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| The Team Player By Guzzy He looked out after the Zamboni had washed the ice for the last time: the tell-tale signs of blood were gone. The fans discovered in him no mere visitor, no simple prisoner of ignorance: his purity of heart, his innocence were beauty. They laced his hair with quetzal feathers, bright red and brilliant green. From behind, so that he could not see, they anointed him with scented word of mouth. Children clung to him like rain-wrenched petals; young men jostled for his friendship; old men deferred to him; and women came to him but could not return his love because they knew his future. He, unknowing, took note but did not question. To them all, as though a team, he gave his loyalty. But the season of pains approached again. Still unaware, he allowed the coaches to lead him to the temple called the hockey arena. Others pinned him to the stone and drugged his brain with bitterness by accusing him of weakness, treachery and pride. They carved open his chest and ripped away his heart. They carried it before them down the steps of the arena and spread his blood like slander throughout the ice surface. Persevere he did! Cutting through this barrier drains the arms. Pain shreds the back. The chilled skull grows heavy and thick; but somewhere amid the chainsaw rasping a man can hear his own long-forgotten laughter layered over now, and his own playful chatter echoing the skate blades. The ice surface below the exterior of this man is deeper than any childhood. In its reflection one can almost see a boyhood growing up. The shining surface will deceive the lunge of man for boy, will carry away the familiar face the moment the blade hits ice. He will find here the boyhood he remembers, retrieved easily where last seen; so that all can see and call the world to see how alive the man is now. The blades of this skater glide like gulls over sea swells: low with a slow, rare wingbeat. They turn in a wind of watching eyes, then leap, cupping an updraft, and leave behind the crowd's quick heartbeat. |
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