Snapshot at the Rink Circa 1984

Little boys wanting to be men.  Well, maybe not so little boys anymore.  Changing much too quickly in some cases.  Taking chances their fathers dared when they were there age, no matter how much those fathers would have preferred they didn't.  Wanting so badly to be men.  Wanting to be their fathers, but maybe just a little bit cooler.

To a 14-year-old boy, the Bantam Tournament might just as well have been the Stanley Cup playoffs.  For Phil, Hank, Danny and the rest of the boys, it was their chance to play in front of the home town and the rink was busting at the seams.  Grandiose dreams of playing professionally someday still teased them, though maybe not as eagerly as when they were six or seven years old.

Tomorrow they would pretend at least.  Tomorrow was the opening game to the Bantam Tournament.  Tomorrow they would be 'men' in their home rink.  Tomorrow the the whole town would show up and pack the rink and pretend their boys were men.  There was one more practice before tomorrow.

"Hey, Brian, I hear you did it with Christine Donnelly last night!" Phil shouted across the dressing room as the boys geared up for practice.

"Yeah, so?" Brian said defensively.

"I throw stones at the dogs you chase." Phil yelled back.

"You're going to be sorry you said that, Dickweed!" was all Brian had to say.

Phil cringed inside just as a boy would just after he'd said something that he wishes he could gather up and swallow up, never to be uttered.

Brian stood a good three inches taller than Phil.  Brian came back from summer have grown and broadened as boys do at that age.  This was his second year on the team, and Phil's first.  Phil hadn't stretched out like he would in the next year or so.  He also hadn't learned when to keep his smart mouth shut.  Over his short life, his mouth had landed him on the vinyl bench outside the principle's office.  Once, he'd been sent down to the office for smart mouthing, only to find another recalcitrant boy on the bench.

"You're in my seat." Phil told him.  That's just the way it was.

"Settle down, Brian.  We're on the same team here." said Danny, a first-year just like Phil, but the biggest boy on the team.  Oafish as he was as a small boy, he'd grown freakishly this past summer and now stood 6'3" tall.  Clumsy, maybe.  But he sure scared the opponents.

Thankful for Danny's interference, Phil decided it was likely better for his immediate survival that he should stop with the wisecrackery.

Stepping onto the ice, Phil looked around stands, which were now scattered with only a few parents, mostly fathers, and a few girls.  "Puck bunnies" thought Phil.  And there she was, Christine Donnelly.  Apparently she'd been impressed with Brian's Cassanova ways of the evening previous.  Phil couldn't see himself chasing after the likes of her.  Afterall, as inexperienced as Phil was when it came to 'the ladies', he could still affort to think he'd settle for nothing below Cindy Crawford caliber.

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"Holy fuck!" Phil said, getting back on his skates after Brian pasted him against the boards once again.

"Guess you'll keep your yap shut now, huh?" Laughed Danny as he skated by.

Phil swore he could feel his testicles in his throat.

"Phil!  Get back into the play.  This isn't kindergarten anymore!" bellowed coach Morin. 

Salvation came with the buzzer.  Practice was over.


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Phil pulled off his practice sweater and used it to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He took off his gear slow.  He was hurting now, but had no doubt tomorrow, he'd forget about his aches and play in the biggest game he'd ever played.  Already, he was feeling both the adrenaline and the butterflies.

He grabbed his soap and towels and headed to the showers.

****************************************************

It was less than 24 hours later and the boys found themselves back in the locker room.  Phil could feel a bit of a charlie horse in his thigh, but nothing that would stop him from playing in this game.  He looked across the room at Brian who had his eyes closed, his head slightly bobbing to the music blaring from the portable stereo in the dressing room.  Phil laughed inside.  He'd survived.

The coach entered and walked over to the stereo and muted Bryan Adams.  His speech was short, to the point and routine.  He left the room.  The boys could hear the crowd outside.  Phil dreamed of playing this game almost as much as he'd dreamed of playing in the NHL, and of Cindy Crawford, of course.

The rink was darkened. The boys were lined up in the hall.  A spotlight awaited each player as their names and numbers were announced.  Phil waited for his name to be called.  He heard the announcer bellow his name.  He took a running start toward the gate and lunged onto the ice awaiting the roar of the crowd.

As soon as his skate hit the ice he was no sooner on his ass!  In the spotlight! Oh the crowd roared alright.  Phil, horrified, tried to stand on his skates again. And down he went again!  And they roared again.  Phil wanted to die.  There was something wrong with his skates.  He looked at the blades and it was apparent what was wrong.  There was clear tape on the underside of both blades.  He sat in the spotlight, removed the tape and finally found his way to the blue line for the national anthem.

Phil stood there thankful the spotlight had returned to the gate to announce the remaining players.  While he stood there in his own puddle of horror.  He heard someone calling his name to his left.  He turned to look.  It was Brian.

"Is Christine still ugly, mutherfucker?"


Later......

Deaner