Hockey?
November 15 2011
I’m standing by edge of the ice with all the ghosts of years gone by drifting across the ice in wisps as if they didn’t exist at all. So many tears frozen in the ice where the fans can’t see; where the cameras don’t shine. The boards are bruised and the net is hunched over as if it’s given up the fight. The mesh hangs like the word sorry written on a lunch bag. Skate grooves criss-cross the ice in frozen spider veins and I can almost hear the swish and grind of steel and the wicked slap of puck on tape. “He scores!” all hail the mighty one and then the magnificent imaginary roar from the empty toothless rows of seats . What happened? Where am I? Who am I now?
I am lifted; briefly through memories falling around me like twisted orange leaves in October. I remember the arms raised and the need for more. I am glued here as if by some magical force. Caught between the present and the past now amplified as time erodes my muscles and bones.
I smell the cruel memories taunting the warrior inside me. The long dead soldier who longed to conquer the game. How can I face it? The awful truth that haunts me every single year. I came up short. Oh how close I came. The September ghosts rattle their frosty chains and holler at me to move my feet faster...faster. The dew frosts my windshield and I remember the coach’s words who cut me. “Maybe next year kid!”. He taught me that words were knives.
The smell of my skates; the musky aroma of sweaty leather. How long has it been since I laced up? A year? Two? So many memories flood my mind. My little three year old man brings me back to reality. He’s holding my hand and he has been hypnotized by the winter magique. He tugs at my arm innocently, “Daddy, I want to play. I want to play Daddy!” His eyes aglow with that mystical childish delight in all things new. “I want to fly!” he says proudly, not realizing that hockey is all about the flight.
I hear the voices in my head but I can’t tell if they are my own anymore. Punishing. Shaming. I had it all. Size, strength and an innate ability to understand the game. I failed. I did not succeed. I didn’t make it. I am a loser. I have lost. I am forty years old and the game is over. The lights are dim and the hum of the crowd is a fading misty fog of newspaper clippings.
There was never a chance for grey to exist. No in between. Just win or lose. Feel good feel bad. Laugh or cry. It’s always just beyond my reach behind the trophies and medals collecting dust in cardboard boxes in the basement. Why was it never enough? To win? To conquer? To own that feeling as I looked across the ice at the tears melting and forming scars in the ice from the team we had defeated. The team we had crushed. The team that was the enemy for sixty minutes.
My knees ache and my lower back is stiff in the cool temperature. How many surgeries has it been? Was it worth it? Will I still be able to walk when I’m fifty?
Then I remember the good times. Entire days spent out on a frozen pond North of the city. Days that seemed to go on without end with snowflakes melting on my face as I raced across the ice feeling at peace with the world and all my troubles faded. Hypnotized and magnetized. Never be afraid! Never show fear! The cult of winning bred into the red line like the blood of my flag hanging in the rafters...pushing past all limits. The maple leaf burning the skin and full of desire and promise. It lies...to most of us in the end. Why can’t we all be supernatural if only for one single shift.
I remember Zambonies and hulking janitors in faded green work suits sweeping popcorn and empty soda straws into the garbage. I remember the click of my skate guards at 6 am for Sunday morning practices. I remember shaking my delirious father awake to drive me to hockey. I remember the best Christmas ever, with the adrenaline fuelled cries of “Palmateer makes the save!” as my brother and I play hand hockey all night with my new road hockey blocker and catcher and mini Maple Leaf Gardens hockey sticks.
I remember my father in that awkward sheep skin coat he brought from Russia when we moved here. He was always there watching from the stands like my guardian and now that I have my own son to worry about...it all makes sense.
I remember the Peterborough Pete’s who drafted me at 16, one of the happiest days of my life. I remember playing in England at the Manchester Arena with the fireworks sitting on the bench as the dream blended with reality for the briefest of moments. Six thousand people. It is my greatest hockey memory. I had to sit on the bench during warm-up to watch the show. I felt the hairs on my neck rise and with that same old adrenaline pre-game surge but this was as close to the big show that I would ever get.
Ironic. It was never my dream to play in the NHL...I never had that true desire; that drive. I just loved to play the game and the game rewarded me.
I look down and the decision is made. “Let’s go son, I hope you love this game as much as I do.”
November 15 2011
I’m standing by edge of the ice with all the ghosts of years gone by drifting across the ice in wisps as if they didn’t exist at all. So many tears frozen in the ice where the fans can’t see; where the cameras don’t shine. The boards are bruised and the net is hunched over as if it’s given up the fight. The mesh hangs like the word sorry written on a lunch bag. Skate grooves criss-cross the ice in frozen spider veins and I can almost hear the swish and grind of steel and the wicked slap of puck on tape. “He scores!” all hail the mighty one and then the magnificent imaginary roar from the empty toothless rows of seats . What happened? Where am I? Who am I now?
I am lifted; briefly through memories falling around me like twisted orange leaves in October. I remember the arms raised and the need for more. I am glued here as if by some magical force. Caught between the present and the past now amplified as time erodes my muscles and bones.
I smell the cruel memories taunting the warrior inside me. The long dead soldier who longed to conquer the game. How can I face it? The awful truth that haunts me every single year. I came up short. Oh how close I came. The September ghosts rattle their frosty chains and holler at me to move my feet faster...faster. The dew frosts my windshield and I remember the coach’s words who cut me. “Maybe next year kid!”. He taught me that words were knives.
The smell of my skates; the musky aroma of sweaty leather. How long has it been since I laced up? A year? Two? So many memories flood my mind. My little three year old man brings me back to reality. He’s holding my hand and he has been hypnotized by the winter magique. He tugs at my arm innocently, “Daddy, I want to play. I want to play Daddy!” His eyes aglow with that mystical childish delight in all things new. “I want to fly!” he says proudly, not realizing that hockey is all about the flight.
I hear the voices in my head but I can’t tell if they are my own anymore. Punishing. Shaming. I had it all. Size, strength and an innate ability to understand the game. I failed. I did not succeed. I didn’t make it. I am a loser. I have lost. I am forty years old and the game is over. The lights are dim and the hum of the crowd is a fading misty fog of newspaper clippings.
There was never a chance for grey to exist. No in between. Just win or lose. Feel good feel bad. Laugh or cry. It’s always just beyond my reach behind the trophies and medals collecting dust in cardboard boxes in the basement. Why was it never enough? To win? To conquer? To own that feeling as I looked across the ice at the tears melting and forming scars in the ice from the team we had defeated. The team we had crushed. The team that was the enemy for sixty minutes.
My knees ache and my lower back is stiff in the cool temperature. How many surgeries has it been? Was it worth it? Will I still be able to walk when I’m fifty?
Then I remember the good times. Entire days spent out on a frozen pond North of the city. Days that seemed to go on without end with snowflakes melting on my face as I raced across the ice feeling at peace with the world and all my troubles faded. Hypnotized and magnetized. Never be afraid! Never show fear! The cult of winning bred into the red line like the blood of my flag hanging in the rafters...pushing past all limits. The maple leaf burning the skin and full of desire and promise. It lies...to most of us in the end. Why can’t we all be supernatural if only for one single shift.
I remember Zambonies and hulking janitors in faded green work suits sweeping popcorn and empty soda straws into the garbage. I remember the click of my skate guards at 6 am for Sunday morning practices. I remember shaking my delirious father awake to drive me to hockey. I remember the best Christmas ever, with the adrenaline fuelled cries of “Palmateer makes the save!” as my brother and I play hand hockey all night with my new road hockey blocker and catcher and mini Maple Leaf Gardens hockey sticks.
I remember my father in that awkward sheep skin coat he brought from Russia when we moved here. He was always there watching from the stands like my guardian and now that I have my own son to worry about...it all makes sense.
I remember the Peterborough Pete’s who drafted me at 16, one of the happiest days of my life. I remember playing in England at the Manchester Arena with the fireworks sitting on the bench as the dream blended with reality for the briefest of moments. Six thousand people. It is my greatest hockey memory. I had to sit on the bench during warm-up to watch the show. I felt the hairs on my neck rise and with that same old adrenaline pre-game surge but this was as close to the big show that I would ever get.
Ironic. It was never my dream to play in the NHL...I never had that true desire; that drive. I just loved to play the game and the game rewarded me.
I look down and the decision is made. “Let’s go son, I hope you love this game as much as I do.”
