Page 22 of Hockey 101

That’s just another example of how we admire effort we can see, like gym training. But invisible work—like reading, spending hours researching, or rewriting an article seventeen times—that all gets ignored.

I flip to my diagram of the team positions and note the starting line-up as it’s announced. It feels like a good start.

Suddenly, a strange creature skates onto the ice. It has a large plush head with a huge muzzle, many teeth, and protruding furry horns. It’s wearing a white and purple team jersey and carrying a team flag on a long flagpole.

Dawn and I gape.

What the fuck is that supposed to be? she asks.

That’s Musty the Mustang. Emily jumps up, along with everyone else in the stands. I rise so I can watch.

Musty skates to the middle of the ice and does a little twirl. Then he points the flag to the opposite side of the rink.

Mus! they scream in unison.

He whips the flag towards us. Tangs! our side screams.

Mus! Tangs! Mus! Tangs! The chanting grows louder and louder and finally ends in a frenzy of screaming and cheering.

God, it’s like we’ve landed in some primitive society, I mutter to Dawn.

I heard that, says Emily. And this is nothing. You should have been here during the playoffs two seasons ago. People were cheering non-stop during the whole game. I couldn’t talk for two days afterwards.

Two days I remember with fondness, Dawn quips, and Emily sticks her tongue out.

Also, Musty the Mustang? Where is the creativity? I ask.

All hockey players have nicknames. Emily shows me the roster and explains the nicknames of the top players. Luckily for my memory, they all seem to be lame contractions of their last names.

Once the game starts, I quickly realize the roster won’t be any help at all. Everything moves so fast, there’s no way to tell what positions anyone is playing. And even with their names on their jerseys, I can’t tell the players apart. I try to make notes, but it’s all a blur.

Then there’s a roar of noise and cheering. Everyone is on their feet, and I jump up too, trying to figure out what is happening. We must have scored, because our players are hugging each other ecstatically. The Mus-Tangs chant begins again.

It’s so chaotic. I don’t know how I’m going to keep track of who did anything, I groan. Joy takes pity on me, and I scramble to record everything she tells me.

She points. Big Z scored that goal. Unassisted. He’s the team captain, Vik Zelenko.

Big Z? Please tell me there’s a Big D too, says Dawn.

Joy ignores her since she doesn’t care about D, big or small. She continues, Eventually you’ll be able to tell the players apart. Each player has a unique skating style. And even as they move, they loosely maintain their positions. She draws a pentagon on my page, labelling the positions.

Emily points to the players slapping hands. And, if that fails, watch the players as they do the fly-by. The guy who scored always goes first.

Fly-by, I write in my mess of a notebook. The only person I can distinguish on the ice is Jack, probably because Dawn keeps nudging me whenever he does anything significant. I know from the roster that he’s 6’3”, and he looks even bigger on the ice than he did in my room. I can tell that he’s fast, but beyond that, I have no idea whether he’s a good player or not.

I watch Jack go for the puck behind the net and when he gets it, an opposing player smashes into him. When Jack crumples to the ice, I gasp and jump up.

Oh no, is he okay? Why isn’t the referee blowing his whistle?

Joy scoffs. Relax. Hitting is all part of the game. See? He’s up already.

That was Naked Guy. You’re worried he’s hurt. I knew you liked him, Dawn says.

Don’t be ridiculous, I snap as I sit back down. Joy is right though; Jack is skating away as if nothing happened. And she’s also right in that he skates with a graceful fluidity that I can already recognize.

A memory of the bloodied faces of hockey players on television flashes in my mind. Is that why Jack has a bruise on his face? No, wait, this is the first game of the season. Besides, there’s no way that something as barbaric as fighting is still allowed.

Does hockey still have fighting? I ask hesitantly.

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