there shouldn’t be tardiness penalties at all in academia. there’s already incentive to show up on time to class, because you want to learn, if you need to learn and want to pass the class … then you’ll show up on time.
The vast majority of people who show up late do it by accident, and penalizing someone for something that couldn’t be helped and even they didn’t want to do inhibits learning and creates a toxic environment.
when the penalties are stronger for showing up late than not showing up at all, you know you’ve fucked up. and no that doesn’t mean make the penalties stronger for not showing up and still have penalties for tardiness. like who the fuck does this benefit? it literally harms disabled students the most tbh lmao.
students who are sick all the time, students who have mobility issues and take longer to get to class, etc. like … these are the students harmed by these policies, among others.
There doesn’t need to be any more incentive to show up to class other than passing it. if you can pass the class without showing up … you didn’t need to show up in the first place.
Non-hockey Check Please fans… ya’ll kno the Sin Bin (fine buckets) is named after the penalty box in hockey right? Like it’s not just a casual choice? It’s the affectionate name for the penalty box? In hockey? Which is one of the central parts of this comic? The angry ice knife game whose fratty culture in central to the themes of said comic?
“… well, I have to say, Mark, we always say that hockey can be a violent sport but this game is downright– good lord that check was brutal!”
“Yes, Zimmermann is looking to the ref for a call on that one. He’s not going to get it, but some heated words are being exchanged.”
“You know, I think Jack might actually get into a fight this game. He usually avoids it but–”
“It doesn’t really make any sense. The Aces and the Falcs are rivals, to be sure, after facing off in four Stanley Cup finals, but they usually keep it clean. There’s a lot of respect on both sides.”
“Not this game. I thought Zimms and Parse had buried the hatchet after some tense years early on playing against each other but this is vicious.”
“And Tater has just gone after Troy Swoops again. Or no, wait, Troy has gone after Tater. They’ve already fought once but a trip to the bin does not seem to have cooled them down at all.”
“This really isn’t making any sense. Lately, social media would have us believe that these two teams are quite close. Both have been at the forefront of LGBTQ issues and are huge donors to ‘You Can Play’ and– well, now Thirdy is shoving Ethan Vanderbu– Yup, it’s another fight.”
“Thirdy and Vander this time. For the folks just tuning in, this is the third fight between Falcs and Aces this game.”
“And it’s still the first period.”
“And it’s November.”
“No reason at all for this type of animosity.”
“Oh, no, it looks like this is turning into a bit of a brawl. Lots of things being said here. In fact– let’s cut down and see if any of our mics are picking up some of what’s going on. Diana, down to you.”
“Yes, William, so from what I understand, I think the root cause of these issues is something to do with… a fundraiser?”
“There was that NFL/You can Play fundraiser just last night. Both teams were in attendance. You’re saying that’s where the problem started?”
“I think so, Mark. During the first fight between Tater and Lux, I heard something about blueberries? And here, listen in on this:”
“Goddamn, Parse, you’ve got to let this go.”
“I BID $15,000 DOLLARS, ZIMMERMANN! DON’T TELL ME TO LET THIS GO!”
“You didn’t have to pay it! It was a blind auction. You didn’t have to pay anything!”
“I DIDN’T GET ANY PIE, YOU ASSHOLE. I WOULD HAVE GLADLY PAID MORE! HOW COULD YOU HAVE POSSIBLY KNOWN TO BID OVER 20 THOUSAND DOLLARS??”
“Well, obviously, that’s how much the pie is worth, Kenny. I just bid a fair price!”
“YOU LIVE WITH HIM! YOU! FUCKING! LIVE! WITH! HIM!”
“Ah, well, let’s cut away from that shall we. Clearly, this fundraiser left some sore feelings on both sides of the teams. I– oh, yes this a brawl now. Tater and Swoops are back at it.”
“And Snowy has left his goal and– it’s a goalie fight.”
“YOU KNOW I LIKE THE BLACKBERRY JAM MORE THAN YOU! I DESERVED–”
“Could you move away from the rink a bit, Diana, your mic is picking up–”
“Well, Mark, it looks like the ref is giving penalties to– everyone.”
“Yes. Everyone is going to the bin. Literally everyone on the ice.”
“It’s going to be a hell of a time fitting in there.”
“Well… this is a bit ridiculous. Entirely unprofessional really, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I actually managed to snag a peach pie at yesterday’s fundraiser and let me just say it was literally the best thing I’ve ever put in my–”
You’re 18, and starting over is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.
You thought that breathing wouldn’t be something you’d have to learn all over again, but it is. It’s like as soon as you stopped on that bathroom floor, even just for a few minutes–it’s like you forgot how. Every time you inhale, it’s a conscious decision. One that you’re barely sure that you want to make. It rattles painfully through you like your lungs have rusted over, broken-down gears in a machine that doesn’t work anymore. You don’t know if they can be fixed, if you even want them to be.
You breathe anyway.
You’re 18, and this hospital room is too cold, and a nurse gently asks you if you know why you’re here. You do.
You’re here because when you were 10, you felt like you weren’t good enough, and when you were 15, you felt terrified, when you were 17, you felt overwhelmed, and when you were 18, you didn’t want to feel at all.
You don’t say any of this to the nurse. You nod instead. She continues to talk, but you don’t pay attention, instead letting your eyes drift over to the newspaper on the table next to your bed, open to the sports section. You’ve read the headline a few hundred times by now. You read it again, just in case it’s changed. It hasn’t yet. Maybe next time.
You’re 18, and as you settle back against your pillow, you think about what your mom said, about taking a break. No hockey for a while. You consider it, and you can’t decide if it would be more like cutting off a limb or removing a tumor.
You think there’s only one way to find out.
You’re 19, and by now you’re used to how the parents look at you when they think you don’t see.
It’s never exactly a look of contempt. More morbid curiosity, even fascination. Like you’re a zoo animal, something to be gawked at for a few hours each week and talked about briefly under their breath so the kids can’t hear. You don’t know what they’re trying to see. Do they think you’re hiding something? That you have a stash of blow in your duffel bag? That if they can catch you at just the right time, they’ll see you shooting up right there on the ice?
Fuck them, you decide.
You have a job to do here, and it’s a good job. The kids call you Coach Z, just Z, and they let you forget there’s any letters beyond that one. You help Eli with his speed and Julie with her accuracy, and you don’t look outside the rink.
Whenever the kids win a game, they mob you afterwards, fight to get in closer to you, and it feels good. They either don’t know or don’t care. To them, you’re just Coach Z. For now, that’s all you want to be.
You’re 21, and it’s just your third game at Samwell when a massive D-man from Harvard slams into you from behind. A penalty is called immediately, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re facedown on the ice, dazed, and your ribs ache like hell. As the D-man skates to the penalty box, you can hear the sneer in his voice.
“Heard you liked snow more than ice, boy wonder.” Another coke joke. Original, you think dryly.
There’s a medic skating toward you. You can get up on your own, but he insists on taking you back to the locker room to check out your ribs.
As he’s finishing up (some bruises, but nothing broken), Shitty enters the locker room with a second medic. He’s walking gingerly. You ask him what happened.
“I went for the guy that went for you. Didn’t work out great for me,” he says, sitting next to you on the bench with a wince.
You stare at him, temporarily dumbfounded. You ask why.
He’s your teammate, he tells you. And your friend. Right?
You look at him, this skinny younger kid with shaggy hair and a mustache half-grown in and ribs quickly becoming an abstract painting in shades of purple, and you realize he’s probably the closest thing to a friend you’ve got.
You hold out a fist, and he bumps it gently. “Got your back, brother,” Shitty says.
Yeah. Got your back.
You’re 23, and you have a problem.
More precisely, a short, blond problem. With a penchant for baking.
It’s not that Bitty’s not talented. He’s fast, and he’s got good hands. But if he can’t take a check on the ice, he’s never going to be a good player.
You like solving problems.
So that’s why you thought this was a good idea. But now, as you stare down at Bitty, who’s curled up on the ice, trembling, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, you start to have some doubts.
The thing is, you recognize that look in his eyes. That fear. You’ve been there before. And you don’t want to leave anyone there, not if you can help it.
So you set your mouth into a firm line and order him to get up. You check him, just softly and slowly so he won’t be so scared. And you do it again. And again. And again. By the end of practice, he’s still shaking. But he’s not curled up on the ice any more. You decide that’s enough of a win for today. You learned to embrace little victories years ago.
You’re 24, and you’re outside your new apartment, and you already miss them so much it hurts.
You don’t remember what it’ll be like again tomorrow, waking up without Shitty just a bathroom away.
You can’t imagine coming home and not finding Holster on your couch, yelling about…Buffy, or Liz Lemon, or whoever is the star of whatever he’s watching.
You can’t think of coming home and not having the kitchen table smell like Ransom’s highlighters, or hearing Dex and Nursey argue a room away, or hear Chowder’s workout playlists blasting from the basement.
But you have to, don’t you?
You have to unlock this door, sit on the nice new furniture you picked out with your mom, open your fridge that won’t be full of mold and too many bottles of Sriracha. And in the morning you’ll have to drive yourself down to the rink, shake hands with the administrative team, meet a few of the guys.
And though your team–you can’t stop thinking of them as your team, even if your last game together was months ago–isn’t here, you know that they’re on your side.
You’re still scared about…this, this thing you have with him. Not of how you feel. You’re sure of that. But of fucking it up. Because you know, deep down, he is one of the best things that’s happened to you in a long time.
It’s a risk. But you figured out ages ago that some risks are worth taking.
You’re 27, and you’re tired of hiding.
Really, if they ask you later why you did it, that’s what you’ll say. It’s mental exhaustion more than anything that makes you let it slip. You’re just tired–tired of having to hold back truths and substitute incorrect pronouns–and when you mention offhandedly in a post-loss interview that you just want to go home to see your boyfriend, well. That’s it. You’re just tired.
For a moment, all five reporters are silent, then they start buzzing like wasps, interrogating you, demanding you tell them the things they shouldn’t have the right to know about anyway. You refuse to go into detail. The assistant managers will probably be pissed, but you think George will get it. She’s known for so long.
You go home, and you see your boyfriend, and neither of you turns on the TV. You know it won’t exactly be smooth sailing ahead. There’ll be press conferences, and interviews, and even more scrutiny, and a whole farm’s worth of assorted bullshit.
But when you’re holding him that night, you don’t doubt that it’s worth it.
Because you’re 27, and you’re too in love to care.
And soon enough, you’ll be more. You’ll be 28, 35, 67. Married, a father, a grandpapa. And your life will be messy, and joyful, and so goddamn worth it.
You’re going to be glad you decided to keep breathing.
You’re you, and starting over is the best thing you ever had to do.
“Don’t talk,” Danny warns, barely audible over the furious crowd. “27′s stick fucked up your face real nice.”
That is not what he wants to hear, not even close. Eric shakes off a glove and brings it to his mouth, poking at the aching, bloody place where his mouth guard, and his front teeth used to be. He glides to the bench and shoves Lenny out of the way so their trainer, Mason, can assess the damage. Eric’s vision isn’t blurry and It’s not a concussion he’s worried about.
“..ook ‘ike a ‘ick?” Eric asks around his swollen, clumsy tongue. When Carter snickers ‘yes’, Eric holds up three fingers, their not-so-covert way of avoiding the obscene gesture fine.
Coach leans in to inspect the damage. “Can he play?
“You look like a hockey player, son.” Mason chides. “Tilt your head back.” Eric obeys but keeps his good eye on 27, already sliding into the Avs penalty box. “Doesn’t look like his jaw is broken, just lost a few teeth. He’s fine.”
So much for ‘no surgery in the off-season’, he’s going to need implants like Jack.
Oh, fuck, Jack.
“K’ll the ‘uckers on the p’werpay,” Eric orders around his swollen tongue, “and f’nd my teeff!”
Danny, Eric’s wonderful, sweet, long-suffering rookie, nods emphatically before sending the orders down the bench.
“Your man’s gonna be thrilled, lose any more teeth and you can –” Carter makes a crude gesture with his fist “– wait, does he have fake teeth, too? You guys are going to have so much fun-”
“Gett’n m’re th’n you.” Eric chirps, shaking loose of Mason’s prodding fingers to drop his head and spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor.
“Good, keep spitting, don’t swallow the blood.” Mason chides, applying a butterfly bandage with one hand and aiming a water bottle with the other. “C’mon, swish and spit. Let me see what we’re working with.”
Carter snickers. “Yeah, Bittle, don’t swallow.”
This time Eric spits the pink water all over Carter’s skates.
So I was responsible for proctoring the quiz this morning for the class I’m head TA for. Prof is outta town it was just me.
Everyone but one student showed up. And roughly ~1 hour after class had ended, I was up in the prof’s office complex with his secretary chatting and also finishing my CS lab when the girl comes in absolutely frazzled explaining she’d been up all night studying for the quiz and meant to nap for just an hour and ended up sleeping through class and is there any possible way she could still take it?
And me, sitting there with a cardboard cup of cold coffee, running on fumes and determination and literally no sleep at all–my response was just “I can sympathize with that.” And got her the quiz and an empty room for an hour now.
Is there gonna be a late penalty? Yeah probably. But infinitely better than a 0.
Like this is what happens when you put me, a student, in charge of other students. My response to most desperate pleas is just “bitch me too. The fuck?” and then I work around it with them.