In the old films, the ice looks more like
winter, the boards were boards and clear. I see the lone official
out for a skate, flipping a puck in the air. He seems
in no rush for the teams to appear, his long stride
preoccupied and familiar. He swings by again
and I see it’s him, Red Storey, younger here
than that long afternoon in his home
with his souvenirs and second wife.
I think of him there in his chair, his legs
wrapped in a blanket. He lifts his hands and looks at them
absently, turning them slowly back to front, the massive hands
that sent off Harvey and Howe, placated the Rocket and Lindsay
and Eddie Shore. He says she taught him how to use a spoon
again and hold a pen and clear the clutter of his memory.
Now she’s taking his old brick house apart, peeling
the years from his walls, pulling down shadowy
paper, looking for the house beneath.
What were you thinking of, Red, gliding by
so long ago? How ragged the ice in the Forum seemed
after Detroit? How to keep the crowd from lynching bloody Lindsay?
Or that subtler trouble with Sawchuk, who’d lead the Red Wings
onto the ice? He’d told his first wife about that moment,
the two teams slowly circling, tension building, and Terry
veering over to ask that crazy question.
Where to begin with the guy? Even after 50 years,
it nags him like a wrinkle on his ankle. What he came to me
wanting to know, Jesus, I thought he was joking.
The winter day gives in. He tugs the blanket close
around his knees, but even as I rise in the darkening room
to go, the voice begins again. The talk on trains. Lindsay waiting
in the tunnel and waving a stick in his face. A voice in Boston
that could rub the skin right off you. Hey, Storey, ya bum!
We got a town down here named after you!
Finally his wife appears to mention the hour,
reaching in to switch on the light. You hear an edge
to her voice too, a toughness you’d want in any scrap
with time. Out in the hallway, the acid fumes
of wallpaper stripper, her warning
to watch the icy steps.