On broken dreams and broken teeth

When I was growing up my mother’s greatest fear was that I would break my front teeth. I grew up. I broke my front teeth.

The point of this intro is not to lament over hours of dental work or to illustrate the backlash of a self-fulfilling prophecy. It is to emphasise, with some embarrassment, that the whole incident occured during an unceremonious fainting spell at a health hydro in the Eastern Cape. My shame lies in the sad fact that I have no glorious war stories of how my pearly whites were shattered as I launched headfirst over the handlebars of a bicycle heading down a mountain trail; or ploughing into a fir tree while skiing the slopes at breakneck speed. Although even if I had, nothing could quite compare with the unabashed physical destruction that is part and parcel of my new favourite spectator sport … ice hockey.

In preparation for this write up, I popped into the public library to get some background material — I wouldn’t want to reveal my true level of ignorance on the basics of the sport. I walked my way through general sports books (two shelves); golfing books (three shelves); baseball books (three shelves); football books (four shelves); and running and hiking books (seven shelves). It was browsing through the likes of Taekwondo, Street Luging and Bocce Ball in Pregnancy that I finally stumbled upon the half shelf of books extolling the virtues of this most chilling of competitions. Armed with the National Hockey League Hockey rules in pictures, I headed off to the pub around the corner to catch the second and third periods of the Detroit Red Wings against the Pittsburgh Penguins in the best of seven final round of the Stanley Cup marking the end of another post-season of the National Hockey League.

For those of you reading this who are unfamiliar with the game (and I suspect that would include most of us who grew up in Joburg, who experienced snow on two separate days in the past three decades and didn’t spend all our time hovering around the Carlton Skyrink), I will attempt to explain it in brief. Two opposing teams, each comprised of six players, attempt to shoot the puck into the opponent’s net as often as possible, or at least more often than their opponents shoot the puck into their own net. The rest of the persnickety rules revolve around preventing dismemberment, ensuring fair play, and determining the form of the game.

This evening’s tussle was good enough incentive for me to make sure I have a fresh supply of contact lenses for the next Stanley Cup because I wouldn’t want to miss it for anything. The game, in my limited spectator history, was the tightest I have seen with tremendous play by both teams, yet the Red Wings maintained an edge with ingenious manouvering by center, Henrik Zetterberg, and others. There were three particularly tense moments (one of which culminated in me biting down a little too hard into my dinner fork and nearly repeating the aforementioned dental incident): first there was a fantastic save by Red Wings goalkeeper, Chris Osgood, in a slick move that mirrored something out of Transformers*; second was an unfortunate off-the-behind ricochet by Penguins goalkeeper, Marc-Andre Fleury, resulting, effectively, in an own-goal; and third was the final seconds shot at goal by Penguin Marian Hossa, skirting across in front of the Red Wing goalposts. All the action culminated in the Detroit Red Wings skating off with the Stanley Cup in hand.

The trophy itself has a rich history, purchased in 1893 by Frederick Arthur, Lord Stanley of Preston and son of the Earl of Derby. It is annually engraved with the names of each of the players in the winning team, and since 1995 every player, coach and member of the management is allowed to keep the trophy for a period of 24 hours, to do with what they wish (captured beautifully in Kevin Allen’s “Why is the Stanley Cup still in Mario Lemieux’s Swimming Pool”).

I hope by the time the next season rolls around I will be more au fait with the finer nuances of off-side rules, fisticuffs and interference. Until then I’ll settle for the curling tensely into the foetal position whenever it gets too close to an opposition goal and shuddering every time a player is checked from behind sending him smashing into the perimeter of the rink.

And I’ll keep smiling while I still can.

*Transformers was an in-flight movie once, made me see my car in a whole new light