Hockey Part 3
Hockey is, in many places in this world, a religion every bit as revered as Islam, Catholicism or Football (Texas style).
And when you see it played, you can understand why. Is there any truer thing of beauty than a bone jarring open ice hit? The kind that can be heard all the way up in the nosebleeds? The "whoomp" of collapsing lungs and body armor clashing?
One player accelerates on his skates, pumping heavily muscled quads driving the steam engine-like mass, pistoning, homing in on the target, crouched low, like a 240 pound battering ram. And, right before contact, the juggernaut springs up and forward, hands clenched together on hockey shaft, shoulders down but moving up towards the target's midsection. Contact. Superior momentum and low center of gravity assure complete and total annihilation.
On a good hit, helmet, stick, gloves will all go flying willy nilly across the ice, skittering in all directions like shrapnel from a bomb blast. And there will be a brief pause as every eyeball in the place takes in the hit, the crumpled mass of the victim - a collective - "ooh" as much a silent cry of anguish as an actual aural sensation.
And then the crowd will cheer, or boo, or makes one noise in appreciation of this thing of beauty, this primeval clash of titans, the winner skating on, the loser crushed, immobile, defeated. This outpouring is more than mere crowd reaction; this is an "amen" from the flock, signifying "we are cleansed" by this raw display of unmitigated agression. This moment of real.
And when you see it played, you can understand why. Is there any truer thing of beauty than a bone jarring open ice hit? The kind that can be heard all the way up in the nosebleeds? The "whoomp" of collapsing lungs and body armor clashing?
One player accelerates on his skates, pumping heavily muscled quads driving the steam engine-like mass, pistoning, homing in on the target, crouched low, like a 240 pound battering ram. And, right before contact, the juggernaut springs up and forward, hands clenched together on hockey shaft, shoulders down but moving up towards the target's midsection. Contact. Superior momentum and low center of gravity assure complete and total annihilation.
On a good hit, helmet, stick, gloves will all go flying willy nilly across the ice, skittering in all directions like shrapnel from a bomb blast. And there will be a brief pause as every eyeball in the place takes in the hit, the crumpled mass of the victim - a collective - "ooh" as much a silent cry of anguish as an actual aural sensation.
And then the crowd will cheer, or boo, or makes one noise in appreciation of this thing of beauty, this primeval clash of titans, the winner skating on, the loser crushed, immobile, defeated. This outpouring is more than mere crowd reaction; this is an "amen" from the flock, signifying "we are cleansed" by this raw display of unmitigated agression. This moment of real.
posted by Unknown at 7:52 AM
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