SOME UNSOLICITED ADVICE for the cocksure weekend warrior: Underestimate the physical demands of curling at your own peril. Go on, question its standing as an Olympic sport, dismiss it as shuffleboard in sweatpants. But “delivering the rock” (that’s “trying to slide the squatty, granite teapot–looking thing as close as possible to the bull’s eye at the other end of the lane” to the sports–of–the–north neophyte) provides irrefutable proof that nothing is easy on ice.

This painfully obvious warning would have recalibrated my athletic confidence at the Granite Curling Club last fall, had it revealed itself before I sauntered out to the ice and flirted with a busted hip. Of course, there were clues when I got there: A laminated list of safety tips posted on the door to the rink that screamed, in so many words, “Remember, moron, pride goes before the fall.” The novice league members, squatting in their lanes, who steadied themselves on homemade braces made out of PVC pipe. The smirk that my coach, Brady Clark, flashed when I exclaimed, “Let’s do this!” as I stepped on the ice and then slipped.

Get Curling

Demand always heats up at Granite Curling Club in Olympic years, so an extra novice league—which includes instruction from experienced members—will start January 3. You’ll need to join the club for $114 (that’s a partial-year membership that ends in April), plus pay $60 for the league. If that’s too much of a commitment, they’ll also be offering open houses on February 20, 21, 27, and 28, during which you can try the sport for $15. Visit curlingseattle.org or call 206-362-2446 for more information.

I overlooked these omens of future humiliation in part because Clark and another member, Tom FitzGerald, had been tag–teaming me with shovelfuls of information about the club and the sport since I’d walked in. First came the history lesson: The Granite Curling Club, ­FitzGerald pointed out with justifiable pride, is the only facility on the West Coast dedicated to curling. Its founders literally and figuratively built the Elks Club Lodge–like structure from the ground up in 1961. (The club’s name, he claimed, is a nod to the quarried stone used to make curling’s 42–pound, handled rocks, but “granite” might as well be a reference to how the ice feels when you land on it.)

Then, as the novices scooted through drills on the other side of a wall of windows, Clark did his best to explain the deceptively complex rules of the game. Curling is, in most cases, played by two teams (or “rinks”) of four. Each player delivers two rocks per “end” (a round of play similar to an inning in baseball), for a total of 16 rocks. The rink that lands a rock closest to the center of the 12–foot bull’s eye (or “button”) painted under the ice gets one point for that throw, plus one point for every rock that’s closer than the opposing rink’s closest rock. The rink with the most points after eight ends wins. And about that furious sweeping: It creates a film of water on the ice’s surface that can extend a rock’s slide by as much as 20 feet. “So,” Clark said, “you want to throw it a little bit lighter and let the sweepers do the work.”

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Then came the bombshell. Clark, who was about to escort me onto the ice for my beginner’s lesson, and his wife, Cristin, have won the U.S. Mixed National Championship six of the last eight years. They’re so big in the curling world that last year writers from The Simpsons enlisted them as consultants for an episode about the sport that will air in January.

Doubters knock curling because of the simple mechanics involved in delivering the rock, and they’re kinda right: Kneel down, rock forward, rock back, launch into a slide on one knee, let go of the rock. Try that on a well–polished parquet floor and it ranks somewhere between bowling and darts on the Al Bundy scale of beer–gut physicality. Ah! But add ice and it morphs into a tricky test of concentration, balance, and core strength.

Experienced curlers hold a broom in their nonthrowing hand for balance. Clark, who’d no doubt sized up my weak ankles from the minute I’d skidded, arms flailing, onto the ice, had me rest each hand on a rock for extra stability as I practiced pushing off of the starter’s block (or “hack”). Not even that was enough support to save me from face–planting—and I hadn’t let one go yet. And a funny thing happened when I did. Curling is as much about finesse and strategy as it is about athleticism; aim your rocks for perfect placement, whether that’s landing on the button or blocking an opponent’s approach. For me, as soon as the rock left my hand it became a primal, adrenaline–­fueled game of survival. I lost track of its trajectory partly because my mind shifted instantly to my pinwheeling limbs but mostly because I ended up on my back.

As I lay there, Clark slid over to help me up (he may or may not have done a little pirouette to emphasize his ice mastery), extended a hand, and offered words of encouragement: “Hey, that wasn’t bad. You’ve got nowhere to go but up.”