We follow the crowd across the dimly lit car park
and in to the bustling arena.
The Friday night game is the perfect way
to end a long stressful working week.
Inside the air is cold and bright from the ice.
It feels like Narnia and our breath hangs in front of us.
The die-hard fans wear XL hockey shirts
over their coats and hoodies.
The players storm out onto the rink
with flashing lights and fanfare,
their skates scraping along the ice.
We clap them on with gloved hands.
The players line up in formation,
leaning on their sticks,
eyes locked on the other team.
The buzzer sounds and the puck hits the ice.
Players push and shove, slam and slap,
the gloves coming off for a moment,
tossed to the ice,
as blows are exchanged,
before order is restored.
The puck is slapped and thwacked
around the rink,
hitting the glass with such force
it makes me jump.
When the buzzer sounds for the end of the game
we clap and whoop and cheer
as the players leave the rink.
We head back out across the car-park,
my brother turns to me
and says with a satisfied grin
I really needed that.