Puck Love

Sunday Frozen Sunday

It had been a week of bitter cold temps.  The forecast was for a wet warm front to being in higher temps and precipitation. But today was THE perfect day for pond hockey, rare during these times of riotous climate upheaval.  Little snow had accumulated during the arctic invasion, and despite its low January arc, the sun shined brilliantly.  And it was Sunday. This was, indeed, a gift

I had a problem. Despite the fact that it was Sunday, I was on the go with work and kid hockey shuttles from 7 am to 7 pm.  I had a one hour window in the middle of it all, but I was in sleep debt and feeling run down. When I got to the comfort of my home and stretched out, I was willing to let the opportunity pass in order to recharge.  But I was definitely aware of a nagging urge, that pond hockey itch.  To me, pond hockey is the ultimate recreational activity.  I don't like putting on the "armor" and playing real hockey, but I adore the pond game for all the right reasons.

Before shutting down on the couch, I noticed a second cousin of mine from Mass. posting on Facebook that she was getting out for some pond hockey and included a photo. It was the proverbial straw, impossible to ignore. I packed up skates gloves and stick and set off for a happy little hockey cove.

A substantial neighborhood gathering filled the parking spots. I laced up with less than an hour to play, but knew it was enough to capture the essence.  I stumbled around on skates I hadn't put on in nearly a decade, trying to find my sea legs.  I pocketed the puck that was sticking in the snow and just skated for the sheer joy of it. I left the 10 year olds and went through a narrow neck out towards the large lake .  The sun broke through all the haze and started beaming full blast.  I was bathing in vitamin D, cool air and black ice. Nirvana.  Cheap sunglasses to completed my ensemble. Perfection.

And then the hockey gods took over.  A game was taking place in a shoveled rink with 9 players. All seemed my age as I skated by. A saint called over "We need one!"  Seconds later I am trying to figure out my teammates names as I am involved in a game in which no one had pads. Just a hockey glow, smiles and the beginnings of a sun tan.

The took exactly amount of the time I had. I found my sea legs, found my teammates with passes, and didn't make any enemies by playing too hard.  I found myself in some offensive flow toward the peak of the game, and some fellow impeded my progress, I guess you could say he "checked" my progress with a muscular ass into my midsection right in the slot.  I laughed and threw him a complement as I danced back to help out on defense.

Right on cue we were playing "Next Goal Wins," and after a number of quality chances, our gang of 5 coughed up the game winner.  I cannot accept any sense of being a loser out there, on this wonderful day of ice and human perfection.  I said a quick good bye and skated out into the grand pond or small lake, loving January's gift to us all.  I circled back 5 minutes later and found most of the remaining fellows gathered on a fallen tree, talking and relaxing.  They offered me a beer.  I'm not going to wax poetic about a Coors Light, but those beer ads have NOTHING on the joy we all were experiencing, major endorphins flowing on the frozen pond. Over the course of a 12 ounce barley pop I learned that the fellow who butt checked me so efficiently learned to play hockey in the wonderful winter province of Manitoba, and that there were several connections to my son's HS hockey team from town.  New relationships spawned, refreshments consumed, new face tan in place, I went and picked up my 14 year old for his travel game.  Turns out he had carved out 2 hours to play shinny on the pond.  A one-day sample of the Great State of Hockey, Minnesota.

Down Goes Frazier

Down, Not Out

Tennis is the closest thing there is to boxing, yet without the brain and cosmetic damage. Millionaire athletes of both sexes cavort in the latest fashions, living breathing corporations of sex appeal, and they also battle fiercely, one on one, in clothes that accentuate their sexuality. Hell, there's a lot to like. The grand slam events are the equivalent of fashion week, only with a whole lot more athleticism weaved in.  For the superstars, the first week is all about showing one's stuff and hoping not to get nicked up for the really big matches in week two.

The sultry Russian Maria Sharapova glided through her first round match in less than an hour, without losing a single game--the proverbial double bagel. Wave to the crowd, a quick towel off followed by a visit to the ESPN set for a friendly chat. The pain free routine of week one. Her projected third round opponent Venus Williams took exactly one hour to dismiss her anonymous opponent. She dropped but a single game; a bagel and a breadstick.  Federer and Murray glided through as well, Knights in a jousting tournament quickly dismantling their opponents, slipping off the battlefield and into the arms of their handlers with nary a mark on their armor. Until yesterday.

To call Serena Williams an overwhelming favorite to win this tournament is a grand understatement. To circle back to the boxing analogy, think Mike Tyson in his prime. But like many seemingly invincible warriors, she has an Achilles Heel, in this case, her ankles.

Serena has mass.  Listed "officially" at 155 pounds, it's what gives her serves and to a lesser extent her groundstrokes, such ferocious power.  And that mass takes its toll on weight-bearing joints, her ankles in particular.

Last year she had a horrible left ankle roll in the Brisbane warmup prior to the Aussie Open, forcing her to withdraw. She soldiered on at the 2012 AO a week later, before being upset in the 4th round. Yesterday, four games into a double bagel trouncing of the forgettable Edina Gallovits-Hall, she had another brutal ankle roll, this time on her right ankle. It caused a lengthy delay, and the queen bee of women's tennis was suddenly in mortal danger.  The air whooshed out of Hisense arena as the entire tennis industrial machine ground to a halt.

10 minutes later she was back on court, with her ankle re-"mummified." She then resumed her destruction of her Romanian foe, yet in a gingerly fashion. She might be the only human alive that could pull off a gingerly thrashing.  Now the boxing analogies are much more apt, for she has been seriously nicked up. If the Slams are a 7-round boxing match, she is being tended to by her cut man after the first round.  Her quotes from the press conference are much more Rocky Balboa than "Our Chrissie" Evert.  Despite their length, I have cut and pasted all I can find because of their revealing nature. Defining her hard edged intensity, in her own words.

"It was definitely a lot of pain," she recalled. "Also a little bit of the memory, as well. So it was definitely a little bit of both. But also at the same time trying to gather myself together and trying to make sure that I can continue."

Q. So Thursday is too early to call, whether you can play Thursday?
SERENA WILLIAMS: Oh, I’ll be out there. I mean, unless something fatal happens to me, there’s no way I’m not going to be competing.

"I’m alive. My heart’s beating. I’ll be fine."

Q. When you went over, did it remind you of Brisbane last year?
SERENA WILLIAMS: Absolutely. It reminded me a lot of Brisbane. I thought, Oh, not again. But, you know, I’ve had such a good year that I don’t think it’s anything negative. I just think that I was definitely a little bit in shock and I was thinking, I hope it’s not as serious, because it was really serious last year.

Q. Is there any pain or swelling there now?
SERENA WILLIAMS: Obviously there’s pain. Obviously there’s swelling. So it’s going to be really important to see how the next few hours unfold.

It reminded me a lot of Brisbane. I thought, Oh, not again. But, you know, I’ve had such a good year that I don’t think it’s anything negative. I just think that I was definitely...

"I'm alive. My heart's beating. I'll be fine. I've been injured before. I've played this tournament with so many injuries and was able to come off pretty on top.

"So for me it's just another page and a great story to tell the grandkids one day."

Williams said she would ice her foot and leave it to the medical team to decide whether she needed a scan - although she added she would rather not know if it was something serious.

"I know one year I won this tournament and had two bone bruises in both knees," said Williams, who has won 47 career titles.

"I had no idea. I just knew I was in pain. I think sometimes what you don't know cannot hurt you."

When asked whether she would be fit to play her second round tie on Thursday against either Slovak Magdalena Rybarikova or Garbine Muguruza of Spain, Williams said: "Oh, I'll be there."

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Rather than facer her mortality, the 15-time grand slam singles champion, who admittedly does not like to train, appears to have a goal now: to chase down Steffi Graf's record of 22 Grand Slam singles titles. That would thrust her front and center into the debate as who is the greatest women's player of all time. Evert and Navratilova and hovering at 18.

So while the other stars of the sport glide through this first week in their high fashions surrounded by widening entourages, Serena limps along, a wounded warrior, ignoring pain and injury as she focuses on the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, a #16 shining through, 6 potentially agonizing matches away. 

Meanwhile, there is new life in the women's draw, from World #1 and projected semifinalist Vika Azarenka and all the Buster Douglas wannabes in the jungle, they know the lioness is wounded, there is blood in the air.  One rolled ankle has changed the dynamic of women's tennis as it boils down in this  ever tightening bracketology.  Only one thing is certain, Serena will show up. Six long miles on a bad wheel.