The Baptist Church

We used to play hockey in the parking lot of a Baptist Church, in South Buffalo. I couldn't tell you the actual name of the church, as I still only know it as the "baptist church". It was a natural place to meet up for games of hockey, as the parking lot is quite big, and someone (we thought it had to be a church member, but looking back I'm not so sure) painted hockey like markings on the blacktop. I say hockey like markings, because everything was crooked, and nothing lined up. Both of my brothers played there, as well as most of the neighborhood kids (for better or for worse, it was scary to be matched up against drug dealers who weren't afraid of flashing their weapons). I spent hours and hours there, crafting my trade and trying to impress the girls who would inevitably stop by. One of the last times I played there, my youngest brother (Scott) was playing goalie, and was stopping everything the other team threw at him. I was on Scott's team, and my younger brother (Chris) was on the other team. A kid from the neighborhood (Brian) took a shot that Scott stopped and trapped on the ground with his baseball glove (this was south buffalo, no fancy street hockey equipment there). Brian proceeded to hack and slash my brother, using every demeaning curse word used at the time (faggot and bitch come to mind). My brother Chris immediately dropped his stick, grabbed Brian by the throat and slammed him against the brick wall of the church (Brian was bigger than Chris). I did my part by threatening Brian's life with a variety of adjectives. Brian apologized to Scott, and we continued to play the game. My friend Paul, who was hanging out with us for the first time that day, left sometime during the scuffle. We thought we scared him off (maybe we did), but he's still around, and one of our best friends.