Seasons in the sunset - A seventy (+3) year old looks ahead and back

Seasons in the sunset - A 80 year old
looks ahead and back

Tuesday, February 23, 2021

Grandapa on Thin Ice - Winter 2011

                                                                Grandpa on Thin Ice
 
           (Skating with grand kids at the Madison, NJ pond)
 
I am at the ice pond with grandson Eddie, age 6, and friend Steve, 8. Both are outfitted in official NHL caliber gear, full pads, hockey gloves, and helmet plus authentic NJ Devil jerseys. Needless to say, for my youthful hockey adventures at the village pond in Warwick, NY in the 1950s, we didn’t dress the part.

Ed and Steve find a free spot where they slide around, pushing the puck and intermittently slapping it toward a makeshift goal - two sneakers spaced some five feet apart. Presumably the sneakers’ owner is around somewhere, but wearing skates. No matter. The boys celebrate each score – between the sneakers – by looping back with raised sticks.

Eventually others drift into the fray - a boy and a girl, each with hockey sticks. No one asks anyone’s name or speaks even, but soon the newcomers blend in and the play continues. I kick the puck back with my skates whenever it drifts toward me. My better kicks are like passes, mostly to the girl so that she gets a shot. After several minutes I decide to call for a game - the girl and me, against the three boys. I feel quite confident that even without a stick we can hold our own. We’re talking seven year olds here, give or take a year.

I demand introductions to start. The girl’s name is Caroline. She’s in figure skates, un-helmeted, wearing a tasseled blue knit hat. Not a problem. The new boy is Jack, age seven. Everyone stands around submissive-like as I demand that all say hello. They comply - barely.

The game begins.

Caroline and I, manage quite well. I kick the puck to her and block football style for her dashes toward the goal. I also play effective defense using more football techniques, some holding (illegal) and body bumping (gentle). We are not winning, but we’re doing OK.

I’m able to barrel around cleverly enough that Caroline actually gets some shots and when one goes in, through, the two sneakers, I gush loud congratulations. Caroline seems pleased. We’re in mid-celebration when I hear someone shouting from the far side of the pond.  “Hold it,” I say.

 “Do you want a stick?” a voice asks.

I squint into the glare. “Do you have one?”

“I’m Caroline’s mother; I live across the street. I’ll go get you one.”

"Too far," I protest, but mom scoots up the bank and minutes later returns with a stick. She obviously has an interest in this game. I thank her and dart back to the action like a NHLer returning from the penalty box. 

Our team is much better now that I have a stick. I fly around with impressive speed for a seventy year-old - or so I think. I definitely turn it up a notch, given that we have an audience (Caroline's mom).

OK, presently I see the loose puck and I race after it. At 5’ 9” compared to my tallest opponent at 4’ 3’’, or thereabouts, I enjoy a considerable reach advantage, so if there is any stretching for the puck I win. I get it this time too and immediately envision a breakaway when I notice my teammate in my side vision. First I must speed-skate to a clear pass lane. I turn on the jet engines. Wait a minute! Suddenly I observe that my sight lines have changed. Instead of ice, the puck or other players there is bright blue sky and white scattered clouds. I recognize immediately that somehow my feet have gone out from under me, that I am horizontal, face up, in mid-air.

I land with a thud, smack on my back, half breaking the fall with my right wrist. Flat, like a flounder on ice, I notice the worried face of my grandson standing over me. 

“Papa?” he says. 

I hear concern in his voice and I attempt to respond, but without air in my lungs no sound comes out. A thought occurs: When was the last time I had the wind knocked out of me? I lay still for a good minute or two. The kids, showing concern, circle around me.

I hear a distant voice, a woman, “Are you OK?” Probably Caroline’s mom, I think. I raise my hand, wave weakly, without looking.  
 
Minutes pass.  

Finally I get up. I shuffle toward the sidelines and collapse onto a grassy bank.

“You guys play,” I say to the children. No one protests.

Everyone says I broke a rib, because each deep breath brings a sharp pain. Regardless, there's no treatment, I’m told by friends who know such things, plus it’ll take 5 weeks to heal. As for the effects: I cannot turn over in bed, cannot raise myself from a chair, cannot run (trot) after anything. In other words – I’m done for - plus a sprained wrist. 



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