Reflections of Isau (5)

[Eynhallow 412]

Firstly, allow me to apologize for being so “reflective” this morning.  The preponderance of these articles is due to a TPE snafu and this is the only way to regain TPE that have been subtracted.

 

I just read a poem by Elliott Rosenberg called The Hockey Player:

 

So many faces, so many players,

Wooden plaques hemorrhage from the trophy chest,

My elbow pads half snuggled between padded pants,

Giving that welcoming aroma of youth.

 

Break the ice,

Eighteen degrees Fahrenheit,

Winter carnival has begun,

A wooden puck from Victoria,

The dominion cup is born.

 

Pass the bung Colonel Hockey,

Windsor claims glory,

For the wrath of the rover skimmers,

Head-manning over the glassy surface.

 

Forward fifty years,

Ice dams dimly melt my breakaway heart,

For I have aged past the red-line,

Charging towards the blue-lines of eternity.

 

The intimations of mortality mentioned here and the fact that it has started to snow outside caused me to reflect on playing hockey as a kid growing up in small town Northern Ontario.  This would be the shoulder season.  Not quite cold enough to freeze the ponds nor to make a backyard rink.  I remember the vivid sense of anticipation.  How you could hardly wait to lace up your CCM’s, grab your stick and glove and go play shinny with the neighbourhood gang.

 

With the relatively recent advent of outdoor professional games (i.e. The Winter Classic) it should be pointed out that it really was not that long ago when all of these games were played outside.  It was not until I was 13 years old that I played on artificial ice, and that, in fact, was still an outdoor surface.  Maybe more pro and junior games should be played in the great out doors.

 

Words 293 (incl. 90 for the poem)