s in Oregon, a state somewhere in the Wild West near Mississippi where it is rumored there are real live cows strolling about the streets. So probably there’s a good Indian restaurant too.
Again, BlackHorse readily agreed, which is even more worrisome.
So I’m heading to Oregon to attend the longest running tournament in the nation, the 39th annual Oregon Open on April 11, 12 and 13. I’ll be toeing-the-line against a man called Horse who soon will be known as Nancy. It’s all for charity and graciously being arranged by Christina Oakley of the Portland Area Dart Association.
I am led to believe that El Comandante himself, the Benevolent Dictator Supreme of SEWA – Erik McVay, is also contemplating an appearance. McVay and I have some unfinished business – a similar match for charity that will see the loser squeeze into a pretty little dress.
So the real darts action this April will be in Oregon…. and when the day is done McVay and Nancy will be gathering up their Barbie dolls, throwing a few muffins into their Easy Bake Ovens and crossing their legs as they sit down for a quiet tea party to commiserate over missed doubles.
And me? I’ll be out with the MEN, rustling cows, racing my shiny red Impala and, maybe, tossing a few darts with babes in bikinis before heading out for a nice Indian dinner.
See you in the Wild West ladies.
Let’s play darts and raise some bucks for charity!
From the Field,
Dartoid
