Stick on the ice

The familiarity of the rink is remarkable, in this foreign place with no history of the game. From the moment I heave my bag from the carpark asphalt, my body falling into position beneath its weight, I know what is going to happen. That pre-game apprehension, the buzz through my arms, legs, straining for the ice. They know before my head does. The smell of the arena hits me as we strain through the doors, breath barely visible in the air. It is ice, the sound of carving skates and sticks coming together, whistles blown and flashing colours below me. I am home.

And pulling on my loaner jersey, blue and white stripes, old-fashioned, like something from a black and white photograph, dressing-room smell in my nose and the sound of sock tape in my ears. The feel of my hands inside worn gloves, fingers sore from skate-laces. Through all of these sensations, hockey is a full body experience in the most subtle of ways. The trepidation, rocking back and forth as we wait, zamboni roars past us. First one skate on the rink then a push, and away, all subtle discomfort is gone in that moment, we take to the ice.

Our first game was both uplifting and frustrating, as we fell apart with six and a half minutes to go and lost our lead. But the sheer thrill of being back in the game, back on the ice, was enough. Enough to keep me going, loving the stiff arms and legs this morning and the prospect of going back for more tonight. I did not realize how much this had meant to me until now. How much I missed hockey.