to stickhandle through the mostly older people playing street hockey in front of my parents' house. We'd been out there about an hour, my mother was at the front door yelling that it was time for dessert, and moist important, the score was tied. So I called out "Next goal wins?" and most everyone nodded in agreement. A few minutes later, one of Jackson's cousins, and his teammate, put the "puck" in between the pylons we used for goals, and that was it. And then Jackson -- victorious -- burst into tears. He had been having so much fun that whatever solace he might have taken from winning was overwhelmed by the despair he felt because the game was over. He got over it, and was able to participate in subsequent Thanksgiving and Christmas day games without the dramatic finale. And for the few more years we continued this holiday tradition, I think he came to appreciate what his father and uncles and aunts and cousins had always enjoyed about the post-dinner games over the years: the mildly competitive atmosphere, the breaking up of a long day indoors with some outdoor exercise, and the good-old spirit of fun. Before my nephews got older and athletic enough to run circles around my generation, they enjoyed coining phrases to explain why the old guys were winning (the most common penalty was "big butting," and trying to sneak a goal by lifting the puck 20 yards high in the air to a waiting