Hard to imagine a scene of greater Canadian appeal than the one that came together a few weeks ago on an obscure piece of ice neatly tucked away in a neighbour's backyard, perhaps only a high wrist-shot away from the family home in which I grew up.
The lads got together for the bi-annual NGA -- No Girls Allowed, for the uninformed -- this one a day designed to combine the two things on which most gents could subsist for a lifetime: beer and hockey.
As the headaches and backaches could attest the next day, it was mission accomplished -- with maybe as many bottles left behind as behinds left bruised.
In the history of NGAs, it was one of the finest, with whispers of our day of shinny and suds becoming an annual affair.
Sounds good to me, although this one will be tough to top.
In a winter of unpredictable weather, Mother Nature must have heard the pre-weekend prayers, for she delivered what can only be described as the perfect day for pucking around.
Clear skies, crisp air, and a mercury that flirted with a negative number -- 10 to 12 below zero -- that no right-thinking hockey player ever wants to see on his stats-line but one that he happily accepts if it appears on a thermometer moments before puck drop on an outdoor sheet of ice.
Rarely has our group of 20- and 30-somethings appeared so invigorated; a testament, I suppose, to the unbridled energy this great game always seems to generate no matter how old the players.
Even outdoors, without even the standard bragging rights on the line, our haphazard crew of skaters and stragglers put on an end-to-end spectacle to behold. It was the type of display that might one day be recreated in the 'how-to' textbooks, although it pains me to admit that in our case it would be in the 'how not to play hockey' section.
Truth be told, there was little beauty to be found between our boards, but there was some bloodshed, which in itself qualifies our games as real and our day as a success.
The lads got together for the bi-annual NGA -- No Girls Allowed, for the uninformed -- this one a day designed to combine the two things on which most gents could subsist for a lifetime: beer and hockey.
As the headaches and backaches could attest the next day, it was mission accomplished -- with maybe as many bottles left behind as behinds left bruised.
In the history of NGAs, it was one of the finest, with whispers of our day of shinny and suds becoming an annual affair.
Sounds good to me, although this one will be tough to top.
In a winter of unpredictable weather, Mother Nature must have heard the pre-weekend prayers, for she delivered what can only be described as the perfect day for pucking around.
Clear skies, crisp air, and a mercury that flirted with a negative number -- 10 to 12 below zero -- that no right-thinking hockey player ever wants to see on his stats-line but one that he happily accepts if it appears on a thermometer moments before puck drop on an outdoor sheet of ice.
Rarely has our group of 20- and 30-somethings appeared so invigorated; a testament, I suppose, to the unbridled energy this great game always seems to generate no matter how old the players.
Even outdoors, without even the standard bragging rights on the line, our haphazard crew of skaters and stragglers put on an end-to-end spectacle to behold. It was the type of display that might one day be recreated in the 'how-to' textbooks, although it pains me to admit that in our case it would be in the 'how not to play hockey' section.
Truth be told, there was little beauty to be found between our boards, but there was some bloodshed, which in itself qualifies our games as real and our day as a success.
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