Friday, November 9, 2007

"Hockey, Eh?"

In our time, there was a time before
Canadian Ice Hockey,
Became just money+violence.

It was our excellent, outside, Winter adventure.

There was joie, dans nos vivres,
No one mentioned the weather,
Except to comment on the "State of the Ice," +
Whether some, (laterly, 'power-skating-drills?')
Shovel work! would enhance our dekes.

ChillBlanes, that would cripple a Polar Bear, were gritted out, tears streaming, just part of our game.

Our Heros, via crystal sets,in Arctic attics,
Were swift, scoring, phenoms,
"Mosienko pots, 3 in 21 secs! Chihawks!"

We knew the 3 secret things, via Rene and Foster,

"La patinage, la patinage et la patinage!"

Sure there were dustups, just as in the world around us,
But tusslers, on the rinks behind,
Laura Secord PUBLIC School, ('Peg, circa '48)
Were summarily, dumped, off the ice,
Over the banks, on puck search.

Snowsuits, ending in bob-skates,
Tended to muffle gender issues.
Marilyn,(not a manson) was the star of Sr.K.

Tussels, slowed down our game, us.
Useful, successful adjudication. The Game.

Now, parsing any, "Hockey News" any media,
Is akin, +equally enjoyable, to following Bloomberg,
Or WWF, or "Celebrity" Poker?

100:1, Money:Skills,
(talent, enchantment, teamwork)

About The Game, nada.

This commercial blather is a long piece, from,
Wes, Baldy, Jack, Bobby and da boyz,
'Round the old Hot-Stove.

They convinced us to read a book by L. Percival,
Who had a "Sports College! On the Air!"

So too! (read the book) did Anotoli Tarasov,
Which is how we came to loose heart,
And the Series, in '72.

Some Canucks, who were live, in Luzhniki, still hear,
The crunch of Bobby's stick,
Breaking Valerie's ankle.
Still spit, a the mention of Joe Kompala.
Means, ends, perhaps, but not our Game.

Coincidently, for quick energy, we consumed vats of
BeeHive Golden Corn Syrup!
Many became DDS's.
"Come onnnnn, Teeder!"

Ante-Zamboni, twelve yr. old, PeeWee playin'
Watchers at The Gardens, or Forum, loved to
See the smiling old Vets, brooms, brushes, shovels,
Then the steamy barrels, walked briskly,
By a two-man trace, pusser shines, in toe-rubbers.

Layin' down the glass. No lumpy baseboards. No slush.
No wet spots when puck drops.

No Ads. No G.D. Base-ball! Caps?
Fancy Fedoras, sometimes sacrificed in elation.

Thru the Tunnel, "Inside" was for The Game.

Good Ice, was an elegant art, in or out.
(Barely surviving now, mostly at Bonspiels)

But there's plenty more, Up North, right?

If The Cup could talk, what would it say?
Howie Morenz? Thistles? Afghanistan?

Eric certainly had talent.

Why are all these Kids, so fat?

One night, Cotton told Mcknight that,
The Leaf defence looked like fire-plugs
To onrushing Oppo. forwards,
Plus ca change, eh?

There's much, again, to remember in November.