:: Electric Psychedelic Pussycat Swinger's Club ::

:: Monday, February 27, 2006 ::

Zamboni

I’ve never been a huge fan of hockey. But there I was, sitting atop the bleachers waiting for my friend’s team to come out of the locker room and take the ice. Rather than pay much attention to the game, however, I figured this would be a good opportunity to catch up on my writing.

A fight had broken out during the final minutes of the preceding game. How it started I haven’t a clue, but it ended with a referee sitting on top of one player to break up the fiasco. A misplaced fist happened to connect with an identically misplaced mouth. And as the buzzer finally sounded indicating the end of the game, there was a pool of dark red blood on center ice.

Zambonis are those tractor-like vehicles used to smooth over the ice after games. All the abuse the ice takes from the dozens of blades cutting sharply into its surface, the hockey sticks slapping across its face, and the bodies that occasionally get slammed to the ground, inevitably leaves behind a history of grooves and chips. But at the end of every game the zamboni miraculously erases all those bumps and all those chips, as if they never happened.

How nice it would be if they worked on mistakes, too.

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