The Game

Sitting on sidelines pondering the mindless feud of twenty something's from afar, the clicking of sticks like heavy raindrops on a dirty window. Transfixed on jerseys weaving in and out, sideways and backwards impossible to keep focused on just one. Spectators with their eyes gleaming ever forward, minds ablaze with visions of slapshots and hat tricks for the win. Direct and swift but graceful, he who represents all moves unexpectingly forward into what seems to be an immovable rock and just then, a break in the valuable un-silence as the red "0" blinks into a "1" on a flickering scoreboard high above the heads of the eager, young men. Sticks blast upwards in abundant congratulations for the player, a solid boost of confidence. Surely another successful play like that again. Another few measures of time before a noise like that of an air horn sounding its voice in attempts to halt the romping of bodies against each other and against glass. The period is over.

It begins by the sound of a whistle as if a bird is caught indoors. The unmistakable clicks start again, impossible to be swayed. Grunts too, as you peer into the eyes of a player's face being forced firmly against smudged glass. A solid hit for sure. Another whistle, a goal for the opposing team, and a fight ensues. Shivers creep through the blood vessels in your legs, you feel your team's anger radiating across the rink, the thought of "let me at 'em" catches you. You are enflamed and at that moment, it’s more than just a game. Once again another whistle, though this time a penalty. Your favorite jersey pushes slowly out of the rink, into a box and he hesitates to take a seat. You feel his pain although this time, your own threat grows personal. A glance back at the flickering board overhead, the score is demeaning in a way. Four, two to the opposing team. Men in stripes follow players like teenagers to a celebrity passing through their hometown. The blow of a whistle as your eyes again scan the field of battle and hesitate, the last period is about to begin.

The madness starts again like clockwork only this time there's a weight that snails through your blood like lead. This is the anticipation you've been waiting for, the beads of sweat falling across your face as if this was your last life in an arcade game. You can't help but stare them down, pleading your pawns to "make it." A shot rings out before a calm ping of a goalpost. You jump up! Screaming from insanity, anticipation, and excitement. They're still in it, you're convincing yourself that they've got what it takes to pull it off. Less than two minutes left in what seems to be this never-ending last rebuttal for a chance at a happy afternoon. The spectators are restless as the last play is preformed just before the period ends. And then, out of the corner of your eye that special number you've been following enters the frame. As if it was a slow motion action scene from a movie, the extra fabric of his jersey folding against the wind, he blasts through a wall of defensemen and confronts the beast ahead at the net. One final click of his stick and the game is over. He scores and the home team wins, victory at last.