Awhile back I wrote a piece for Ripples, the Senior Center literary zine. It was a bit of creative nonfiction that included an amalgam of flashbacks on me carrying the puck in the offensive zone and scoring a lucky goal, only to realize that the defense had deliberately backed-off to give me a chance. Talk about flashbacks...
Friday night I was playing in a Wonder League game at the Kettering Recreation Center. This was the start of my second ten-game season with this "beginner-intermediate" league. The concept here is to play down to your opponent's level in order to give every player a chance to develop. This would be my eleventh game playing wing in this league and I had yet to score a goal.
Midway through the game I picked up a loose puck at center ice. My team captain, John Wonderly, who also happens to be the guy who started and runs the league, was behind me.
"Skate it in, Virgil!" he yelled to me.
I stick handled across the blue line, watching to my right to be sure my line mates were on side. As I crossed into the offensive zone, John shouted, "Take it to the outside!"
His plan would have had me pull up somewhere short of the corner, trying to center the puck to another forward. The defense was deliberately laying off in order to give me a chance to handle the puck, and I was getting pissed at the lack of respect. I needed to take it to the house. I opted to fake to the outside and cut for the center. I arrived at the top of the slot, unimpeded. At this point, they should have closed on me, but there was a crowd in front of the goal and no one tried to stop me from taking the ensuing snap shot.
As I crossed, the goalie moved with me. In doing so, he left the left side of the net wide open. My shot wended its way through the forest of leggings and skates and found the back of the net. I watched this occur in what seemed like slow motion with utter disbelief. My first game in Kettering - I'd had a feeling this place would be lucky for me. Loud cheering and fist bumps all around...
To my great embarrassment, they stopped the game and presented me with the puck - something they do every time someone gets their first Wonder League goal. Obviously, they'd noticed... Congratulations continued until well after the game. In the locker room, John made a big deal out of it, again.
"That was a chicken shit goal," I said.
"A goal's a goal," John replied.
Well there is a certain amount of validity to that. As one of my line mates pointed out when I told him they had been easing up on me, "The goalie wasn't letting up."
It's true, the shot and the goal were legit. After the game, I took the puck home and put it on the shelf in my home office with my other treasures, team photos, ten-minute play posters, Mothman Festival memorabilia... Here's the thing. If I want their respect, I'm going to have to earn it.
That chicken shit goal probably went a long way toward achieving that.
The next time I see John, I will apologize. He has provided a great experience for a lot of hockey players of varying skill levels, and an opportunity for me to keep playing when I should be on a rocker on the back porch. Before the game, his wife had told me how much he admires what I am doing and how he hopes he will still be playing at my age. Some of the younger players have told me that, too.
When I told Amy I had made my first Wonder League goal, she said, "What did they do, let you score?"
"Yeah, kinda..." I said.
Truth is, I feel so alive right now, it's a bit frightening. When I finally decide to hang up my skates, I'll know the end is near.
Yours,
Harry
Sunday, September 06, 2015
Thursday, September 03, 2015
Getting a hockey life
"Are you playing hockey tonight?" Amy asked on her way out the door this morning.
"No. Tomorrow night," I said. "The new league is starting up in Kettering."
"That means your going to be home late on Friday nights..." she said.
"Very late."
"You need to get a life."
"I already have," I said. "I decided to be a hockey player in my new life."
Summer hasn't been kind to my hockey conditioning. Getting enough ice time to maintain the shape I had achieved only after about a year-and-a-half of skating four to five times-a-week just wasn't possible. On Tuesday morning, a small group of us were doing hockey drills at the rink in Springfield and I found I was admitting to myself that I was having trouble keeping up. I wasn't just having trouble keeping up, I was admitting it. That is significant. What happened to my positive attitude?
Am I having a late-life crisis? Not really. This is about searching for my identity in the context of my new life. You see, every time you get a new life, you have to get a new identity to go with it. I have experimented with being the old guy who kicks ass. And I thought that was really working, until Tuesday morning, that is. After which I came to the realization that I'm not kicking ass at all and should be seeking out a role commensurate with my abilities. I have actually been losing sleep over this.
So, what are my abilities? I have pretty good hockey sense. For instance, I know that if I don't keep my eyes on the action at all times, the puck will surely come in my direction. If I don't have my stick on the ice, someone will pass me the puck and I won't get it down in time. I know that if I pass the puck to a zone, rather than a player, no one will be there. And, if I pass the puck to someone who is open, it will be a guy who is actually worse than I am, and he will commit one of the above listed miscues. Just kidding, of course.
Hopefully, with age comes wisdom. I know enough to cover the point in my defensive zone. I know to go to the boards if we get the puck and be alert for an outlet pass. I know to skate up ice and stay onside, all the while keeping my stick on the ice. I know to rush the net, screen the goalie and move around to get in position for a tip in or a rebound. I know to forecheck if we lose the puck, and get back down to cover the point. Knowing how to play my position as a winger counts for a lot. Now, if I only had the conditioning to do it effectively...
Yours,
Harry
"No. Tomorrow night," I said. "The new league is starting up in Kettering."
"That means your going to be home late on Friday nights..." she said.
"Very late."
"You need to get a life."
"I already have," I said. "I decided to be a hockey player in my new life."
Summer hasn't been kind to my hockey conditioning. Getting enough ice time to maintain the shape I had achieved only after about a year-and-a-half of skating four to five times-a-week just wasn't possible. On Tuesday morning, a small group of us were doing hockey drills at the rink in Springfield and I found I was admitting to myself that I was having trouble keeping up. I wasn't just having trouble keeping up, I was admitting it. That is significant. What happened to my positive attitude?
Am I having a late-life crisis? Not really. This is about searching for my identity in the context of my new life. You see, every time you get a new life, you have to get a new identity to go with it. I have experimented with being the old guy who kicks ass. And I thought that was really working, until Tuesday morning, that is. After which I came to the realization that I'm not kicking ass at all and should be seeking out a role commensurate with my abilities. I have actually been losing sleep over this.
So, what are my abilities? I have pretty good hockey sense. For instance, I know that if I don't keep my eyes on the action at all times, the puck will surely come in my direction. If I don't have my stick on the ice, someone will pass me the puck and I won't get it down in time. I know that if I pass the puck to a zone, rather than a player, no one will be there. And, if I pass the puck to someone who is open, it will be a guy who is actually worse than I am, and he will commit one of the above listed miscues. Just kidding, of course.
Hopefully, with age comes wisdom. I know enough to cover the point in my defensive zone. I know to go to the boards if we get the puck and be alert for an outlet pass. I know to skate up ice and stay onside, all the while keeping my stick on the ice. I know to rush the net, screen the goalie and move around to get in position for a tip in or a rebound. I know to forecheck if we lose the puck, and get back down to cover the point. Knowing how to play my position as a winger counts for a lot. Now, if I only had the conditioning to do it effectively...
Yours,
Harry
Friday, June 21, 2013
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Walking in the Rain
Nothing brings joy
to a young dog
like rolling in wet grass.
"Cut that out!" I say.
She smiles,
rolls some more,
gets up and shakes off
water from my neighbor's lawn.
Now it's time
for spontaneous affection,
jumping on clean jeans
with muddy paws,
ready to lick my face
if I stoop to her level.
"Where's your dignity?" I ask.
Her ears perk up.
She tilts her head
and stares at me
with curious dark eyes.
"Woof," she says.
And I understand.
to a young dog
like rolling in wet grass.
"Cut that out!" I say.
She smiles,
rolls some more,
gets up and shakes off
water from my neighbor's lawn.
Now it's time
for spontaneous affection,
jumping on clean jeans
with muddy paws,
ready to lick my face
if I stoop to her level.
"Where's your dignity?" I ask.
Her ears perk up.
She tilts her head
and stares at me
with curious dark eyes.
"Woof," she says.
And I understand.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Flashback
"I thought I saw you once
in Chinatown
before I knew you,"
she said.
"You were parked
on Mulberry Street
and when I looked at you
you gave me a horrible face."
"It couldn't have been me,"
he said,
"because I would never make
a horrible face
at a beautiful woman."
She smiled.
"You dog."
"And besides,
I never could find
parking on Mulberry,"
he said.
in Chinatown
before I knew you,"
she said.
"You were parked
on Mulberry Street
and when I looked at you
you gave me a horrible face."
"It couldn't have been me,"
he said,
"because I would never make
a horrible face
at a beautiful woman."
She smiled.
"You dog."
"And besides,
I never could find
parking on Mulberry,"
he said.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Monday, February 07, 2011
More photos from the Short Film Fest
Nicholas Rollins (“The Crazy Mind”) and Jeremy Johnson (prologue to “The State”)
Alex Mangen (“Ballet Dropout”)
Susan Gartner (“Anatomy of a Sculpture”)
Return to A Yellow Springs Blog.
Monday, December 06, 2010
More Season's Joy photos
Pictured from top: Emcee Walter Rhodes; Luke and Sally Dennis; A Yellow Springs Blog editor Virgil Hervey and his wife, Amy Lee (far left), enjoy the evening's entertainment.Thanks to all the volunteers and performers, especially coordinator Mary Kay Clark and emcee Walter Rhodes, for their contributions to a very fun event!
Photos by Susan Gartner
Back to A Yellow Springs Blog
Sunday, November 21, 2010
More photos from Friday night's Fling
It's a Wonderful Life
Liz Zaff
Travis Tarbox HotalingNovember’s Third Weekend Fling in the Springs featured artist receptions and holiday events on Friday night.
Carolers sang in front of Eco-Mental, celebrating its 3rd Anniversary; free carriage rides were offered in front of Little Art Theatre; Urban Handmade Holiday Celebration included a free outdoor screening of “It’s A Wonderful Life”; Yellow Springs artist Liz Zaff greeted guests at her opening reception for “The Polaroid Project,” paintings on cardboard at “Would You, Could You” In A Frame; belly dancers Cami Knick (left) and Erin Wolf helped local painter Travis Tarbox Hotaling get in the spirit of the event during his opening reception at YS Arts Council Gallery. The exhibit, “Portrait of a Woman,” features the work of Hotaling and Jade Nikita McConnell.
Photos by Susan Gartner
Back to A Yellow Springs Blog
Friday, October 22, 2010
After the Game
for Matthew Hervey
Two plays into tee ball
the irate father/coach
storms onto the field,
cursing the teenage umpire
for some perceived injustice
to his son
who, slumped over at the plate,
gazes at the scene
in tears of embarrassment and shame.
At a Little League game
a ten year old boy
tosses his helmet,
barely missing his coach
who has been ragging him
during his at-bat.
Back in the dugout
the man grabs the boy
by the shirt
and slaps his face.
Over at the Pony League
a father kicks dirt
on the parents of the visiting team
who have been belittling
his boys relentlessly,
sparking a brawl on the field.
They are stock brokers, lawyers, dentists
and even judges
who, in their youths,
never gripped a bat
or caught a ball
or cried when their father
berated them
for dropping the fly
or taking the called third strike.
The mother complains,
he's not playing her kid enough.
The coach complains,
he has to play the fat kid
at least one inning,
league rules.
The kid complains,
he doesn't want
to play this stupid game
at all, anymore.
He'd rather practice
the piano.
Outside the stadium,
before the game,
a full, unopened can of beer
drops from the third deck
and narrowly misses
the family with the picnic basket
on its annual outing
to watch the millionaire big boys
play the child's game,
before a packed house
of 50,000 cursing drunks.
The out-of-town booster
in the jersey of the visiting team
is pelted from behind
with nickels, tossed
by a guy in a suit and tie
who is so offended
by the nerve of this guy
to trespass in his arena,
that by the third period
he can no longer confine himself
to the launching of small change
and he goes to the guy's seat
and punches his face,
before his wife and kids
who had come to see
their home town heroes
fight the good fight
play the sporting game
and entertain the aficionados
with displays of teamwork,
daring and skill.
The surly superstar spits on a fan.
The reporters flee the manager's office
as he rants and raves
and throws things from his desk.
The over-the-hill tight end
exposes himself to a female reporter
in the locker room
and the team's owner jokes
on about it, endlessly,
just not getting it.
The teenage girl tennis star
is stabbed in the back
between sets.
The Lady Bing candidate
lies lifeless on the ice,
having been cross-checked
after scoring the winning goal.
Backboards, telephones, water coolers
are the smashed trophies
of egos gone awry.
Between innings
the husband goes to the fridge
and opens another beer.
The wife, meanwhile,
slips into his recliner
and switches channels
to the Home Shopping Network.
When he returns
he blows out her brains
with the revolver
he always kept for burglars.
After the game
he phones for an ambulance.
The championship having been won
the supporters of the victors
riot in the streets,
burning cars and stores,
destroying the businesses
in their hometown, downtown,
where they once worked.
So what if there is nothing left
after the game?
They partook in the event.
Their champions, however,
return to their own home towns.
Season having ended,
they flee the lunacy
of their adoring fans.
I'm taking my son
to his first game at the Stadium,
the "House that Ruth built"
where Gherig, DiMaggio and Mantle inspired
the myth of the American pastime.
At the souvenir stand,
just outside the subway,
I buy the little guy
a batting helmet.
I tell him to wear it always,
lest the errant can of beer,
the well placed nickel,
or some other unforeseen danger
cause him harm.
He turns it over
and fills it with popcorn.
(This poem was previously published in the Vincent Brother's Review under the title "He'd Rather Practice the Piano")
Two plays into tee ball
the irate father/coach
storms onto the field,
cursing the teenage umpire
for some perceived injustice
to his son
who, slumped over at the plate,
gazes at the scene
in tears of embarrassment and shame.
At a Little League game
a ten year old boy
tosses his helmet,
barely missing his coach
who has been ragging him
during his at-bat.
Back in the dugout
the man grabs the boy
by the shirt
and slaps his face.
Over at the Pony League
a father kicks dirt
on the parents of the visiting team
who have been belittling
his boys relentlessly,
sparking a brawl on the field.
They are stock brokers, lawyers, dentists
and even judges
who, in their youths,
never gripped a bat
or caught a ball
or cried when their father
berated them
for dropping the fly
or taking the called third strike.
The mother complains,
he's not playing her kid enough.
The coach complains,
he has to play the fat kid
at least one inning,
league rules.
The kid complains,
he doesn't want
to play this stupid game
at all, anymore.
He'd rather practice
the piano.
Outside the stadium,
before the game,
a full, unopened can of beer
drops from the third deck
and narrowly misses
the family with the picnic basket
on its annual outing
to watch the millionaire big boys
play the child's game,
before a packed house
of 50,000 cursing drunks.
The out-of-town booster
in the jersey of the visiting team
is pelted from behind
with nickels, tossed
by a guy in a suit and tie
who is so offended
by the nerve of this guy
to trespass in his arena,
that by the third period
he can no longer confine himself
to the launching of small change
and he goes to the guy's seat
and punches his face,
before his wife and kids
who had come to see
their home town heroes
fight the good fight
play the sporting game
and entertain the aficionados
with displays of teamwork,
daring and skill.
The surly superstar spits on a fan.
The reporters flee the manager's office
as he rants and raves
and throws things from his desk.
The over-the-hill tight end
exposes himself to a female reporter
in the locker room
and the team's owner jokes
on about it, endlessly,
just not getting it.
The teenage girl tennis star
is stabbed in the back
between sets.
The Lady Bing candidate
lies lifeless on the ice,
having been cross-checked
after scoring the winning goal.
Backboards, telephones, water coolers
are the smashed trophies
of egos gone awry.
Between innings
the husband goes to the fridge
and opens another beer.
The wife, meanwhile,
slips into his recliner
and switches channels
to the Home Shopping Network.
When he returns
he blows out her brains
with the revolver
he always kept for burglars.
After the game
he phones for an ambulance.
The championship having been won
the supporters of the victors
riot in the streets,
burning cars and stores,
destroying the businesses
in their hometown, downtown,
where they once worked.
So what if there is nothing left
after the game?
They partook in the event.
Their champions, however,
return to their own home towns.
Season having ended,
they flee the lunacy
of their adoring fans.
I'm taking my son
to his first game at the Stadium,
the "House that Ruth built"
where Gherig, DiMaggio and Mantle inspired
the myth of the American pastime.
At the souvenir stand,
just outside the subway,
I buy the little guy
a batting helmet.
I tell him to wear it always,
lest the errant can of beer,
the well placed nickel,
or some other unforeseen danger
cause him harm.
He turns it over
and fills it with popcorn.
(This poem was previously published in the Vincent Brother's Review under the title "He'd Rather Practice the Piano")
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
More Art Stroll photos
“It’s All About Art” was the theme for this past 3rd Weekend Fling in the Springs. The semi-annual Art Stroll on Friday, Oct. 15, was held in memory of long-time Yellow Springs business owner and artist Eddie Eckenrode who died in May. Eddie’s wife, Sam, and daughter, Miriam, held a Grand Opening for the Eddie Eckenrode Gallery at Sam & Eddie’s Open Books with an exhibition of Eddie’s artwork.
Village Artisans of Yellow Springs presented a Gallery Opening of"Dare 2B Square," featuring the work (all on 12" x 12" canvas) of over 30 artists. The work will be displayed through October 31st.
“Would you, could you” In a Frame hosted an artist reception for Jafa-girl (“Just Another Flippin’ Artist”) Corrine Bayraktaroglu (pictured) and her mixed-media exhibition “Stitch Gasp.”Photos by Susan Gartner
Return to A Yellow Springs Blog
Monday, October 18, 2010
More Artist Studio Tour photos
Cynthia McDonald of Wild Gourd Studio was a guest artist in the home of host artist Kathy Verner Moulton of KaVoooM Productions. Cynthia is pictured with her hand-carved gourds, talking with Hays Moulton.
Miami Valley Pottery owner and host artist Naysan McIllhargey reaches for one of his wood-fired pots.
Artist Studio Tour participants joke with guest artist Alice Young-Basora (right) of Nina Carina. Alice displays her jewelry featuring hand-painted canvas, fabric, and beads made from recycled paper.Photos by Susan Gartner
Return to A Yellow Springs Blog
Sunday, October 10, 2010
More Street Fair photos
From the top: Benches, curbs, stoops, and stairs made for makeshift eating areas all through downtown as fest-goers enjoyed the wide variety of food; the Coots Repertory Company (featuring Ron Siemer, Jerry Buck, and Walter Rhodes) performed Virgil Hervey’s 10-minute play (and recent 10-Minute Play Fest “Crowd Favorite”) "Parking Spaces" at the Corner Cone followed by Bettina Solas who played her mountain dulcimer; villager Elizabeth Price danced and played percussion for The Piano Peddler, Eugene Beer.Photos by Susan Gartner
Saturday, September 18, 2010
More Friday Fling photos
A steel drum musician performed in front of Brenda Stone Browder’s newly-opened Rolling Pen Book Café.
The First Presbyterian Church of Yellow Springs hosted A Shower of Stoles.
Martin Harold Benedict Borchers made his public debut at 108 Dayton Street (second floor).Photos by Susan Gartner.
Return to A Yellow Springs Blog.
Friday, September 17, 2010
More Mothman musings in advance of our trip
On the Ohio, December 15, 1967
Nights were darker then,
objects in the sky
strangely brighter,
intensified
by isolation.
Red eyes peering
in the dark,
imaginations
swirling
like brightly wrapped
Christmas presents
caught in whirlpools
beneath a derelict bridge
then pulled under.
Common sense
bobbing to the surface
on a cold December eve.
Nights were darker then,
objects in the sky
strangely brighter,
intensified
by isolation.
Red eyes peering
in the dark,
imaginations
swirling
like brightly wrapped
Christmas presents
caught in whirlpools
beneath a derelict bridge
then pulled under.
Common sense
bobbing to the surface
on a cold December eve.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
More Friday Fling Photos
On August 20, the Yellow Springs arts community was in full swing for Third Friday Fling. Various galleries and shops extended their hours into the evening and exhibited works from local artists.
Village Artisans Gallery, 100 Corry Street, presented the show "Extending Our Boundaries," featuring Beavercreek artist Leah Grommon, who works with oils, acrylics, and knits, and longtime villager and water color artist Sue Brezine (explaining water color technique to guests).
Cincinnati photographer Matt Vant, stands by his work, "Bird's Eye View," at the artist reception for the group exhibit, "People, Places and Things," at Yellow Springs Arts Council's new gallery and meeting space, 309 Xenia Avenue. The exhibit also features ceramic boxes by fellow Cincinnati artist John Mason, vintage dress designs by Dayton artist Tracy McElfresh, and paintings by Dayton artist Patrick Mauk.
Photos by Susan Gartner
Back to A Yellow Springs Blog
Village Artisans Gallery, 100 Corry Street, presented the show "Extending Our Boundaries," featuring Beavercreek artist Leah Grommon, who works with oils, acrylics, and knits, and longtime villager and water color artist Sue Brezine (explaining water color technique to guests).
Cincinnati photographer Matt Vant, stands by his work, "Bird's Eye View," at the artist reception for the group exhibit, "People, Places and Things," at Yellow Springs Arts Council's new gallery and meeting space, 309 Xenia Avenue. The exhibit also features ceramic boxes by fellow Cincinnati artist John Mason, vintage dress designs by Dayton artist Tracy McElfresh, and paintings by Dayton artist Patrick Mauk.
Photos by Susan Gartner
Back to A Yellow Springs Blog
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