I just discovered that my husband is an elite, viking sport athlete in the ancient game of varpa. While he failed to make the final *cough choke* he did manage to knock out the local favorite in quarter finals during the midsummer celebrations yesterday.
Varpa is best described as a game along the lines of throwing horseshoes except you throw a round disk with finger holds which kind of reminds me of a kid’s finger prints in a cement cast.
But now I sound like I’m mocking the game, ehem, I mean sp0rt. (How can one doubt the magnitude of this sport when you can find a YouTube video of the 2007 Swedish championships?). Like in boules, points are scored when the throw comes closest to the marker.
Tomas, the local favorite, enjoyed a cheering squad. Any time he won a point the crowd went wild (well, the 4-7 of his buddies shouted enthusiastically at least.) I was busy watching the kids, so I only gave a resounding cheer when the husband appealed to the crowd for some support on his side. Our two other friends on the sidelines (knocked out earlier in the competition) cheered silently.
It was obvious who was through to the semi-final by the silence after the final throw.
The calm at first worried me that there might be an angry mob marching on our friend’s cottage later in the night demanding a moonlit rematch. Instead, in true sportsmanship spirit (this a viking sport after all), Tomas pepped the husband that he would likely take the title. We already know that my champ didn’t make it through the semi-final. But the crowning moment was in fact that quarter final victory.
Strutting off the pitch he turned to me in response to an earlier naive query if he was familiar the varpa technique and smugly asked: “Are you still wondering if I know how to throw one of these?”
I guess I was a winner too. I got to take home the new hero.
Oh, and I won the alcohol lottery later that night. No pitchforks or torches to report thankfully.
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