The flanker flies up along the wing, skates shaving ice particles onto the ankles of long-lost defenders, who valiantly tried to fling their life, their very essence, onto the streaking bolt of humanity, hoping to curtail his progress.
Ah, poetry in motion.
Back in the summer after junior year of high school, hockey was my life. I was like one of those dudes in Swingers. I would rock my friend Steve’s crib, near midtown Manhattan, and play NHL ‘99 until the break of dawn. While that last sentence sounded like a meek attempt to become the new LL Cool J, literally, we would play this game until four in the morning on a regular basis. I was never very good at battling my friends in this game, because half the time I picked the Calgary Flames just so I could see a picture of the Saddledome. It’s funny. Say it out loud. Saddledome. Hehe.
My friend Nick, whom I haven’t spoken to in roughly 24 months (I have a more liberal definition of “friendship” than most, apparently), was quite a presence on the edge of Steve’s bed, controller in hand, eyes focused on the goal at hand. He always played as the Detroit Red Wings, who were pretty good in the NHL ‘99 game, but he had mastered the essence of video game competition: Know one trick that no one else can do. For Nick, it was the one-timer. He used to bring the puck up with Steve Yzerman and drop it back so adroitly to Sergei Federov that no one ever saw it coming. Certainly not whomever the Flames goalie was. Roman Turek? I dunno. What am I, Canadian? Eh?
My plan was simple: Go to work and attempt to score hockey video game secrets from co-workers. Return home. Shower. Eat. Play NHL ‘94, acquired at Blockbuster, for several hours, annoying parents and perhaps cat. At roughly 9 p.m., leave house, hang out with boys. At 11:30 p.m., when we returned to Steve’s house, I would shock the world (i.e., Nick) with my skills behind the “A” and “B” buttons.
Work yielded nothing. One of my co-workers, a multi-tattooed, multi-pierced would-be player from Iona College named Robbie, claimed to be “the bomb” at hockey video games. Robbie also claimed to be “the bomb” at several other extracurricular past-times. In reality, however, he was “the bomb” at only one thing, and that was being a pathological liar. His tips proved meaningless. There was no way you could score with the B Button, I thought to myself. This man is clearly insane. My older coworkers yielded nothing. Jon, the 32-year-old tennis instructor, vividly recalled Tekmo Bowl for Nintendo.
“Christian Okoye was SICK in that game!”
Ah, the “Nigerian Nightmare.” LaDanian Tomlinson can never be him. But I digress.
I returned home and watched three minutes of the Islanders game, on tape from last night. It was too boring to continue. Damn neutral zone trap.
I played NHL ‘94. I created a character, Ace Fastpuck, who was roughly equivalent to Wayne Gretzky in every statistical category. I put him on the Blackhawks. He scored three goals on the first session I had him in. One of them was a one-timer. I was ready for war. Face paint was applied, money was swindled from mother and I arrived at the restaurant for dinner with friends. I sped the conversation along that night, wanting to get back and play some hockey.
Nick and I sat down on the corner of Steve’s bed facing the 25-inch TV that night just like we had hundreds of times before, but I sensed this was my time.
Then Federov scored. And then he did it again. And one more time. The one-timer was in full effect. I learned the hard way the same lesson that many musicians had: What worked in 1994 may not work in 1999.
But it’s hockey. So who cares. Eh?
