The Pond

There are a lot of things I miss about being a teenager. The feeling of waking up every morning and wondering what kind of trouble I'd get myself into (I still think this, but the word 'trouble' means something completely different when you're in your mid-20s than it does when you're 17); going about the day without a care in the world except getting my math homework done.

There is one thing that sticks out though, especially at this time of the year: the pond. Like many Canadians, I spent uncountable hours during my teenage years playing outdoor hockey. During high school I was lucky enough to have not one, but two good friends who had rinks in their backyard.

During those games, it didn't matter how good you were, what level you played at, or if you even played at all. If you had skates a stick, and a willingness to brave the cold, you were there. What mattered was that you were there and that you were there to play like everyone else.

We rarely kept score, it was more a war of attrition and the games would end only when the cold had claimed enough people that the game could no longer continue. Those of us that were left would go inside for hot chocolate, goad the people who left before us until they had no choice but to come back outside and we would do it all over again.

Outdoor hockey isn't the same anymore. It has become an excuse to get drunk in the middle of the day, or something to do on a holiday afternoon when there is nothing else to do. Back then, those games mattered. It was something we all looked forward to during the winter months that always came too late and always left too early. During those months, the weekend and Christmas holidays meant hockey on the pond.

During my first year of university, we played our last game on the pond. With my best friend's youngest brother leaving for school the next year, there would be no one at his house to build the rink. We knew this beforehand and gathered as many of our old friends as we could to play one last game on the pond.

We played as kids like we always had. Ten guys, two nets, and that one corner of the rink that would never freeze right. Just another night on the pond. For three or four hours, we played. Knowing this was our last chance, no one went inside. No matter how numb our toes were or how bad the ice got, we kept playing. When the teams were deemed unfair, we changed them; when we got bored of shooting at the same end, we switched; when the game got boring, we did a shootout. We played and played until sometime late in the night we realized it was over. Everyone had had their fill and now it was time to go inside.

Those are the times from my youth I will never forget, all those endless hours on the pond playing hockey. No amount of cold beer can duplicate the feeling I got playing on that homemade rink with the waist-high plywood around and the floodlights shining down from either end. Sure, I'll still drop everything to go play outdoor hockey and still enjoy myself, but it just isn't the same.

-matt