Or an early Tim McGraw hit.
Or a Billy Joel tuneskie about his first wife.
“Alright then.” An impish smile suddenly slips into place. “You boys ready to have some fun?”
“Yes, Coach!” we retort in tandem with tapping our sticks on the ice.
“We’re taking it back, boys,” he warmly chortles as he tips his towards the set up. “Superman time!”
Light laughs begin amongst us; however, unlike in the past couple of seasons, no one stops the track.
Insists we skip it.
We all simply grin at the chance to rewind to a time when the heartbeat of hockey was about good times and good vibes versus game time and paycheck pride.
“You’re gonna start at that end behind the goal line,” Blanc casually points, “wheel to the beams,” he moves the gesture to the foam structures, “Superman,” his hand briefly flattens to mimic the sliding motion we’re expected to execute, “and shoot the puck from wherever Tiny Tendy-”
“Bronskie,” Frosty calls out in his defense prompting Coach to crookedly grin.
Nod in acknowledgment.
“Bronskielands it.”
“Na zemi?” Matty questions from where he’s leaning against the glass.
“Yeah,” I instantly answer. “You shoot from the ground if you can’t get back up on your blades in time.”
“Just like you wouldna chasakh,” Cap reminds prior to demonstrating the meaning of the word with the top of his twig. “Tick. Tick. Tick.”
“Da,” Blanc good naturedly chuckles at the same time he points to our grumpy Russian leader. “It feels like mini mite shit but think about how many times players end up on the ice, fighting on their stomachs for the biscuit.” Coach slowly begins skating backwards. “It’s about gaining control even in theleastlikely situations.”
Frosky and Cap noticeably cut me scolding glances.
Not that I need them.
“Bronskie,” Blanc summons with one hand while pulling a puck out from his other, “with me.”
“Back,” Cap commands to the rest of us, herding the group as is his job. Once we’re there, he instructs, “Wahl, you’re up first.”
“Done son!” Kolby Wahl – aka WonderWahl – one of our defensemen enthusiastically declares and skates to the starting blue line.
“Clap him in boys,” Snowman’s insistence barely precedes him tapping his stick on the ice.
We join Frosky in on the action, hyping Wahl up.
Showing our support.
Solidarity.
It doesn’t take long for him to begin a fast-paced skate across the ice with us shouting out typical motivational shit nor does it take much effort for him to dive forward sliding under the foam like limbo bar.
His plunge receives hoots and hollers and whistles, yet he maintains his focus on sloppily swatting at the puck my little brother has fired off in his direction.
There isn’t time for him to scramble up onto his skates.
Hell, there’s barely even time for him to get into a better position for his stick to simply reach the rubber prize leading his large, long arms to flap around like a pissed off owl in hopes of getting some sort of force behind his hit.
Together, we watch, cheering and tapping for the small black object to slide further but it barely makes it to the crease.
