Roger Elliott:  

Each journey home, I often think of her when passing the space she once stood. Although no longer a destination, her memory brings out a smile in me that lasts until I am able to return again. The passage of time has softened some of her edges, the many miles may have diluted her scent, but what I do know, and am happy to report, is that never was a young boy so happy to have had such a special girl in his life. Somehow, I always knew I would never have it like that again, not exactly, but I am forever grateful to have been allowed it once. To have already had what some people search their whole lives for, at such a tender age, is both a blessing and a curse. Saying goodbye to such a friend is passage unto itself. The biggest night, and many of the best moments of my young life, happened there. I saw people hanging from the rafters, amazed that she could harness such emotion, simultaneously providing sanctuary from the stark reality that is winter in these parts. I can still feel the warm embrace from that night, her touch, something I may never fully grasp. In that moment, the electricity was palpable. Often, it was hard to tell where the crowd ended, and the game began. That night, one seemed to flow into the other. The emotion of the game crashed like huge waves that would roll from the stands down to break on the ice, only to be sent reeling back to the onlookers by the rising tide of passion, when the game could no longer contain it. The suspense would escalate, build in waves, until a miscue by one team, or a near miss at one end, would send the play racing to the other with the simultaneous ebb and flow of emotion preceding each event. It would happen again, and again. Like a well choreographed dance between the young Torero, and the older, wiser, woman, the interplay between everyone involved became important not only to the excitement of the crowd, but to both teams as well. Each was dependent on the other to maintain the rhythm of the dance, though expectations, different as day and night as to the outcome of the tryst they had both entered into without promise, or malice of forethought, were yet to be determined. The effect, which would not be felt until the final thrust of the play, would either silence the crowd, or if being played on home ice like that fateful eve, would send participants, both viewers and players alike, into total frenzied mayhem for what seemed to be hours, but more likely were just a few precious moments. How would this ever work? The difference in temperament, experience and soul, between reality, and fascination, all seemed to line up against me in her favor. I didn¿t stand a chance. How would this fairy tale come to an end?I was completely overwhelmed by the noise and passion surrounding that night. She not only had given me exhilaration like I had ever before imagined, but in doing so had changed my life in that instant in ways I may never completely have a handle on. She had won me over before I ever knew of her existence, or the power of her control over my passion for what I thought was just a game. Somehow, somewhere, in the far reaches of my dreams, I knew this was no accident. Her existence, or the mere thought that such a dream could become reality, had given me the chance at happiness that all young boys dream of, and without a doubt, a whole lot of fun along the way. What I didn¿t count on was the lasting effect she would have on everything that touched me, and the cost both real, and imagined, of that personality. If only I could have bottled that feeling for use later on, it might have saved me some heartache down the road. When operating as a single interactive unit, the game, and the dance, both are driven to penultimate moments of excitement and disbelief. The thrill is at once intoxicating and agonizing, for all present and accounted for. It brings to mind that first moment of truth at the doorstep. Standing there beside her, though your heart is pounding and hands perspiring, searching for a signal though not knowing what to look for, the mind knows exactly the goal. After the fact, that first kiss, and the ensuing thrill of victory over your own insecurity, lies undeniably the root in the quest for that same feeling, again, and again. If not for the simple touch of her hand, composure regained, resulting in effortless conversation between old friends, my journey may have been altogether different. However, this two step docie doe, between friend and foe, is one of the great mysteries; one good turn does not always deserve another. In the end, urgency and patience, a dangerous double edge sword, determine the day. That night, she chose me, or so I thought. At the time, I had no idea what the ramifications of that decision to accept her as mentor would be. No matter, I was off and running. Where she would lead me next, was most always a complete surprise. Unlike so many adolescent boys, I saw her originally as something pure, yet ephemeral, the way she could be both a source of truth and honesty, and the next minute my best friend busting on my overzealous attempts to incite her. She had a way about her, which seemed to strip away all the confusion that clutters the mind of a precocious young lad, while effortlessly throwing it back in my face. As we grew older, the time spent was often reflective and playful, to the point that it seems I was flirting with her, and looked forward to her reaction each time I was able to score, or make a game saving play. It seemed normal that I could have a relationship with her, the extent of my ever growing infatuation remaining a secret to all but a select few. On the other hand, so often she showed herself devoid of all excitement, just me and the other rink rats climbing around in a game without fans, helping with the score board and shoveling the ice between periods. My favorite, running across the ice before the game, was climbing the ladder up to the best seat in the house. On the big nights, the goal judges¿ box was a mythical place that allowed us to put ourselves into the game while watching it at the same time. Situated at the far end of the ice, up above the net just below the scoreboard, which in concert with the giant stopwatch hung precariously to its' left, was the place where young boys dreamed the dream. From that vantage point, anything seemed possible. It was there that I first allowed myself to reach out to her extended hand. That hand I remember so well was full of sights, sounds, and smells, each in their own way unique to her stage, and her act, alone. In the nineteen sixties, each rink had its own persona, and its own way of revealing itself to all who entered, depending on each individual¿s perspective. Some of them were sixty or seventy years old by that time, and had all the nooks and crannies you would expect from a community project, each replete with enough band aids to seem as though on life support. You could almos...Expand for more