Hockey. A word packed with meaning. In my world, and in many others is has become much more than just a game. It's a coming together of old and new friends, all hoping for cold winter days, just to have a few hours on the pond. It's a place where you can be that hockey superstar, if even for just an instance. It's a personal test of ability and endurance, and an answer to the question, "Do I still have it?" For some it's like riding a bike, for others it's like riding a bike for the first time, but at the end of the day it is as pure as Canadian winter gets. Call it cliche, or iconic, it is passion and nostalgia rolled into one chaotic, beautiful sport.
It's morning, crunchy snow under foot and a bite in the air, means game on. A gathering of guys with a common thread that connects back to as early as some can remember is ignited by a simple sheet of ice. From the first pair of skates, scoring your first goal, and wearing that hockey jersey at every opportunity, if anything is constant in this culture, hockey is it. The game is played on an outdoor rink, tucked away in the back country. A place where I grew up, practically off the map, and is a place where I still call home. It is in this little spot, where it all happens. The sound of blades scraping and gliding across the icy surface, pucks dinging off the posts, the smell of fresh county air, it's a thrill for the senses and truly healthy for the soul. Hockey has been a constant part of our lives from the days before we could walk. Common stories of saturday nights spent in front of the tv watching the game are spread wide across the nation, and have come to be engrained in our hearts and minds almost like a religion. This is our game, our passion, and our commonality.
