For Love of the Game

Noticing the park all lit up the other night, I anxiously snatch a chewed-up puck from the sports tote, and head down to the neighborhood rink with skates and a hockey stick slung over my shoulder. Tracking the smoke billowing out of the warming hut in the distance, I follow familiar sounds of slashing ice accompanied by an occasional slap shot. Grateful that my laces still hold, I tighten up my skates, and putz around the edge of the rink to make sure I can still handle a puck. After gaining some confidence, I cut into the rink to join a pick-up game. Naturally, I accept the title of Old-timer wearing a ratty old pair of Carharts and flannel jacket. I notice a swarm of Little Leaguers chasing two middle schoolers wearing matching hockey jerseys. The Varsity Squad sits on the boards taking turns stealing the puck away from the Jersey Twins, followed by an easy goal and cheer from their sideline posse. Another boy wandering aimlessly on the ice wrestles with a hockey stick three times his size. Each time the Swarm rushes past him going the opposite direction, Thunder Stick hits the ice hard, bouncing back up like a fighter.

With fresh legs, I slip into play, and scrap with some of the Varsity squad for possession of the puck. I send it down to the other end, which is immediately consumed by the Little Leaguers. Pulling up alongside the Swarm, I call for the puck. Surprised to see a big person join their ranks, a Little Leaguer takes a chance, clumsily passing the puck back. After several rounds of this, Varsity Squad gets fired up, bringing in reinforcements. Despite being heavily outmatched, we seem to be making progress now that the Jersey Twins have joined our cause. Granted, the Little Leaguers are abandoning all conventional rules of hockey, dropping their sticks, and hanging off the legs of our opponents like dead weight. This opens enough room for me to weasel through another wave of Varsity Squad, exhausting every last old-school Gretsky move I have left in the tank. Just as I start losing momentum trudging through the onslaught, I catch a glimpse of Thunder Stick picking up speed toward the far side of the goal. Looking like a runaway forklift trying to stay on all four wheels, he manages to call for the puck, cracking his stick on the ice. At this point, all I can manage is a haphazardly flung backhand pass his direction, sending me sliding into the boards on a sea of floating hockey sticks. Miraculously, the puck makes contact with a wrist shot from Thunder Stick, nearly swiping his feet out from underneath him. Clink! The puck cleanly strikes the side post as he careens out of control into a full fledged faceplant against the boards. A hush sweeps over the ice as he stands motionless against the wall. Expecting a volcano of blood to erupt out of this poor kid’s face, he slowly turns around to reveal a widening grin. Everyone on the rink explodes with laughter, applauding Thunder Stick’s goal of the century. Witnessing that spark of excitement ignite in young players is the kind of stuff that keeps rusty old farts like me coming back to the rink. My day was complete.