Makers of Ice
Jan 8 2015


Sound carries in the cold air,
which settles densely
on hard-packed snow.
The dull thud
of pucks against the boards.
The rhythmic swish-swish-swish
of steel cutting ice.
The clatter of sticks
battling for possession.

The neighbourhood rink,
with makeshift nets
and a string of hundred watt bulbs
dangling overhead.
With a tired dad, up at 2 am,
cold hose in frozen hands
flooding.

He is a man-child
who loves the game
and remembers playing
until it was too dark to see.
Remembers sitting
in a warm kitchen, with numb feet
picking at laces with freezing hands.

In his imagination
the stands were thronged, and the cheers deafening
when he scored the game-ending goal.
Because in memory, it's always sudden-death.

Now he stands
at the kitchen window, back-lit
looking at circling kids,
who are their own referees, coaches
cheering section,
no adults present.
Where they will learn to be women and men
governing themselves.
Will eventually turn, like him
into nailers of wood
haulers of hose
makers of ice.

Where the secrets of the perfect sheet
come hard.
And every goal
is over-time.


Roy McGregor recently had a terrific piece in the Globe and Mail about backyard rinks. Considering the subject and the writer, you can imagine just how sentimental, nostalgic, and gently nationalistic it was. But I loved it!

I live in a neighbourhood of rink enthusiasts: upper middle class dads who are determined to give their kids the same experience they had growing up. (Saying "dads" may come across as sexist. But it's true: so far, the backyard rink seems to have remained the purview of dads.) There is one in each direction, half a block away. I walk the dog through the snow-covered alleys that run directly behind them. A few more blocks away are two outdoor regulation-sized municipal rinks, side by each: manicured sheets of excellent ice with full lights and boards, and a heated change-room. In an age of global warming and weather volatility, I fear for the future of rinks like this. Thunder Bay isn't far enough north.

I have a "hockey dog". (Or better still, "puck dog": a telling variation on "puck hog"!) She absolutely loves charging onto the ice, chasing pucks and playing keep-away. You can hear the tell-tale thud of pucks on boards from many blocks away: as soon as she hears this, her ears prick up and she's off like a bullet to join in the fun. I, too, think of sound when I think of games of shinny: shot pucks, clattering sticks, cutting skates. Which is where the poem begins.

The great Jean Beliveau recently died. His life left such a great impression on all hockey-loving (and even hockey-indifferent) Canadians that he had what can only be described as a state funeral. I read in his obituary that his mother installed industrial strength linoleum under the kitchen table so the young Jean could come in to eat without removing his skates. Which is how it was: inhaling a quick meal because you couldn't wait to get back out on the ice. I thought of this when I wrote about the warm kitchen and the freezing hands.

I like the pick-up game on outdoor rinks. Because kids will never learn self-regulation and civilized behaviour playing organized hockey on indoor ice under adult supervision. Shinny teaches a lot more than simple skills. And it's mass-participation; no sitting, no driving to and from.

I apologize for such a predictable and sentimental poem. Not only is it perilously close to cliché, it's almost prose: it says what it says, and it's that simple. Still, it was fun to write (and, I must confess, incredibly easy) , and I hope will be as much fun to read. But I very much doubt it will meet the single most important criterion of a good poem: which is that it invites re-reading; and that re-reading opens up new thoughts, images, and meanings. (Although I have to admit, I've re-read it several times. Not because it's profound, but because it's just plain fun!)

(You can see how easy this poem came: as if I was taking dictation. My raw hand-written drafts (which are later revised on the keyboard) never look as clean as this! (I imagine Allied Electric needs some explaining: simply a note jotted down during a phone call that interrupted the writing)):