In the words of jsmooth. Real stories, real laughs, real life. A sneak peak at the fun he has, journeys he encounters, and everything he has some serious time to write about. So take a sec, and enjoy it, on me.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Long live the pond.

Long live the pond.

Skates were laced up, stick was taped, retro hockey shirt was pulled on, and shovel was grabbed. It was time for some good old fashioned pond hockey.

The air was a crisp -15 or so, but really, who needs to feel their face, toes or hands when you're playing hockey anyways?! Eight chums converged on the frozen swamp with shovels in hand and begun the rather long, but elegant job of removing snow from ice. Skating back and forth, up and down, side to side, until the light glimmered off our playing surface, and it was ready.

Each player's secret 'pond-hockey-only' stick was brought out, revealing 8 hunks of tree branch, colourful tape, and a whole lotta splinters. They may look like junk, but these babies have been with us through thick and thin, and have been apart of every re-inactment of every great goal ever scored by our hero's. Ah yes, the sticks are out from their summer hide-a-ways, and its time to rock n' role. They were all gently tossed into the middle of the rink, and teams were chosen.

The puck was placed in the middle of the not so smooth ice, and faceoff rituals commenced.

Game on.

The goals were racked up, and the arguments about the opponents net being bigger than the other began. The lights began to dim, the temperature continued to plummet, and the game went on. Toes were well past frozen, and lips were chapped to the max, and all that mattered was the puck.

No one really ever knows what the score is, somewhere up in the 90's by the games end, but that doesn't really matter. Stats are never really kept, but that doesn't really matter either. The only thing that is remembered after a game on the pond is the game itself. The hours on end that were spent circling the ice time and time again. The sweet passes, nice deeks, and brutal falls that were made in the game.

"Next goal wins!"

The famous words are said, and a mad dash to the net is made, ending a long, hard fought game of classic pond hockey. The winners are dubbed champion for that day, and everyone goes home to relive the game winning goal that is so saught after, the one who potted the winner goes home hero for a day, but a day only. For the game of pond hockey never really ends, sleep is the equivilent to a commercial break, school just means intermisson and food is only eatin because it keeps you moving. But the game itself lasts an entire winter of endless fun, long lasting memories, and nightly laughs.

"Pain heals, chicks dig the scars, but glory lasts forever..."

... or at least 'til the next night.

Long live the pond indeed.



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