One of the simultaneously beautiful and frustrating aspects of being a new hockey fan is all that I don’t know. Beautiful because I am constantly surprised. Frustrating because I am constantly playing catch up. (You don’t even want to know how long it took me to understand offsides.)
Last week, as it usually does in general and especially with hockey, the beautiful won.
My dog, the foster dog, my cat, and I were watching vintage games on the NHL channel. We do some version of this almost every day. Last week, it was the 1996 final World Cup game between Canada and the United States. I love watching these old games. I get to know the players I hear mentioned, often see interviewed, sometimes see coach, but never saw play—Messier, Gretzky, Richter, Leetch, Lindros, Coffey, Modano.
I suddenly noticed number 27 on Canada’s team. He wasn’t at the center of the action right then, and what he did was small and quick—two back crossovers, turn, two front crossovers (whistle), stop. I kept rewinding to watch him. He wasn’t skating. He was floating.
He reminded me of my favorite dancers and demonstrated my favorite things about hockey—the flow, the ease, the smoke and mirrors way the players dupe us into thinking it is oh-so-easy. We are really seeing the hours, the injury, the perseverance, the luck, the natural gift, the grit. Yet, as with all truly beautiful things, we let ourselves remain duped. Because that is all we know on earth and all we need to know.