There’s always another blizzard just before Easter. If a good couple feet fall, and there’s base left and a freeze comes on, you’ll have fine condition for street hockey.
The best street hockey is played after supper, as the old dim lamps dazzle through dropping flakes. There’s very little traffic. Mothers go to the store or beauty parlor during the day. Fathers are either home watching TV or they won’t be home until last call.
Actually Fird was the only one near coming home at last call, sometimes Will the Pills’ dad as well, although not the same last call. Well, arguably last calls are about all the same, but they weaved home from different ends of town.
At that time, families mostly all watched TV together, after supper. If I could get the game to resume, I’d stay out as long as anyone else could. Between six-foot paced banks on rugged bumpy ice as cold wind twirls snow powder.
If Number 9 had showed up to play, I think none would be surprised.
I’d go inside and forget about my favorite TV shows, listen to a faraway announcer on the AM radio riled about a hit, exuberant about shooting and scoring. I knew the voice was often seconds behind the action, but if it painted the scene what does that matter?
Playing a makeshift mini game in the window sill with a steel marble and toy planks I’d wonder how much more snow would fall. Then I’d fall asleep to dream of taping up my stick, slamming rink boards and the awed arena as I skated to put the puck upper stick left corner 3 hole.