(no subject)
Hey, look - an article about Gopher hockey that just made me cry like a small child. Damn you, jonnymachinegun!
Especially these last two paragraphs:
But maybe most importantly, it’s the five-year-olds I see at the rink on Saturday mornings, when no one’s in the building except me and them, and all they know me as is as the kid who’s driving the Zamboni. They play their games, have their practices, and I see them warming up, skating the length of the ice (taking far too long) and faking this way and sliding one in and, hey, just maybe, if they were a little bigger, they would have looked just like Tyler Hirsch beating Wade Dubielewicz. And then maybe they make their first visit to the rink later that night, getting their first close-up look at the arena. Wow, Dad, how many guys are on that wall? Why are they up there? Dad, who’s going to be up there next? Hey, Grandpa, how many of these guys did you see play? How many banners are there up in the rafters, anyway? There sure are a lot. Why do all those kids say the same things after the other guys get a penalty, why do they all point at the goalie and yell? What are they saying? What do you mean you can’t tell me? Hey, Dad, we scored! What did everyone just say after the band stopped playing?
And then maybe Dad leans over to his son, as my father did to me, and maybe he wants to tell him about all the goals he’s seen, all the great players he’s watched, all of the championships he’s watched when he saw his team play this game, and what a game it is. Maybe he wants to teach him the words to the Rouser and the Minnesota March, and tell him just exactly how his dad reacted when Grant Potulny picked up Jordan Leopold’s shot after it deflected off Johnny Pohl, how Grant picked it up and slipped it under Matt Yeats and the whole state of Minnesota went berserk. But he doesn’t have time for all that. He knows that his son will pick that up in time, that soon, for his son, the game and the team will be the son’s and not just the father’s. Instead, he just sums all of it up in one sentence, with one word.
Instead, he just leans over and teaches him how to spell M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A.
*cue sobs*
Hockey tonight, wheeeeeeeeeeeee!!
Especially these last two paragraphs:
But maybe most importantly, it’s the five-year-olds I see at the rink on Saturday mornings, when no one’s in the building except me and them, and all they know me as is as the kid who’s driving the Zamboni. They play their games, have their practices, and I see them warming up, skating the length of the ice (taking far too long) and faking this way and sliding one in and, hey, just maybe, if they were a little bigger, they would have looked just like Tyler Hirsch beating Wade Dubielewicz. And then maybe they make their first visit to the rink later that night, getting their first close-up look at the arena. Wow, Dad, how many guys are on that wall? Why are they up there? Dad, who’s going to be up there next? Hey, Grandpa, how many of these guys did you see play? How many banners are there up in the rafters, anyway? There sure are a lot. Why do all those kids say the same things after the other guys get a penalty, why do they all point at the goalie and yell? What are they saying? What do you mean you can’t tell me? Hey, Dad, we scored! What did everyone just say after the band stopped playing?
And then maybe Dad leans over to his son, as my father did to me, and maybe he wants to tell him about all the goals he’s seen, all the great players he’s watched, all of the championships he’s watched when he saw his team play this game, and what a game it is. Maybe he wants to teach him the words to the Rouser and the Minnesota March, and tell him just exactly how his dad reacted when Grant Potulny picked up Jordan Leopold’s shot after it deflected off Johnny Pohl, how Grant picked it up and slipped it under Matt Yeats and the whole state of Minnesota went berserk. But he doesn’t have time for all that. He knows that his son will pick that up in time, that soon, for his son, the game and the team will be the son’s and not just the father’s. Instead, he just sums all of it up in one sentence, with one word.
Instead, he just leans over and teaches him how to spell M-I-N-N-E-S-O-T-A.
*cue sobs*
Hockey tonight, wheeeeeeeeeeeee!!