The Rink

I had been asking Bob all week when the ice would be ready. He’d reply with the patience of an old dog amidst a new litter, motioning out the window and smiling about how it needed to snow just a mite more and mabye, if this cold held out, we might just be skating this time next. I remember hanging off his words. “Say it’s ready, already!!”

So I went away for a few days to a place where fresh ice means multiple car pileups. I forgot, momentarily. But as my father turned his freezing steering wheel into the village, long dead at 10 PM on a Sunday(my birthday, nonetheless), I found myself straightening up in my back seat to hopefully catch a glimpse of those familiar lights. I was rewarded, not only in my field of vision, but also by a shiver of goosebumps that extended through my hands. I felt the sweat in my palms, the ice on my big toes. Shinny season was here again.

So I got out there as soon as I could. Tuesday night, I bent over the same frigid wheel and craned my head to the right, out the window, over the pines and deserted parking lot of the shopping centre, searching for that gleam, reflecting off the stiff night air. I found it and jumped up and down in my seat. That corner, this corner, I skidded into the parking lot and let out an audible “CHYA” to myself as the illuminated crystal of the rink glared back up at those telltale lights. Oh, those lights. How much history had they seen? How many dekes, saucer passes to the shins, blocked shots? How much of my own glory and bitter defeat had they bore witness to? I parked my car and sat, remembering.

I started with the defeats. It was more climatic that way. There was my first and only fight, and with a girl, at that. I couldn’t even remember what we were fighting about. Just that I pushed at her and she knocked me down. Words were exchanged. Parents slipped and slid across to break it up. I had that crushing feeling above my eyes, right in the center of my forehead.

Then there was when I had disgraced my family and team by arguing with the ref about a call he had made…this was way back in my Outdoor League Days (which, as I would later find out, still runs right along, 9 seasons later.) He had to pick me up and throw me off the ice. I sat in the dressing room with my father, as I untied my own skates and sulked, listening to the cacophony of the continuing game outside. We drove home in silence, the same feeling above my eyes.

Those were the big ones. Then I thought about all the turnovers and shots to the shins I had taken, with those lights wincing down at me with each one. I remember leaning my stick across my knees and gliding around, bent over in agony, or disappointment, or both. Every play mattered. Who you played didn’t. It could be a pack of ten year olds and their dads, or the older boys from high school. Either way, if you didn’t play it right, and play your best, you’d find yourself leaning your stick on your knees, spitting a mixture of blood and phlegm on the chipped ivory below.

Speaking of that, there was the time when Matt and I went to the rink on an extra cool Friday night, and, finding it deserted, proceeded to entertain ourselves with a little one-on-one. Pig. Hog. Whatever. Then the boys started rolling up. They piled out of pickups and low Mazda’s and into our room. I remember being scared for the things I’d left in my bag. Puck stealing was prevalent back then. It was a big deal.

We waited in anticipation, flipping the puck back and forth and scraping slowly about. I wasn’t about to go retrieving my stuff, anyway. It’s hilarious to think about it now, actually. But they eventually started streaming out and jumping on the ice. Some of them were smoking, some had bottles in hand. I was even more scared. Were we about to play with these gangsters?

Sticks in the middle. Matt and I got separated by the primordial sorting mechanism, and we exchanged those best-friend “We’re fucked now, buddy.” glances. After the first 15 seconds, it became clear that we were vastly outstripped. They may have been smoking boozers, but they were still somehow more quick and agile than we. I don’t think they even noticed us. I banged my stick on the ice time and time again in an effort to get my hands on the puck for just a couple seconds, but I honestly can’t remember ever getting it. They were just too fast.

Finally, one of the goalies called for a smoke break. We all obliged, but Matt and I for different reasons. While they drew and puffed and swung Hennessey bottles, we expressed our awe by coughing up more blood on the other side of the rink. Turns out they were from Okotoks. When their own rink had melted, they’d driven out to Bragg Creek for some solace. Not that we minded. We were just amazed, on more than one level.

Then I noticed that one of the goalies was back, and taking some shots from the less inebriated. I asked Matt if we should join them for some more kicks, and he nodded as we limped over. They were all lined up on the blue line, blasting them in, mostly wide, but blistering, nonetheless. Everything about these guys was fast. Big and strong. Even their pucks were on fire. I found myself a place on the right point and waited my turn. When it came, I acted on impulse and stepped into a blind slapshot. I looked up in time to see it peek behind his flailing catcher, sneaking perfectly under the top-corner of the crossbar.

I felt them all look around at me. Some of them rapped their sticks on the ice in approval. The guy next to me held out his glove to tap mine and grinned. “Nice shot, man.” I stood in disbelief. Matt looked like I’d just killed a cougar with a toothpick.

Back in the car, I found myself smiling. That was definitely one of “those” moments. Impossible to foresee. Pure, accidental grace. All that, and I hadn’t even stepped on the ice yet. But I wanted to reminisce a little bit more.

I thought of the better parts of the Outdoor Hockey League. If my memory serves me correct, I scored a total of 3 goals in my best season, with two of them coming at home. Hardly Wayne Gretzky, who apparently netted 378 in his best, at 10 years of age. But, as my father said, at least I scored at all. True, I suppose.

I remembered Coach Al Dale screaming at me from the old benches, trying to get my lumbering frame to hustle on the idling puck:

“GET ON THE JETS!! GET ON THE JETS!!”

Even to this day, that phrase has stuck. I’ll be racing some retired engineer for the corner in an amiable, Mid-March Sunday shinny game, and his voice is still there, overwhelming the sounds of our skates and dangling sticks. I always try to skate faster for Al. I wish I could meet him now, and shake his hand, tell him all about that. I’d love to see his face light up just once more.

I keep going. When I was 11 or 12, I used to read this series of teen thrillers based around an Ontario Midget A team, written by a guy who’d played with Bobby Orr when he was growing up. The protagonist was of a certain belief that if you hit the crossbar with a slapshot during practice, it was good luck. I took that to heart, seeing as when I was at the rink, it was always practice. I link all the flashes of memory together, like in a multi-angled movie-trailer reel, so that I see puck after puck peel off into the night. First, the satisfaction of a pounding slap-shot and then, looking up in time to see the puck pin it, and hear the bone-chilling song of the bar. It’s always over so quickly. I take it a step further, saying to myself, “If the puck loops up and over the fence above the end boards and into the embankment beyond, its extra good luck.” I never find those ones. But then again, I never go looking.

Sometimes, it’s more simple. I’ve always stood by the belief that the best feeling in the universe is stepping out to fresh, outdoor ice. First tracks. On those exceedingly rare occasions were I’ve arrived first after a midnight flood, I carve and twirl the whole 180 feet all by myself, in utter ecstasy. Nobody knows the trouble you’ve seen? Try leaving that behind. I usually stay all day, until enough people come and the radiance has been skated all away. It’s okay though. All things must pass. I leave in gratitude, saying a silent prayer to the rink.

I think of when we play posts. There’s all the ones I miss. But there’s also the ones I hit. Like playing Battleship. And then there’s the ones were I’ve had the puck on a string and dangled a couple of kids almost accidentally before remembering I’m playing with other people, passing it off to a stumbling 7 year old on the left wing, who promptly passes it back. I don’t have a choice but to try a weak backhand. But when I get it, me and that 7 year old are Gods. I pump my hand in the air as I congratulate him and pretend I’m Jarri Kurri, him Gretzky. The dad in the Blackhawks jersey laughs. But those are the lighter posts of my career. Some of them have really counted. We haven’t scored yet; they’ve got a pile, and they keep coming. I grab the puck and forget to think. When I wake up, I’ve somehow gotten by those guys who were in the way and the ding of the post is my alarm clock. Yeah, take that, Space Coyotes. But it’s gritty, and selfish too. And you don’t always get ‘em. But when you do…oh God.

I figure it’s time to get out there. But when I do, I find out there’s a practice going on. It’s the Novice kids, and they’re from, guess who? The Outdoor League. I chuckle at the irony. It appears my dreams of skating solo on a frozen, jeweled platter are shattered. But then, in the room, the coach shakes my hand and asks me if I’d like to help out. I look at the other dejected kids in the opposite corner, obviously a pair of new grade 9’s. And then it flows out of my mouth: “Sure. Why not? I haven’t skated for 5 months anyhow!” He grins, saying “See you out there” and leaves me to tie my skates, which have hardened up with disuse. I grab my gloves; the same, rough stiffness greets my digits. During the winter, my equipment is always soft with the previous days’ sweat, and slipping on and tying up is familiar and easy. Not tonight. I had forgotten, apparently. As I struggle with the rigid tongue of my left skate, the kids in the corner ask me whether I could “booze for them.” At first I don’t understand and they have to explain it to me. I feel old. And the automatic responses continue, as I find myself saying “Absolutely not. Ask your mother.” They sneer and I push the heavy door open to the cold. It all comes flooding back. But it’s a little different now. I’m that kid I used to be afraid of. I’m that kid who I looked up at and thought could do whatever they wanted. Which I guess could have included buying alcohol for grade 9’s. Crazy.

I spend the next 40 minutes contemplating frostbitten toes and patting little kids on the back. It’s very humbling. But they leave early and that gives me some time to myself before the next practice starts, and I use it well. The ice is still relatively fresh; not the insane, crack-of-dawn stuff, but better than usual. I dip and glide, starting at one end and opening up the jets down to the other. It feels amazing, and I can feel my cheeks getting red. The first few shots are weak, but I expected that, and before the Atom parents’ cars start rolling up, I’m ripping them like I used to. I’m no Cullen Colville or Ryan Moir, but I can still do my thing. And I do it well, until the next coach motions me off quietly. I oblige smilingly, grateful for the space that was, and bounce into the dressing room. My toes burn as I pry off my wings, and there’s ice on the big ones. My lungs feel expanded beyond recognition by the icicled oxygen, and God, is it ever good.

As I drive home, toes still burning on the clutch, I see that my rink experiences have always been a prime example of the beauty of simple things in life. If not always pleasurable, they have taught me some serious lessons over the years, and that has resulted in a healthy relationship between us. When I go, I would like to hope that I hold little or no expectation, apart from assuming there will be ice to play on. The rink expects nothing more from me than my playing upon it. I see how when expectations are allowed to fall away, like tonight, beautiful experiences can result. I say a grateful prayer to the rink I’m lucky to have. I sleep well.