A Walk Over To The Ice Rink

I can recall the sound of the snow crunching under my boots as I walked for twenty minutes in the frigid cold. I was on the way to the community ice rink, and it was many years ago. Bundling up and making the trek over to the rink wasn't particularly exciting, it's hardly a story to tell. But, I knew that once I was on the ice, I’d be warm — and then extra layers of clothes would come off, and I'd be having fun. So the effort, from the onset, rarely did stop me from making my way out the door.

Oftentimes the sun rays, reflecting off the snow, made me squint for a good length of time, as I walked down to the rink. It was my iris muscles, therefore, that got the first proper workout of the day. And so my eyes would hurt quite a bit until they had adjusted to the light. If it happened to be cold outside, I breathed in shallower breaths because my lungs would protest, just the same. Even at this age, I could usually tell how cold it was just from the amount of mist that would rise from each exhale. And when the tips of my fingers (though they were protected with gloves) began to freeze, and sting, before I made the full journey over to the rink, I knew it was really, really cold. If this was the case, I’d just pull my fingers back and make a fist within my gloves, to warm them up again — blowing warm breath through the outer fabric, if I had to.

The old hockey skates I had dangled from the laces that were tied into a knot at the end of the hockey stick, which was slugged over my shoulder. And on the way down to the rink, I would double-check that the knot wasn’t coming loose. I was reluctant to make the knot too tight, for my cold fingers would struggle to release it once I sat down on a bench, ready to put on my skates. The walk was long enough that I would muse on the way, about anything really, anything from sharpening my skates to upgrading my gear. I figured, once I was good enough — perhaps when I could stop-on-a-dime, with the opposite foot going forward — I would buy better skates. I would tell myself, that after a season or two of practice, the new skates would give me the edge I needed to outpace, or outmaneuver, the better players I saw on the rink. But at least for now, my main focus was on practice.

I’d take the route that wasn’t the most direct way to get to the ice rink, because I wanted to pass by the house with the dog, and see if I could catch him out. It was always the same white bungalow with blue shutters. The big dog was usually hiding behind the gate. It would be rare if he skipped a beat, no matter how quiet I passed on by — sometimes he would hear me from a few houses down the road, and begin barking fiercely. The initial bark was so loud, that it would make me jump straight out of my boots. Even after years of passing by this house, the dog would still startle me with its bark, when I wasn’t paying much attention. You can bet that I’d swear under my breath when it did catch me unaware. It seemed, that I was the only game the dog knew. I imagined some grumpy old man lived in that house because I never saw him; nor did I ever catch a full view of that dog, for that matter. All I ever saw was that snout of his, with its fangs, through the crack in the fence. It was like something out of the Sandlot… but I was going to the ice rink, not the baseball diamond.

There was another house, that I avoided. It was the corner house. During the autumn months when I was walking back from elementary school with my friends, we’d cut across the lawn in front of that house, for the sake of saving a few paces. No dog barked, or growled, here — but instead, there was the furious voice of the owner, who would yell profusely from inside the kitchen window. And, if you didn’t hurry on across (once he started yelling), he'd open up the screen door, just enough, and give you hell. He wanted to make sure you used the sidewalk — so you'd have to walk all the way around the front lawn. I bet he couldn't wait for us elementary school kids to get out. He played the same game as the dog — can you believe it? What a simpleton!

My brother wasn’t quite old enough when I began going out to the ice rink. He would prefer to do his own thing. It was just me, on my own, and whoever else I’d happen to meet at the rink. I wondered if I’d run into the same group of hockey guys again, from the day prior; and if we’d have enough players to form a decent team this time. It was always a toss-up. But since none of the guys I ever met at the rink, attended my school (even with the school built directly across from the rink), you can be sure it made me question the kind of school I was attending.

Arriving at an empty rink, void of any hockey players, rarely occurred — there was always someone there. As the daylight faded, you could count on the overhead lights to keep the players going; it would switch on, and we’d play late into the evening. I reckon it was one of the better rinks in the city after the Renos; but before the boards went up to enclose the rink, it was just a sheet of ice with heaps of snow along the banks. And now, it was well taken care of — the ice didn’t have any cracks, nor any gaps, and a layer of fresh ice was frozen periodically atop the old. I watched them drag out a big hose for that, once upon a time. The fresh ice reflected at you like a slab of glass, and it made all the players happy as a clam.

Just now as I turned the corner, I could see the players skating in the distance, from about a kilometre away. Further down the sidewalk, my school would appear on the right-hand side; alongside a great big field — and the rink was at the far end. If and when I saw a match going, I couldn’t wait to get on — I would barely get my skates tight enough on my feet, before stumbling onto the ice and waving my stick in the air. The skates, tied with my frozen fingers, would always need an adjustment again; but I'd wait it out; for when I got tired and maybe needed a break.

When I was a kid, the walk to the rink, was what I lived for.