Hockey (wormhole trip to Collegian)

(This is a re-print of a column written for the JC Collegian 3/28/91)

This is the sequel to my last column. Therefore, it is also the story of the time my brother and I beat each other to exhaustion and tears.
First of all, I have to tell you about hockey. It's a cool game. I am always amazed at the skating ability of these players. They're so busy with strategy and dorky rules that they probably don't even realize that they're traveling at 20mph backwards!

It's also a cool game because, basically, it's socially acceptable violence. Hockey has what is called a "check." Basically, you can slam into a player and dump them on their butt with any amount of force you can muster legally! I think this was originally legalized because the first players weren't as good of players and collisions were so frequent that this was a necessary rule for the sake of the game. Nowadays, it's clearly done on purpose. So, that's hockey as I see it.

Like I said, I admire the skaters. This is probably, at least in part, due to the fact that I cannot skate well. I know this because I've tried.

When I was a youngun back on the farm, we used to clear off the ice and entertain ourselves. Such entertainment led, inevitably, to hockey. We never had a real puck, though. We sometimes used a tin can, but the best substitute was a chunk of ice. Ice chunks slid better but they were harder to see. We didn't have real sticks either, we had real sticks like, from trees.

But we made due. Like any handicap, we learned to play around it. We made due so well, in fact, that John had actually mastered the art of "lifting." (That's hockey lingo for lifting the puck off the ice with a shot so that it travels through the air rather than across the ice. Learn somethin' new everyday.) This technique is much harder to defend against and that makes it an admirable talent. I couldn't do this either.

But, John had mastered it. He could lift it, slide it, slap hanging curveballs, and smash dropping sliders. Not really, but it lifted when he wanted it to and it didn't when he didn't.

So, one day we were involved in a pretty intense game. The score was close and nerves were on end. I had the "puck" late in the game and was bumbling down the ice when John performed a perfectly executed check. In other words, I fell flat on my back, my head hit the ice, my feet flew up in the air, and John went on to score.

Of course, I really didn't care so much that he scored, only that at this moment I could have sworn that I was paralyzed and I knew I was numb. But it was legal. I knew that.

For the first time, I think, I came to realize that things that are legal can, nonetheless, be wrong. In the absence of legal backing, however, I had to resort to another outlet to obtain justice: this meant war!

The next few hours contained some of the scrappiest, lousiest, hockey ever played. In other words, it was great fun. The score became irrelevant. We were playing for another reason: sadism.

But, like Mom always said, it's only fun until someone gets hurt. I got hurt. I was establishing a defensive position at about exactly center ice when John decided it was time to show off. He lifted the ice chunk directly into my face. This was no snowball, mind you. This was pure, solid, 100% North Dakota grown, 20-below ice with jagged edges.

I was upset. Any crime seems much more serious when done intentionally and ruthlessly.

Now that you have my opinion of the situation, let me explain. A lift is only necessary, really, to score. It is strategic then because the goalie must guard both the air and the ground. A long distance lift is not very effective because it is just as easy to stop as any flyball is in baseball. I was at center ice nowhere near the goal. The trajectory of this shot would have missed the goal by miles anyway. Besides that, it was clearly intentional because John had mastered the lift. Just as premeditated murder is more severe than other brands, this could not go unnoticed.

Well, I was crouched over and holding my face. John came over to assess the damages.

"Are you OK?"
"You bastherd!" I guess I was hurt worse than I had thought.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeajb, sthure you're sthorry."
"It was an accident."
"Bull...pth"

I had heard all these standard excuses before. He was establishing his legal position on common, standard procedure. I wasn't buying it.

I was really hurting' now. I was starting to cry and everything was swelling and stinging. I felt woozy. "Dambith John! You're alwaysth hoortee me!"
I was so upset I felt like killing him only I was too incapable of doing so.

Then it happened. I don't know how or why really, but I mustered all the strength I could and hit him across the head with my stick. And I mean I really hit him. I saw his head snap to the side and his feet fly out the other way. Don't forget, he was on ice, after all. I felt, I don't know, it just felt so good to hurt him back for a change.

He got up, torqued as all get out. I tried to be rational. "You hit me firrsthtt!" I pleaded.

He wasn't into it. As I became overwhelmed with terror, he pounced on me. For the next few minutes we rolled and kicked and bit and screamed and really just got tired because it was so hard to do anything on the ice.

In the end, we were both just lying there and crying. I don't know who got up first, but we both got into the house.

We never played hockey again that winter. I think John knew that he did it on purpose. For one thing, he let the fight "be over." Normally, he'd just wait until he felt up to it again and then beat the snot out of me. This time, though, he let it be. I let it be. We both knew we could hurt each other. We both knew we did hurt each other. We both just knew better.