I skate out to talk to their goalie at centre ice,
the game half done and the score about 20 to nothing.
The guys put four past him real quick, the building still
buzzing over Mackell and the move he makes on this guy
at the net and how he had those two poor buggers
working their tails off, trying to catch him.
Heads down, legs pumping like they’re skating
for their lives—it’s only an exhibition game, but who
can tell what dreams awaken in your head?
The crowd was wild as they hit the blue line, Mackell
out in front but the pair of them gaining, the crowd
gone crazy, driving them harder, girls who’d never give them
a glance downtown, the teachers and mill bosses’ wives
in a frenzy urging them on, when Mackell reaches
absently back with one hand (I knew this was coming)
and tucks in the tail of his sweater.
My eyes take in the goal pads, stitched and patched,
the taped-up toes of his skates, the battered trapper where
he’s got the puck Mackell puts past him, jerking
him out of his jockstrap. He shakes his head
like it’s all a blur, what happened there.
I could say you need to see the shot
before it leaves the stick, but he’d look at me
as if I had two heads. I start hauling off my sweater
and say, instead, “How’d you like to play
goal for the Boston Bruins?”
Alarmed, he lifts an eyebrow,
glancing around at the crowd and his bench
and his two guys hanging over the boards trying to catch
their breath. “Well b’y,” he says, and I see he’s thinking it over,
“I wouldn’t say no, if you’d like to play
for the Corner Brook All-Stars.”