Today, summer officially begins. The solstice may be tomorrow, but whenever the proverbial NHL ice has melted is when summer truly starts. I’d be in a more celebratory mood, but the underdogs for whom I was rooting last night fell just a little bit short. I’m still burned that Carolina knocked the Habs out of the playoffs, so revenge would have been sweet (à la game 6 Carolina at Edmonton), but it was not to be. What a ride it was though! There’s no better game than the hockey that’s played in the Stanley Cup finals.
Those of you who know me may be suprised to hear me going on about hockey. Fact is, I followed it very closely for years when I was growing up. That there wasn’t a whole lot else to do on winter nights in the country outside Nelson, B.C. probably explains things somewhat. Really, though, it comes down to a simple love for the quintessential Canadian game.
Back then, my brother and I would be out on our sleepy country road come rain, shine, hail or blizzard. One in the net, the other trying to score. The best moments were on silent snowbound winter nights. If the plow had yet to pass, we’d clear off a section of the road. (A backyard rink would have been nice, but we lived on a hillside.) A never-ending curtain of falling snowflakes surrounded us, deadening all sound. It was like being inside an oversized feather pillow gently fluffed by giants. We had a bright orange ball (all the better to locate in a snowbank) that, when cold, would hurt like hell if it hit poorly protected skin. All you could hear was the sound of your own breathing and the dull thud and thump of stick, ball and padding… It was magic!
UPDATE: Apparently, the sleepy road where my brother and I spent so much time playing road hockey used to be part of the Trans-Canada Highway, way back in the day!