We are in New Hampshire. It's a beautiful autumn day. I'm sitting in the sun outside the rink waiting for game time. My son is 12. He doesn't need my help today. That's cool. I have a time and space to take the action in from a wide angle.I am in a whirlpool of hockey bags, sticks, matching warmup suits, mostly red, white and blue and parents.
"I want two from you today, Austin," said the mom. That's why we have kids, right? To score goals for us.
"How'd you guys team do today?" asked one red-white-and-blue warmup-suit of another. Even their speech has acne.
An athletic middle-aged guy walks by with a smile and a white board. "Hello" he says. He'd slug me if he knew I was thinking "middle age." He said hi to me because I'm dressed like a coach. Rule number one if you want to fit in wear the team colors.
The coach told the team if they won the game he'd take them to "Hootas." My son wasn't sure which was funnier, the coach taking a bunch of 12-13-year-old boys to Hooters or the fact that he pronounced it Hootas. The accent won out over the boobs.
"There's a picture of you pushing that kid in front of the net!" said a boy in the lobby at the Action Photo displlay. These kids act like this is all just fun and games.
The season is officially under way.
-- Posted from my iPhone
