I don’t dream about sports.
But I dream about hockey.
A little over a year ago, I saw my first NHL game—the Capitals versus the Rangers, May 4, 2013—at the Verizon Center in Washington, DC.
And, that night, all night, I dreamed the game again.
Not that I could explain to you a single thing that happened. “Offsides!” was something extremely agitated drunk guys sitting nearby yelled with conviction and vituperation. I jumped out of my seat a bit when they did so, startled and confused by the sudden vehemence.
The guys skating around all looked the same, because despite 100-level center ice seats, I very much needed new contact lenses and hockey equipment hides everything.
To further confuse things, I was attending the game with a life-long Rangers fan, who now lived in DC and supported the Caps—unless they were playing the Rangers.
So, I decided now was not the time to ask questions. That would and did come later.
Now, it was time to get lost in the flow, in the grace, in the speed, in the joy, in the sudden score, in the swift loss, in the constant mid-course correction, in the blood, in the skate scrapes, in the ice sprays, in the shouting, in ten men moving with and against each other in an ever-evolving eight-like shape over the ice.
I dreamed the constant motion, the endless pursuit, the relentless effort. Life but more so, a fast-paced peacefulness and purpose.
I would play.
But I couldn’t tell anybody that yet. I didn’t even own hockey skates.