WINTHROP — The hockey rink is melting.
Every day the solar climbs larger above the ponderosas that shade the rink, their shadows marking the time throughout its floor. One other few days and the season shall be over.
Aaron makes a ultimate sweep with the Zamboni and offers us a wave: the all-clear sign. Quickly the gifted gamers hit the ice, those who’ve skated since they have been kids. They financial institution and glide like swallows over a lower discipline. I’m not ok to be on the ice with them. They don’t thoughts, although. They really feel the tip approaching simply as I do. What issues is to be out right here.
Our rink sits within the lap of the North Cascades. It has no roof and is open to the sky, as hockey ought to be performed. Mount Gardner leans over the shoulder of visiting goaltenders. Once I drive into city after darkish and see the ice lit up under a sky buckshot with stars, and listen to the crack of the puck in opposition to the boards, I’m reminded of the scene in “Discipline of Desires” when the gamers emerge from the cornfield and begin to play baseball.
Peter glides over and gently tells me to roll my wrist extra once I move the puck. Peter is in his early 70s, with a white walrus mustache that hides a number of lacking tooth; he’s a former semipro participant for the Fairbanks Gold Kings. He performs as if he have been born to the ice.
I by no means discovered to skate when younger. My father generally purchased low cost tickets to look at the middling Washington Capitals, although. Even a boy seated within the nosebleeds might see that hockey was essentially the most stunning recreation on this planet.
Once I moved to Japanese Washington at center age, I noticed the rink and felt an outdated love stir. My learn-to-skate class had 4 college students: me, 49, and three 6-year-old women in pink tutus.
5 years later and I’m a hockey participant, the second-worst participant on my crew. No person cares. Each crew makes the playoffs within the valley’s small coed league. The champion hoists a thrift-store trophy. Wednesdays are League Nights. Mates present as much as stamp within the chilly beside the underfed fireplace pit and drink beer and chirp at us as we skate previous.
The second interval ends and Nathan, the referee, skates over to the scorer’s desk, slugs from a virtually frozen beer, then drops the puck to begin the motion. Three weeks in the past the thermometer learn minus 3 at recreation time.
“Chilly,” mentioned somebody.
“However no mosquitoes,” mentioned another person.
I used to suppose that my love of hockey introduced me to the rink. Now I do know hockey is the least of the explanations.
I stroll into the constructing and I say “hello” to Annie in her workplace, and to the three Brians, and to Tony as he’s lacing up his skates. I wave to David and James and Megan as they arrive off the ice after teaching the youth groups. I ask Sammy, James’ child, who’s handing out rental skates behind the counter, about her upcoming recreation.
Within the car parking zone, a Tesla sits beside a flatbed truck. Many people have little in frequent with one another exterior of the rink. However for an hour nobody boosts MAGA, or rails in opposition to Trump’s newest outrage. We pull on our gear and we discuss concerning the one factor all of us agree on. We present up as a result of we’re on the lookout for one thing. And we discover it right here, with each other.
I’m a single, middle-aged author who lives alone in a small cabin, however who can present up on the rink with no invitation and soar on a crew. Nobody minds that I’ll by no means swoop and glide like these nice gamers, or asks about my politics. For an hour or two, we shrug off the sodden cowl of maturity and collectively we chase the uncomplicated pleasure of childhood once more. I come for the heat the ice creates, in our lengthy chilly winter.
Now the rink is melting, although. The water leaks from a spot within the boards like tears.
Someone tosses out a puck. For a number of extra days, we’ll play.
