One moment lost, another given

    Each journey home, I often think of her when passing the space she once stood. Although no longer a destination, her memory brings out a smile in me that lasts until I am able to return again. The passage of time has softened some of her edges, the many miles may have diluted her scent, but what I do know, and am happy to report, is that never was a young boy so happy to have had such a special girl in his life. Somehow, I always knew I would never have it like that again, not exactly, but I am forever grateful to have been allowed it once. To have already had what some people search their whole lives for, at such a tender age, is both a blessing and a curse. Saying goodbye to such a friend is passage unto itself.



The biggest night, and many of the best moments of my young life, happened there. I saw people hanging from the rafters, amazed that she could harness such emotion, simultaneously providing sanctuary from the stark reality that is winter in these parts. I can still feel the warm embrace from that night, her touch, something I may never fully grasp. In that moment, the electricity was palpable. Often, it was hard to tell where the crowd ended, and the game began. That night, one seemed to flow into the other. The emotion of the game crashed like huge waves that would roll from the stands down to break on the ice, only to be sent reeling back to the onlookers by the rising tide of passion, when the game could no longer contain it. The suspense would escalate, build in waves, until a miscue by one team, or a near miss at one end, would send the play racing to the other with the simultaneous ebb and flow of emotion preceding each event. It would happen again, and again.  Like a well choreographed dance between the young Torero, and the older, wiser, woman, the interplay between everyone involved became important not only to the excitement of the crowd, but to both teams as well. Each was dependent on the other to maintain the rhythm of the dance, though expectations, different as day and night as to the outcome of the tryst they had both entered into without promise, or malice of forethought, were yet to be determined. The effect, which would not be felt until the final thrust of the play, would either silence the crowd, or if being played on home ice like that fateful eve, would send participants, both viewers and players alike, into total frenzied mayhem for what seemed to be hours, but more likely were just a few precious moments.



How would this ever work? The difference in temperament, experience and soul, between reality, and fascination, all seemed to line up against me in her favor. I didn’t stand a chance. How would this fairy tale come to an end?I was completely overwhelmed by the noise and passion surrounding that night. She not only had given me exhilaration like I had ever before imagined, but in doing so had changed my life in that instant in ways I may never completely have a handle on. She had won me over before I ever knew of her existence, or the power of her control over my passion for what I thought was just a game. Somehow, somewhere, in the far reaches of my dreams, I knew this was no accident. Her existence, or the mere thought that such a dream could become reality, had given me the chance at happiness that all young boys dream of, and without a doubt, a whole lot of fun along the way. What I didn’t count on was the lasting effect she would have on everything that touched me, and the cost both real, and imagined, of that personality. If only I could have bottled that feeling for use later on, it might have saved me some heartache down the road.



When operating as a single interactive unit, the game, and the dance, both are driven to penultimate moments of excitement and disbelief. The thrill is at once intoxicating and agonizing, for all present and accounted for. It brings to mind that first moment of truth at the doorstep. Standing there beside her, though your heart is pounding and hands perspiring, searching for a signal though not knowing what to look for, the mind knows exactly the goal. After the fact, that first kiss, and the ensuing thrill of victory over your own insecurity, lies undeniably the root in the quest for that same feeling, again, and again. If not for the simple touch of her hand, composure regained, resulting in effortless conversation between old friends, my journey may have been altogether different. However, this two step docie doe, between friend and foe, is one of the great mysteries; one good turn does not always deserve another. In the end, urgency and patience, a dangerous double edge sword, determine the day. That night, she chose me, or so I thought. At the time, I had no idea what the ramifications of that decision to accept her as mentor would be. No matter, I was off and running. Where she would lead me next, was most always a complete surprise.



Unlike so many adolescent boys, I saw her originally as something pure, yet ephemeral, the way she could be both a source of truth and honesty, and the next minute my best friend busting on my overzealous attempts to incite her. She had a way about her, which seemed to strip away all the confusion that clutters the mind of a precocious young lad, while effortlessly throwing it back in my face. As we grew older, the time spent was often reflective and playful, to the point that it seems I was flirting with her, and looked forward to her reaction each time I was able to score, or make a game saving play. It seemed normal that I could have a relationship with her, the extent of my ever growing infatuation remaining a secret to all but a select few.



On the other hand, so often she showed herself devoid of all excitement, just me and the other rink rats climbing around in a game without fans, helping with the score board and shoveling the ice between periods. My favorite, running across the ice before the game, was climbing the ladder up to the best seat in the house. On the big nights, the goal judges’ box was a mythical place that allowed us to put ourselves into the game while watching it at the same time. Situated at the far end of the ice, up above the net just below the scoreboard, which in concert with the giant stopwatch hung precariously to its' left, was the place where young boys dreamed the dream. From that vantage point, anything seemed possible. It was there that I first allowed myself to reach out to her extended hand.



That hand I remember so well was full of sights, sounds, and smells, each in their own way unique to her stage, and her act, alone. In the nineteen sixties, each rink had its own persona, and its own way of revealing itself to all who entered, depending on each individual’s perspective. Someof them were sixty or seventy years old by that time, and had all the nooks and crannies you would expect from a community project, each replete with enough band aids to seem as though on life support. You could almost feel the emotion, and hear the echo of bygone eras when entering these old barns. Each had its own wall of fame, adorned with fading images of old hockey hero’s, team pictures, and trophies narrating the story of that towns hockey heritage.  I was smitten with her from the very beginning, not just the games, but the venues as well, that much being painfully obvious to anybody who ever saw us together. Through that lens, we became friends, and as time wore on, much more.



It’s been said that Oz never gave anything to the Tin Man, he didn’t already have. Correspondingly, I needed her to be my Oz, to offer me the confidence to pursue my dreams unadulterated.  Without her, being the vehicle by which self-assurance was won, all positive reinforcement may have fallen on deaf ears. However, given this chance to find the seed, shape the soil, and nurture its’ growth,  that voice soon would become a melody that could be heard by the spirit, and the will that drives young boys to achieve what they believe, kicked into overdrive. Athletics, like all great achievement, must have inspiration, and she would provide me the score for a lifetime; all the notes carefully placed in the right key, on the proper line, in the exact sequence, ensuring a refrain of beautiful music that all could hear and respond. Without Oz, is it possible to really achieve our dreams? At the time, that was my feeling, maybe my first mistake. I came to rely on her judgment in a myriad of circumstances, some seemingly unrelated to whether or not the game was in the balance, but none the less, I needed her input. The fact was, I had found my muse, and was not about to give her up for Hell, or high water.



From that perch in the goal judges' box, it's a wonder none of us were seriously injured by an errant shot at the net, being totally unprotected by any screen, or netting which today is required at both ends of the arena for protection. I witnessed some of the best of her work from there; maybe the lack of protection was vital to the experience, being so close to the game made one feel more than just an observer. I couldn’t get enough of her. Looking back on those days, it couldn't have hurt my own game to have watched so many from up there. She helped me see all the plays develop, all the mistakes before they would happen, and eventually, how to spot the play escalating that was going to end up with the biscuit in the basket, before anybody, including opposing players, knew the back door was open. How could you not like her? With her help, the door was flung open to the possibility of greatness, at least in those moments we shared.  It became almost an obsession to me, an extension of my own fragile reality. At the time, nothing else seemed to matter except when the next opportunity for me to be with her, and watch my life unfold before it ever happened. I played in a thousand games from up there, never once having to lace up my skates.  With her guidance, I was able to see the future and all the promise it held. What was certain, though the truth not yet evident, I would never gather as much from anything else unspoken, nor would ever I believe, our parting, such sweet sorrow?



There is something to be said for learning to walk before you run. By watching her, I was beginning to get my legs under me while moving toward a greater understanding of how all the parts work together. She was my mentor, much like a student would be in class, except this class was held up here somewhere between being in the game, and watching her all at the same time. She was always there with me at game time, giving me the edge I would need to overcome any doubts about who was in control. When not playing, I thought about her constantly.

             

                She gave new meaning to my grandfather's advice to always keep my head up, and most importantly, to anticipate all that will happen next. I'm not sure he was always taking about Hockey, but that's what was so great about him; you never knew. Like Gramps, women, as I have known them, have always had a way to manipulate the outcome of things, without actually saying what they mean. Its part of the parcel that makes them so desirable to us, and drives us crazy at the same time; but that is another story, for another time.



                I have only myself to blame for being so willing to listen, but unable to hear. Sitting up there for so long on cold winter nights, watching the best our little town could muster, gave me the desire, born by the love of the game and all the affection and new found confidence that comes with it, to compete to the best of my abilities. It may also have frozen my brain, nonetheless, I literally drank it all in from up there, the whole kit and caboodle. What I didn’t realize then was that she wasn't the only one talking, and my comprehension would only get worse.



Eventually we would leave the old girl, and our small town, for a destination that might as well have been on the other side of the moon, as far as hockey was concerned. That was only one part of the equation; the other, more defining reality was that my brother had chosen not to follow us. The Vietnam War was still raging in Southeast Asia, and the draft was still in place here in the States. It was very tough for my mother, leaving her first born, but it was decided that Jordan would stay and finish his senior year at Center Hastings Secondary in Madoc. Leaving Jordan was bad enough, he was my big brother, I loved him, but the uncertainty surrounding this new place was almost more than I could handle.



There had been talk for some time that Dad was getting an opportunity to continue his life’s work in Pennsylvania, and the cost of taking that opportunity was mounting on everyone, myself included. The mine, owned and operated by Bethlehem Steel at Marmora was an open pit, and would soon run its course. I’ll never forget the day I woke to realize that truth. It was a mixture, both of sadness for the loss of friends, family, and familiarity, and excitement for what the future might bring; that was overwhelmingly the prevailing force in the decision to leave. Where we were headed was not exactly a place where I thought she and I could flourish, but that was the least important aspect in the decision our family had made. This story, and my romance with her, may well have ended there, but to my amazement it happened again, and again. I could not have been more mistaken about where she would lead me next. Only many years later would I realize the land I grew up in was fundamental to my experience with her, and the longevity to which my fondness still remains, tied forever to the purity of her intentions and the beauty of the landscape that produced her.



It was about this time, arriving in Morgantown Pa. at maybe fourteen, or fifteen, when I started to notice something different in me. Shortly after arriving at The Hill, making the connection between who I was, and where she could take me, was beginning to enter the realm of possibility. Away from home for the first time, in a new country and culture, all I wanted to do was continue playing sports and further my education. Everyone else seemed drawn to what I was doing away from the rink, taking interest in the way I spoke, the way I comported myself, as if I had something important to say. In the States, I was different, at least at the Hill. No longer just one of the boys playing Hockey, being Canadian put me on a stage I wasn’t sure I belonged. I’m not sure what everybody expected, but having been born and bred in a culture that rewarded modesty and respect in equal doses, I suddenly was aware that my life, and the game we were playing, had changed; there were so many more options now.



Was it the first sign of vanity, or something else? For awhile I started to believe all the hype, but just in time, though my old Canadian friends were unable, she came calling once again to humble me, and was able bring me back down to earth with only a minimal ding to my ego. That first year at the Hill I was relegated to playing Junior Varsity, the first time in my life I would not make the top team at any level, in any sport. I was temporarily distraught. She and I were not seeing things eye to eye, during this time. On the bright side, as a result of this new found situation, I had the extra time to explore my new surroundings. Expectations were lowered a bit and I was able to regroup and find myself a place in this new world I was walking in.



The Hill School would prove to be exactly the right place for me, at exactly the right time. Founded in 1851 by the Reverend Mathew Meigs, the campus is steeped in History. Everywhere you looked you could see its growth, like an archeology dig, revealing itself through the high pitched roofs and turret windows of Upper School, to the brick and mortar of Rolfe, and the quaint conformity of Dutch Village. There was structure and order here that had been in place for many years. Being there, I could sense the feeling of strength and community that I had been missing since leaving my Canadian home. The Hill would become that home for the next four years. I consider it still, hallowed ground.



I found a couple of friends there, one as it turns out, would become my colleague at work and best man at my wedding, the other a true friend, hockey and soccer mate , and both  pillars of support throughout my life. Having Chris and James as friends, as well as a host of others, including Emory, and Stacy, was pivotal in my normalization and education in the American way during the 1970’s while at the Hill. Their friendship made it much easier to let her lead, and become the person everybody else expected of me. The other part of me, the one without skates on, was allowed the freedom to pursue his dream without judgment… free to become the person inside.



They had even given me a new nickname: Madoc. Actually it was my first roommate Benny, who bestowed that moniker upon me. It kind of stuck, although my closest friends there never adopted that name for me. That was the town where I grew up, not who I was. Or maybe it was, to them. Parents, friends, strangers, all seemed to know who we were, and wanted to come along for the ride. To the extent much of my identity was tied to her, I became both excited and overwhelmed by the attention; the influence washing over me in waves seemed to both pull, and push everything around me closer, yet out of touch, unfocused in a way that often left me wondering if I was making the right choices. Luckily I would know the honor of having some of the finest individuals, and educators, as my coaches and teachers, as well as my parents who lived close by, to help with those growing pains.



Tom Eccleston had already been a Legend in Schoolboy Hockey at Burrillville Rhode Island, as well as the Head coach at Providence College for the better part of a decade, leading them to the NCAA finals in the 1960’s, before landing at the Hill. In addition, he had been an administrator, an instructor of History, and a Football coach and innovator for the better part of his life. In his seventies he would spend yet another decade at the Hill developing yet another group of young players and students, many of whom would follow in his footsteps as coaching legends and educators par excel lance.Unbeleivable to the untrained, unforgettable to those of us who bore witness.



One thing was forever changed; I would never have the grounding comfort and support of my original hockey family, old friends and community to fall back on when things got tough, or loneliness came knocking. Like the setting sun, their memory would fade into the darkness of confusion during this transition. Luckily, I would find them on the other side. What I did have, however, was a whole new set of friends and family who would both help me see my own failures, as well as lead me into some of them.

             

Life at The Hill, after the initial shock, was a complete revelation to my senses. Once adjusting to the routine of wake up bells, prep, a short walk to Donner Hall before meals, the constant ringing seeming to control everything around me was eventually drowned out by the routine of daily activity. I was able to gain my footing, and really start enjoying the experience that is prep school once that schedule was set. The pomp and circumstance of each meal was really something to witness; everyone in coat and tie, replete with raised alcove, head table, and stately chandeliers gleaming above, each table having a student waiter; much more like a banquet, than a meal. The teachers were referred to as Masters, sports were mandatory, and we were all expected at chapel every day just before lunch to participate in one of the most eagerly anticipated events of the day; the chapel talk. There was mark time as well: punishment for missing classes or other evil doings. Oh yea, Chapel for underclassmen was required on closed weekends on Sunday, as well. Thank God I missed the beanies that all new boys were required to wear off campus in Pottstown until the end of the 1960’s.



Although many of the speakers were memorable, Masters Revelle and Morgan, Headmasters Montgomery and Watson, come to mind, undoubtedly our hands down favorite, was Buzz. Mr. Gardner had been adopted by most of the seniors, as well as all of the underclassmen, as sort of a partner in crime, so to speak. Not yet far removed from college, Buzz became our liaison to the establishment, our mascot at most athletic events; I can still see him at the end wall during night games, cheering us on sporting his most unusual headgear, shouting obscenities at the opposition. Some might even say he had a slight Buzz on. He had a way of telling a story within the story, without having the message delivered at us, but rather to us. Without him our stay at the Hill would have been much less entertaining, and certainly most unfulfilling, as his character and ability as an English teacher, added a most necessary ingredient to our lives away from home.



The Hockey was incredible. Coach Eccleston, whom I have already mentioned, was integral to raising the level of not only my expectations, but those of the entire school. Having studied the Russians and Czechs, he molded our undermanned team into a contender against much stronger teams from New England. It was not unusual for us to play against college freshman teams, the Plebes of WestPoint, as well as Berkshire, Trinity Pawling, and of course our arch rival, Lawrenceville. What a thrill to play Westminster at Madison Square Garden. We had statisticians, a manager, as well as a playbook that Ecc would drill us on during the preseason. While the rest of school was in study hall, hockey practice was held in the evening after dinner, the nets had no mesh on them, and the drills were all planned in advance down to the last detail. He had brought a whole new level of preparation to the game, one that helped me personally to understand the importance of the team, over individual performance, something I was in desperate need of. She had delivered me to this place, and the voice of reason, would reign.  It was all leading somewhere, but at the time I was having way too much fun with her, to be overly concerned about what the cost was.



The next stop on the way was Bowdoin College. Arriving in Maine in the fall of 1976, after a blissful summer at camp near Lake Winnipesauke, I was ready to take up with her once again in a new environment. This time around, however, she was everywhere and nowhere, all at the same time. Sometimes accommodating, and sometimes not. She was more likely to let me find my own way at times. Confused, though undeterred, I met the challenges at Bowdoin though I was having trouble hearing her through all the static on the channel she was broadcasting on.



Bowdoin, as far as the hockey was concerned, was like The Hill, except on steroids. We played to a packed house at all the home games. The stories of old ladies, and kids, sneaking in through the window in the men’s locker room, were not fabrications. Before the Maine Mariners joined the AHL in Portland, and video games ravaged our student bodies, the Polar Bears of Bowdoin were King in Brunswick on most winter weekends. Coach Watson, who had received some of his earliest formal coaching tips from Mr. Eccleston, was coming into his own as a college coach, having won the ECAC championships twice in the early seventies, after a short career in the NFL in the late 1950’s. He was a formidable presence in person, fair, yet demanding of all your effort in practice, as well as the games. His demeanor was all New England, though he had a wry sense of humor and an affable smile that often would betray his motives, especially when required to be overly stern with an unknowing freshman player. I learned a lot from Sid, especially on the defensive side of the game. In college, everybody was a star from somewhere, so defensively, it was very important to be aware of your responsibilities.



Rose, a most delicate but prickly flower, as well as natures most passionate color, was also the matron of my second home while at Bowdoin. I’ll never forget that first meeting when Mark, my closest friend and roommate at Bowdoin, took me by to see his mother at Hiram’s Barn, the small boutique attached to their home in Brunswick, barely a block from Dayton Arena. Their home, a seemingly never ending interconnected amalgam of additions and walkways without doors that allowed for sheltered passing during harsh Maine winters,  so common  in New England Architecture, was originally a sight for my eyes. Having suffered a few of them, I can see the reason behind this most curious design to highlanders. Mark and I, as well as a host of what were then some of his old townie friends, would spend the next four years together in what I would call a very brotherly co-existence between ships passing through Brunswick heading in different directions. While inhabiting the same port, however, we couldn’t have grown much closer, or affected each other in ways more natural and lasting, than during that period at Bowdoin. I will forever be in his debt for sharing all of Brunswick with me.



It was nice having all these new friends, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I could sense an ill wind blowing. By then, it was too late. The ship that had brought me to these shores had set sail, and I was on board for the ride. I would drift on the sea of adulation for a few years, eyes continually peeled on the horizon, before that boat started to take on waterand list to one side. All the people and opportunity could not bring us back to the simple truth that had delivered us here. All of a sudden she and I were fighting for the truth, and I couldn’t face it in a life that might not include her. The warnings and foreshadowing I had pretty much ignored along the way, never believing I wouldn’t make it somehow. I didn’t know it then, but part of me wished I had never set foot on that boat.



I’m not sure when things shifted, but when they did, it happened quickly, and without notice. It all started to get real serious. I first noticed the difference in her even before I arrived at my first pro camp. I received a letter from the Nordiques revoking my invitation to Quebec City that fall after leaving Bowdoin. I was crestfallen, but undeterred. I went anyway, oblivious of the warning she had tried to offer. She had changed; I was completely unaware of the obstacles staring me in the face, or was putting a blind eye to the obvious, as well as being a little hard of hearing? Standing along the boards one day, during one of the many stops along the way, I can remember thinking how much I missed the old girl; this new one didn't play by the same rules. As a result, my own play became lackluster. I was unable to bring the same game to her on a consistent basis. I had no passion for this new dance; all the clutching, and grabbing, and yes, people were literally fighting for a job with the team.  She warned me this might happen, that all things must pass, but of course I was probably reading the write up in the Globe at the time, unable to ascertain the relevance of what she meant.



By now, struggling to come to the rink each day for the first time in my life, I had lost the essence of what had brought me to this crossroads. Was the season ever going to start, or was this endless audition just the beginning of what it would always be like from now on? Nobody seemed to notice us anymore. She started missing games, and seemed indifferent to what was happening here at this new level. I missed her counsel, and was afraid to continue without her. This new girl I had just met was all about the money, and nothing else seemed to matter. She was vicious. It showed on the ice, and everyone but me could see it.



And then she was gone. Sitting there for the last time in that locker room, strangers all around me seemed not to notice, my head sagged by the incredulity that it was really over. I had become invisible, not only to myself, but to everyone in the room. It was as if I had become contagious, and whatever it was that I had, nobody wanted to catch it, or risk having it projected onto them by even looking me in the eye. 1 was persona non gratis. The days when everyone seemed to want a piece of me, just to be in the show, were now gone. As loud and passionately as she came into my life, so now her absence was deafening.



Where did she go? I was angry, confused that she didn't give me the chance to prove worthy of her choice. Had she led me on, giving false hope where there was none? Was there somebody else? I can't tell you how many scenarios were swimming about in my subconscious, but none of them were the right one. I was drowning in a sea of guilt, and self pity. How would I ever replace the thrill she gave me? Could it be that I had not given her enough time to make her own decision? By quitting now, had I not forced the hand that fed me to leave without asking why? What was quite evident,

though lost in denial for many years, was that without her, I seemed to have lost my way.



I thought it would be easy, just move on to the next team and continue to play the game as before. I could do it without her. The reality was, this new game turned out to be unlike any I had ever seen, or played before. The uniform, although different, was familiar enough. I had worn it for some time when we were together in prep school, but the opponents, and the field of play, were complete poles apart. No longer was the swift skating style, and rugged physical confrontation required. No matter what I did, or how hard I tried, I just could not find the net for what seemed to be an eternity.



Little by little, I felt myself slipping into someone in jeopardy of being cut by the team. All the skills she had taught me seemed of little use to me now. There was a new breakout, and the pack was lapping me in this new game that I cared less about with each passing day. There seemed to be no beginning, very few intermissions, and if there was an end to the game, coach wasn't letting on. For the first time in my life, I was on the bench, in an empty arena, watching the game pass me by. It felt as though I was in the middle of some Dickensian nightmare, where the ghost of Ace Bailey would take me back to the old girl, over, and over, until finally the truth would set me free. Funny, he never once showed me the future? In some strange way, I was numbed by any future without her.



So desperate to hear her voice again, I began to look for her in some mighty strange places. The game was changing all at once, and I was having difficulty adjusting not only to the pace of it, but needed to get on board fast. Pretty soon the best part of this new game, was no game at all, just the idea of having been in one, so that we could all laugh and tell stories about it afterwards. But like all celebrations, if you don't find the door, the audience usually grows tired, moves on, and eventually you end up in a dark room full of strangers, all looking to fill a hole they have dug for themselves. I stayed there much too long. Older now, I should have known the silence of that voice was the answer in itself.



Like all surviving warriors, one way or another, we eventually come home. Often, though not always, there is some collateral damage in relation to the drama, and duration, of the engagement. To the extent that ones' identity is so closely tied to the activity that has been lost, moving on without the proper mindset can be difficult. Don't get me wrong, those years were filled with magic moments, none surpassing the one I refer to now. I met and married a wonderful girl, and have two well adjusted children who no doubt, and god willing, I will continue to witness many of their precious moments as well. However, to be fair to them, and myself, this part of my life needs to be washed through a strainer, of sorts, to be able to regain the simplicity, and purity, of its original context. For much too long she has continued to blur and complicate how I view not only myself, but others around me. Old number seven can be no longer. That's just not my cross to bear, anymore.



The wisdom provided by hindsight, has led me back to that place where it all started. I can observe her now, suffused in a new light at that very moment, reaching out once again, the fog lifting ever so slightly, to allow one last glimpse at her fading, somewhat fragile, frame. By now, tears from the Zamboni have washed away the painful journey I have taken since parting those many years ago, revealing a clean sheet, and a clear path, to begin this new period. The title of this new peace might well be, "Whatsoever things are true.” As it turns out, I wasn't quite the hockey player I always thought I was. I'm working on the person now; the hockey player will have to wait.



Though time and opportunity have helped lead me through, I have come to realize I didn’t always make the right choices, but did have the right to make them. Most aspiring young athletes must put away their dreams while still able, in their mind,  to physically carry them out. Therein lies the dilemma. At what point does one stop the pursuit of one goal, and move on to the next. The farther along the weeding out process goes, the more difficult the transition. I was lucky, my parents had the wherewithal to have provided me with exceptional educational opportunities along the way. That, however, doesn't guarantee that one will be able to leave his passion behind, for something he has spent his whole life chasing. Most do not. What of those thousands of young athletes who went all in, only to realize the odds were overwhelmingly against them ever succeeding to the professional ranks,  from the beginning? So much for the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat may for most who come close, ring most true.



I  have some exceptional memories that stand free now as just part of the landscape that is one's life. They no longer hold the essence of what I am hostage to the image of what once was: they only enhance the unique nature of my own personality. In the end, at the dimming of the day, it's about the moments you live. Strung end to end, they become what is your life, no matter how you spin them. There can be no what if, it's just not possible to get those slivers of time back, or replay them to a satisfactory outcome. That's what makes each moment special. That one night she touched me should have been enough. I misunderstood her intentions, and ran away with my own. It was one moment, albeit a glorious one that I shall keep forever, yet a moment is all that remains.



Though the contest is never quite over, the field never quite ours, the engagement continues. As the days pass, and I continue to shed the anger and false disappointments of a glorious youth from my conscious will, my vision of her is only the wisp of that spirit, floating on the promise of each new day. There has always been so much more behind her; I just couldn’t see it. Is she still there, somewhere, waiting? Waiting for the kid to come out again? I surely do hope so, the alternative is altogether unthinkable.





                                                                       

                                                                           

                                                                               

                                                                  Clarity



                                        Moments of peace are sometimes hard,

                                            How often does one get, to hold a child?

                                        Bathed in love, that knows life has begun.

                                            In that moment, she comes to us.

                                        A smile, the look, in a mothers' eye;

                                            If there were a price for that,

                                        Wouldn’t all bear soul to give, and just pay up?

                                            That, my friend, is a moment that gives.



                                        And of the child you watch grow strong,

                                            Just to know you’ve played some part.

                                        Is that somehow the proof sufficient?

                                            That life gives back, all you give it?

                                        The circle drawn, the heartache contented,

                                            Is now the time for my contrition?

                                        A heavenly rain clears the way,

                                            One moment lost, another given.