“[F]or a child raised in the northeastern United
States and southern Canadian provinces, hockey and ice skating in general are
of surprising emotional significance, combining as they do, so early and for so
long, social and private experience. Also, they provide an arena in which other
people and an intense physical environment are positioned precisely to confront
one's young and relatively untested, unknown body. As evidence of the staying
power the experience holds, this past winter I've walked down to the pond in
the meadow in front of my house perhaps as many as eight or nine times, where,
lacing on my skates, pushing off, gliding in slow, rhythmic ovals around the
pond, alone and out of sight of the house, my mind backtracks in time, until,
before I am aware of it, my physical responses (to the glassy smoothness of the ice, a slight pinch of the toe in the
left skate, ears, nose, and chin crystallizing in the breeze caused by my
body's swift movement through still, cold air). and the loose flow of my
fantasies (of suddenly breaking free of a
tie-up at the boards, he's got the puck, he's going all the way in, the
goaltender's ready for him…and whap! a
slapper, and the goaltender goes down to his right for the puck, too late, and
HE SCORES! glides humbly, suddenly relaxed, past the net, shakes loose clumps
of ice shavings from his skate blades, moves like a gentle bear down the ice
toward his own goal and his jubilant teammates…), at times like that, when
I'm skating alone, my physical responses and my fantasies are coming straight
out of childhood.”—American fiction writer Russell Banks, “Defenseman,” in The Angel on the Roof: The Stories of Russell Banks (2000)
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