On HOCKEY STICK

January 23rd

On HOCKEY STICK

Nine sticks clattered onto the parking lot pavement, and Brad’s stick was tossed by one of the other kids, a curly haired blond, into a pile of five. Brad thought about asking to be goalie, but thought again that it might be better to not speak. The dark green old tennis ball was dropped, and the game began. Goals were frequent, and Brad soon lost track of what the score was. It didn’t seem important to this group of pinch faced, freckled boys that were his neighbourhood chums. Brad dutifully ran back and forth along the parking lot, keeping a bead on the puck but quickly running out of breath. Sometimes he would stop and hit the ground with his stick, calling for a pass like he’d seen other kids do. Then he would stand and wait, and another kid would have placed his stick just under his, so when the ball traveled in his direction his stick would suddenly be lifted up, seemingly of its own accord, and his face would go red with embarrassment, his heart rising to his throat and his temples pounding. He would run after the ball, which had traveled all the way to the other end of the parking lot and into a snow bank. He thought he would impress the other boys by making the extra effort to get the ball, maybe redeem himself in their eyes. The boys talked a lot during the game, but Brad didn’t really register what they were saying. It seemed like a mixture of taunts and hockey jargon, with the names of several NHL players dropped.
Later, the tennis ball would hit Brad in the face when he wasn’t looking and give him a bloody nose. He cried awkward tears that he was trying to hold back but came out in choked sobs. He ran home but came back out half an hour later. None of the other kids said anything. Later on, he and a bunch of other boys surrounded one of the goalies, the younger brother of the blond-headed kid who owned his own goalie mask and a goalie stick but had no pads and used a baseball glove. The kids whacked at the goalie with their sticks until the tennis ball spurted out from beneath one of his shins. Brad touched it, and threw up his arms in celebration, a little too loudly for such a chintzy goal. It was ruled that it had already crossed the line when Brad touched it, so it wasn’t his goal.
Brad went home that night and told his mom he wanted skating lessons so he could join a hockey team, maybe as the goalie. His mom grabbed the Parks & Rec catalogue and they found a good beginner-level skating course at the local arena. Brad had been to the arena a couple of times before to watch some of his friends play. It was cold, dank and loud in there, with a seemingly endless series of dressing rooms filled with loud, sweaty kids. Brad’s mom set a date to go shopping for some skates and a helmet. He played video games for a few hours and then went to bed. He cried a little bit. It had been an emotional day.