Ice Hockey Quotes

Exy was a bastard sport, an evolved sort of lacrosse on a soccer-sized court with the violence of ice hockey, and Neil loved every part of it from its speed to its aggression. It was the once piece of childhood he'd never been able to give up.

Suppose neutral angels were able to talk, Yahweh and Lucifer – God and Satan, to use their popular titles – into settling out of court. What would be the terms of the compromise? Specifically, how would they divide the assets of their early kingdom? Would God be satisfied the loaves and fishes and itty-bitty thimbles of Communion wine, while Satan to have the red-eye gravy, eighteen-ounce New York Stakes, and buckets of chilled champagne? Would God really accept twice-a-month lovemaking for procreative purposes and give Satan the all night, no-holds-barred, nasty “can’t-get-enough-of-you” hot-as-hell-fucks? Think about it. Would Satan get New Orleans, Bangkok, and the French Riviera and God get Salt Lake City? Satan get ice hockey, God get horseshoes? God get bingo, Satan get stud poker? Satan get LSD; God, Prozac? God get Neil Simon; Satan Oscar Wilde?

Ice hockey is the closest thing to religion permitted by the Soviet Union.

I love the smell of the ice... And the cold. The sound the puck makes when it's sliding across the ice or when hits the net for a goal... as long as it's our goal. I love the sound of sticks crashing against one another. The sound my skates make when I come to a hard stop. The roar of the crowd. The way I feel when i'm playing. I can do things on this ice that I can't do anywhere else.

I-"Fuck. "Well, I am angry at you, Nathan." "Good." "So fucking angry." "Perfect.

The idiots won’t say it was Kevin who killed Beartown Ice Hockey; they’ll say that “the scandal” killed the club. Because their real problem isn’t that Kevin raped someone but that Maya got raped. If she hadn’t existed, it wouldn’t have happened. Women are always the problem in the men’s world.

Canadian winters are long. Life is hard and so is ice.

The scrape of the skates on the ice. The smell of musty old equipment. The black puck stains on the boards. To the uninitiated they're nothing, but to a hockey player they're home.

I don’t want either of us losing focus or shifting priorities.” “Priorities change.” “What are you saying?” That I’m falling for you. “That I can focus on hockey and you.

I wonder if I could convince her to She’s the Man herself onto the men’s hockey team so I never have to be on the ice without her.

She had a hundred reasons: because Bear had carved a statue of her in the center of the topiary garden, because she could always make him laugh, because he'd let her return to the station, because he won at chess and lost at hockey, because he ran as fast as he could to polar bear births, because he had seal breath even as a human, because his hands were soft, because he was her Bear. "Because i want my husband back," Cassie said.

Hockey players can also brace pretty hard against the ice. A player skating at full speed can stop in the space of a few meters, which means the force they’re exerting on the ice is pretty substantial. (It also suggests that if you started to slowly rotate a hockey rink, it could tilt up to 50 degrees before the players would all slide to one end. Clearly, experiments are needed to confirm this.)

He sounded like he was used to people swearing at him, which made no damned sense, because he was gorgeous and a hero.

God made ice for hockey and scotch, and that's about it.

Aunt Claire, I apologize to you too, since you probably had to pretend you weren't my aunt." "Apology accepted." Aunt Claire smiled, which did much to lighten Skye's heart. "I must say your mad charge at Melissa was impressive. Perhaps you should switch to ice hockey or professional wrestling." "Claire, please be serious," said Mr. Penderwick. "I am being serious.

Superstitions are pretty much the only thing I take as seriously as hockey. And this could be my last season. Yours too. I just wanna come out on top.” Or bottom. If he’d prefer it that way.

Kip nervously cleared his throat and said, "I didn't get into detail about our relationship, although the whole world knows we're a couple because of the on-ice meltdown I had when you were injured.

On the first day of November last year, sacred to many religious calendars but especially the Celtic, I went for a walk among bare oaks and birch. Nothing much was going on. Scarlet sumac had passed and the bees were dead. The pond had slicked overnight into that shiny and deceptive glaze of delusion, first ice. It made me remember sakes and conjure a vision of myself skimming backward on one foot, the other extended; the arms become wings. Minnesota girls know that this is not a difficult maneuver if one's limber and practices even a little after school before the boys claim the rink for hockey. I think I can still do it - one thinks many foolish things when November's bright sun skips over the entrancing first freeze. A flock of sparrows reels through the air looking more like a flying net than seventy conscious birds, a black veil thrown on the wind. When one sparrow dodges, the whole net swerves, dips: one mind. Am I part of anything like that? Maybe not. The last few years of my life have been characterized by stripping away, one by one, loves and communities that sustain the soul. A young colleague, new to my English department, recently asked me who I hang around with at school. "Nobody," I had to say, feeling briefly ashamed. This solitude is one of the surprises of middle age, especially if one's youth has been rich in love and friendship and children. If you do your job right, children leave home; few communities can stand an individual's most pitiful, amateur truth telling. So the soul must stand in her own meager feathers and learn to fly - or simply take hopeful jumps into the wind. In the Christian calendar, November 1 is the Feast of All Saints, a day honoring not only those who are known and recognized as enlightened souls, but more especially the unknowns, saints who walk beside us unrecognized down the millennia. In Buddhism, we honor the bodhisattvas - saints - who refuse enlightenment and return willingly to the wheel of karma to help other beings. Similarly, in Judaism, anonymous holy men pray the world from its well-merited destruction. We never know who is walking beside us, who is our spiritual teacher. That one - who annoys you so - pretends for a day that he's the one, your personal Obi Wan Kenobi. The first of November is a splendid, subversive holiday. Imagine a hectic procession of revelers - the half-mad bag lady; a mumbling, scarred janitor whose ravaged face made the children turn away; the austere, unsmiling mother superior who seemed with great focus and clarity to do harm; a haunted music teacher, survivor of Auschwitz. I bring them before my mind's eye, these old firends of my soul, awakening to dance their day. Crazy saints; but who knows what was home in the heart? This is the feast of those who tried to take the path, so clumsily that no one knew or notice, the feast, indeed, of most of us. It's an ugly woods, I was saying to myself, padding along a trail where other walkers had broken ground before me. And then I found an extraordinary bouquet. Someone had bound an offering of dry seed pods, yew, lyme grass, red berries, and brown fern and laid it on the path: "nothing special," as Buddhists say, meaning "everything." Gathered to formality, each dry stalk proclaimed a slant, an attitude, infinite shades of neutral. All contemplative acts, silences, poems, honor the world this way. Brought together by the eye of love, a milkweed pod, a twig, allow us to see how things have been all along. A feast of being.

Force, not persuasion, not discussion, is the legitimate instrument for influencing and policing the hockey mind. Fighting in hockey is one of the most magnificent and eloquent displays of refinement in all of sports.

We were hockey gypsies, heading down another gravel road every weekend, plowing into the heart of that magnificent northern landscape. We never gave a thought to being deprived as we travelled, to being shut out of the regular league system. We never gave a thought to being Indian. Different. We only thought of the game and the brotherhood that bound us together off the ice, in the van, on the plank floors of reservation houses, in the truck stop diners where if we'd won we had a little to splurge on a burger and soup before we hit the road again. Small joys. All of them tied together, entwined to form an experience we would not have traded for any other. We were a league of nomads, mad for the game, mad for the road, mad for ice and snow, an Arctic wind on our faces and a frozen puck on the blade of our sticks.

Yes. And yes, the carpet matches the drapes. I’ve only been asked that like three dozen times by hockey players, so don’t consider yourself original.

He sounded like he was used to people swearing at him, which made no damned sense, because he was gorgeous and a hero.

He is an open book. Sometimes he reads himself out loud.

All I want to do is go back to my apartment, cocoon myself inside a cozy blanket, and watch Love Island while eating a pint of cookie dough ice cream.

All the way from locker room to boardroom, the boys and men of Beartown Ice Hockey Club are brought together by a single motto: “High ceilings and thick walls.

You shouldn’t have stood up for me. I don’t want it to affect hockey.” “I don’t care about that right now. I care about you. If you can count on one person to be on your side no matter what, it’s me. I don’t ever want you to think you’re alone, because there isn’t a second that goes by when I’m not thinking about you.

I’m just saying that this whole process of getting a child’s outerwear on in the morning is a bit like trying to put an angry monkey who has just been dipped in soap and fed jalapeños into a complete ice hockey goalkeeper’s uniform.

Tomorrow, the Beartown Ice Hockey Club's junior team is playing in the semifinal of the biggest youth tournament in the country. How important can something like that be? In most places, not so important, of course, but Beartown isn't most places.

And when you got to the Trestle or the Vacant Lot or the Pond there would already be six hundred kids there. There were always six hundred kids everywhere except where two or more neighbourhoods met – at the Park, for instance – where the numbers would grow into the thousands. I once took part in an ice hockey game at the lagoon in Greenwood Park that involved four thousand kids, all slashing away violently with sticks, and went on for at least three quarters of an hour before anyone realized that we didn’t have a puck.

It was clear to everyone that day, and in the months that followed, that Patty’s greatest warming influence was on Walter himself. Now, instead of speeding by his neighbors in his angry Prius, he stopped to lower his window and say hello. On weekends, he brought Patty over to the patch of clear ice that the neighborhood kids maintained for hockey and instructed her in skating, which, in a remarkably short time, she became rather good at.

Like one of those permanently smiling animal heads displayed in a hunter’s living room, immobilized by the time and trauma of its death.

Talk show hosts like Oprah and Rosie O’Donnell had lied: a good family was not one that forgave, but one that could bravely endure ancient grudges.

Love can't be found in a rule book. It's found in your heart.

Summer's presence is luminescent. She's the last fragment of sunlight in the overwhelming darkness.

(Hockey) It's a slippery game played on ice.

What did grown men see in the rattle of sticks, the slashing of steel over ice and hockey sweaters worn way beyond funk?

And that same heady buzz I felt on the ice before my goal is the same one I feel when I look at her.

Unsure of what to say, I blurted hurriedly, “Do you want to be my friend? If you don‘t, it‘s okay. I don‘t want to waste any time, so you should tell me right away.

The most dangerous thing on the ice is being hit when you’re not expecting it. So one of the very first things hockey teaches you is to keep your head up, always. Otherwise—bang.

The male voice was chocolate ice cream with hot fudge and marshmallow fluff, warm sand sifting between her toes, the perfect ending to a dramatic rom-com all rolled into one.

the locker room,” Alex counters. “No way, it has to be on the ice. He’s going to take her to the rink tonight, flip on the scoreboard and play porn while he fucks her over the goal. They’re both wearing skates of course, porn everywhere, blaring through the speakers, there’s a hockey stick involved somehow, and he’s all veiny and sweaty and says things like my semen are scoring tonight.

Is that like the standard jock-mobile?” With the click of a button, the black F-450 lights flash. “I see you’re a fan of hockey stereotypes.” “More like empirical evidence. All you need now is a country playlist to seal the deal.

All the way from locker room to board room, the boys and men of Beartown Ice Hockey Club are brought together by a single motto: "High ceilings and thick walls." Hard walls are as much a part of the game as high checks, but the building is solid and spacious enough to keep any fights that take place inside from spilling outside. That applies both on the ice and off of it because everyone needs to realize that the good of the club comes before anything else.

Oh my GOD! He’s coming over to your house, isn’t he? I can smell it. I can smell the promise of sweaty, hot hockey sex in the air.” “What’s hockey sex?” Alex asks. “You know . . . the kind where he rips her clothes off, lifts her above his head, and eats her out while spinning around the room like he’s on the ice.” “That’s not fucking hockey sex. That’s figure-skating sex. Hockey sex is more like she holds pucks over her nipples while he fucks her on the bench in

As I do a few laps around the ice, I picture it in my mind’s eye: playing for the Chicago Falcons. Not only are they one of the biggest junior league hockey teams in all of North America, their players are also a favorite of NHL scouts.

So the women around here will have to give birth in their cars, but the council always seems to have enough money to support Beartown Ice Hockey?’ Hospitals and hockey aren’t funded from the same budget, those decisions aren’t even made by the same politicians, but if you ask a difficult enough question, there will always be a receptive audience for the simplest answer. So day after day, in different comment sections, Richard Theo has been doing what he does best: creating conflict, setting one thing against another. Countryside against big city. Hospital against hockey. Hed against

It's only a hockey game. An ice rink packed with people, two locker rooms full of players, two teams facing each other. Two men in a basement. Why do we care about that sort of thing? Perhaps because it clarifies all of our most difficult questions. What makes us shout out loud with joy? What makes us cry? What are our happiest memories, our worst days, our deepest disappointments? Who did we stand alongside? What's a family? What's a team? How many times in life are we completely happy? How many chances do we get to love something that's almost pointless entirely unconditionally?

When you're making whoopee, it's most like which Olympic sport: marathon running, gymnastics or ice hockey?' When Cam came home from the station, she'd asked him what he thought. 'Hockey,' he had said without hesitation. And he was right – there was a fury to their lovemaking, as if they were punishing each other for being something different from what they each had hoped. Many nights after that game show she had lain awake, listening to the tide of Cam's breathing, wondering why one of the multiple choices hadn't been something slow and lovely, like pairs' skating or water ballet, something partnered in grace and beauty and trust.

The difference between the long-term average of the graph and the ice age, 12,000 years ago, is just over 3°C. The IPCC 2001 report suggests that the line of the hockey stick graph might rise a further 5°C during this century. This is about twice as much as the temperature change from the ice age to pre-industrial times.

Hockey wants them that way. Needs them that way. Their coach teaches them to go hard into close combat on the ice. No one stops to think about how to switch that attitude off when they leave the locker room. It’s easier to pin the blame on her: She’s too young. Too attractive. Too easily offended. Too difficult to respect.

For so long, I believed all hockey players were heartless playboys who weren’t capable of giving a damn about anyone but themselves. Easton Blake proves me wrong at every turn. When I’m with him, it’s not just that he makes me feel safe. He makes me want to trust him. To give him the pieces of myself I’ve kept locked away tight.

She’d fallen in love with a man who risked it all to stoke the embers of desire created that first night and turn those sparks into flames of love. Who saw what she couldn’t because her heart was closed to the possibilities. Who respected and cherished all she was. Ford “Killer” Callaghan slayed her every time, and she was happy to die in his arms every night.

Mike should say no, should tell him to go fool around with boys his own age, his own size, should tell him to knock it the fuck off and find someone who doesn't play hockey, who doesn't care if he does like every other closet case in the league. But Fitzgerald's flashing his big blues and his hands are shaking, just enough for Mike to notice and Mike isn't a saint. He isn't even a particularly good person.

Needless to say, I personally don’t believe fighting should be banned. I don't understand why a relatively small segment of the hockey world feels obligated to ban extracurricular combat when it's so popular elsewhere in American sports. Additionally, the league shouldn’t be trying to ban fighting to save the enforcers from hurting themselves. Fighters realize the risks associated with what they do, and they are bound to accept these risks.

Fitzgerald still has that doe-eyed innocent look about him, but Mike's seen him on the ice, seen what he can do and he knows the kid's as vicious, deep down as the rest of them. He's got big blue eyes and hair constantly falling in his face and an ass that's spectacular even compared to the average hockey player and Mike wants him so bad, his teeth hurt, but Fitzgerald has no clue what he's playing with, so Mike keeps his goddamn hands to himself.

Hockey is a sport that rewards repetition. The same exercises, the same movements, until a player’s responses become instinctive, branded into his marrow. The puck doesn’t just glide, it bounces as well, so acceleration is more important than maximum speed, hand-eye coordination more important than strength. The ice judges you by your ability to change direction and thought quicker than anyone else—that’s what separates the best players from the rest.

One thing about packing depressed me a little. I had to pack these brand-new ice skates my mother had practically just sent me a couple of days before. That depressed me. I could see my mother going in Spaulding’s and asking the salesman a million dopy questions—and here I was getting the ax again. It made me feel pretty sad. She bought me the wrong kind of skates—I wanted racing skates and she bought hockey—but it made me sad anyway. Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

One thing about packing depressed me a little. I had to pack these brand-new ice skates my mother had practically just sent me a couple of days before. That depressed me. I could see my mother going in Spaulding's and asking the salesman a million dopy questions- and here I was getting the ax again. It made me feel pretty sad. She bought me the wrong kind of skates- I wanted racing skates and she bought hockey- but it made me sad anyway. Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

Hockey is a club that holds its members tightly, the bond forged by shared hardship and mutual passion, by every trip to the pond, where your feet hurt and your face is cold and you might get a stick in the ribs or a puck in the mouth, and you still can’t wait to get back out there because you are smitten with the sound of blades scraping against ice and pucks clacking off sticks, and with the game’s speed and ever-changing geometry. It has a way of becoming the center of your life even when you’re not on the ice.

Brooks wanted to abandon the traditional, linear, dump-and-chase style of hockey that had held sway in North America forever. He wanted to attack the vaunted Russians with their own game, skating with them and weaving with them, stride for high-flying stride. He wanted to play physical, un-yielding hockey to be sure, but he also wanted fast, skilled players who would flourish on the Olympic ice sheet (which is 15 feet wider than NHL rinks) and be able to move and keep possession of the puck and be in such phenomenal condition that they would be the fresher team at the end.

...We hold ourselves to a high standard. Our country sets it even higher. They always want more... You can always give more. It doesn't mean what you're giving is enough. Take it from me, every time you defy expectations, they set the bar higher. That isn't failure. It's faith." Sophie takes some time to digest that. It's nothing new to her. Hockey has always been about reaching one milestone and looking toward the next. Settling leads to complacency, her dad tells her. And complacency leads to stagnation. He was always there to push her if she grew too comfortable resting on her accomplishments.

He knows how quiet it gets when hockey tells you you’re finished. How quickly you start to miss the ice, the locker room, the guys, the bus trips, the gas-station sandwiches. He knows how as a seventeen-year-old he would look at the tragic former players in their forties who used to hang around the rink going on about their own achievements in front of an audience that got smaller and smaller each season. The job of GM gave him a chance to live on as part of a team, to build something bigger, something that could outlast him. But with that came responsibility: make the difficult decisions, live with the pain.

Mike likes Texas. Texas means warm weather instead of the fucking permafrost of Edmonton winters and Texas means stake. To be honest, every road trip means steak; it's a pretty standard order when you're trying to keep the weight on despite the season's best efforts to bleed you, though that applies to most of the other guys than to Mike: Mike's job is to get on, throw some hits, maybe a few punches, depending on the game and get the fuck off the ice so the hockey players can play. That doesn't mean Mike's not going to order streak, though. He's sure as shit going to order steak: they're in Dallas, he's not a heathen.

It is a painful irony that silent movies were driven out of existence just as they were reaching a kind of glorious summit of creativity and imagination, so that some of the best silent movies were also some of the last ones. Of no film was that more true than Wings, which opened on August 12 at the Criterion Theatre in New York, with a dedication to Charles Lindbergh. The film was the conception of John Monk Saunders, a bright young man from Minnesota who was also a Rhodes scholar, a gifted writer, a handsome philanderer, and a drinker, not necessarily in that order. In the early 1920s, Saunders met and became friends with the film producer Jesse Lasky and Lasky’s wife, Bessie. Saunders was an uncommonly charming fellow, and he persuaded Lasky to buy a half-finished novel he had written about aerial combat in the First World War. Fired with excitement, Lasky gave Saunders a record $39,000 for the idea and put him to work on a script. Had Lasky known that Saunders was sleeping with his wife, he might not have been quite so generous. Lasky’s choice for director was unexpected but inspired. William Wellman was thirty years old and had no experience of making big movies—and at $2 million Wings was the biggest movie Paramount had ever undertaken. At a time when top-rank directors like Ernst Lubitsch were paid $175,000 a picture, Wellman was given a salary of $250 a week. But he had one advantage over every other director in Hollywood: he was a World War I flying ace and intimately understood the beauty and enchantment of flight as well as the fearful mayhem of aerial combat. No other filmmaker has ever used technical proficiency to better advantage. Wellman had had a busy life already. Born into a well-to-do family in Brookline, Massachusetts, he had been a high school dropout, a professional ice hockey player, a volunteer in the French Foreign Legion, and a member of the celebrated Lafayette Escadrille flying squad. Both France and the United States had decorated him for gallantry. After the war he became friends with Douglas Fairbanks, who got him a job at the Goldwyn studios as an actor. Wellman hated acting and switched to directing. He became what was known as a contract director, churning out low-budget westerns and other B movies. Always temperamental, he was frequently fired from jobs, once for slapping an actress. He was a startling choice to be put in charge of such a challenging epic. To the astonishment of everyone, he now made one of the most intelligent, moving, and thrilling pictures ever made. Nothing was faked. Whatever the pilot saw in real life the audiences saw on the screen. When clouds or exploding dirigibles were seen outside airplane windows they were real objects filmed in real time. Wellman mounted cameras inside the cockpits looking out, so that the audiences had the sensation of sitting at the pilots’ shoulders, and outside the cockpit looking in, allowing close-up views of the pilots’ reactions. Richard Arlen and Buddy Rogers, the two male stars of the picture, had to be their own cameramen, activating cameras with a remote-control button.

He found that when the Montreal Canadiens ice hockey team—once described as the national team of French Canada—got knocked out of the playoffs early between 1951 and 1992, Quebecois males aged fifteen to thirty-four became more likely to kill themselves. Robert Fernquist, a sociologist at the University of Central Missouri, went further. He studied thirty American metropolitan areas with professional sports teams from 1971 to 1990 and showed that fewer suicides occurred in cities whose teams made the playoffs more often. Routinely reaching the playoffs could reduce suicides by about twenty each year in a metropolitan area the size of Boston or Atlanta, said Fernquist. These saved lives were the converse of the mythical Brazilians throwing themselves off apartment blocks. Later, Fernquist investigated another link between sports and suicide: he looked at the suicide rate in American cities after a local sports team moved to another town. It turned out that some of the fans abandoned by their team killed themselves. This happened in New York in 1957 when the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants baseball teams left, in Cleveland in 1995–1996 when the Browns football team moved to Baltimore, and in Houston in 1997–1998 when the Oilers football team departed. In each case the suicide rate was 10 percent to 14 percent higher in the two months around the team’s departure than in the same months of the previous year. Each move probably helped prompt a handful of suicides. Fernquist wrote, “The sudden change brought about due to the geographic relocations of pro sports teams does appear to, at least for a short time, make highly identified fans drastically change the way they view the normative order in society.” Clearly none of these people killed themselves just because they lost their team. Rather, they were very troubled individuals for whom this sporting disappointment was too much to bear. Perhaps the most famous recent case of a man who found he could not live without sports was the Gonzo author Hunter S. Thompson. He shot himself in February 2005, four days after writing a note in black marker with the title, “Football Season Is Over”:

SCENE 24 “Tiens, Ti Jean, donne ce plat la a Shammy,” my father is saying to me, turning from the open storage room door with a white tin pan. “Here, Ti Jean, give this pan to Shammy.” My father is standing with a peculiar French Canadian bowleggedness half up from a crouch with the pan outheld, waiting for me to take it, anxious till I do so, almost saying with his big frowning amazed face “Well my little son what are we doing in the penigillar, this strange abode, this house of life without roof be-hung on a Friday evening with a tin pan in my hand in the gloom and you in your raincoats—” “II commence a tombez de la neige” someone is shouting in the background, coming in from the door (“Snow’s startin to fall”)—my father and I stand in that immobile instant communicating telepathic thought-paralysis, suspended in the void together, understanding something that’s always already happened, wondering where we were now, joint reveries in a dumb stun in the cellar of men and smoke … as profound as Hell … as red as Hell.—I take the pan; behind him, the clutter and tragedy of old cellars and storage with its dank message of despair–mops, dolorous mops, clattering tear-stricken pails, fancy sprawfs to suck soap suds from a glass, garden drip cans–rakes leaning on meaty rock–and piles of paper and official Club equipments– It now occurs to me my father spent most of his time when I was 13 the winter of 1936, thinking about a hundred details to be done in the Club alone not to mention home and business shop–the energy of our fathers, they raised us to sit on nails– While I sat around all the time with my little diary, my Turf, my hockey games, Sunday afternoon tragic football games on the toy pooltable white chalkmarked … father and son on separate toys, the toys get less friendly when you grow up–my football games occupied me with the same seriousness of the angels–we had little time to talk to each other. In the fall of 1934 we took a grim voyage south in the rain to Rhode Island to see Time Supply win the Narragansett Special–with Old Daslin we was … a grim voyage, through exciting cities of great neons, Providence, the mist at the dim walls of great hotels, no Turkeys in the raw fog, no Roger Williams, just a trolley track gleaming in the gray rain– We drove, auguring solemnly over past performance charts, past deserted shell-like Ice Cream Dutchland Farms stands in the dank of rainy Nov.—bloop, it was the time on the road, black tar glisten-road of thirties, over foggy trees and distances, suddenly a crossroads, or just a side-in road, a house, or bam, a vista gray tearful mists over some half-in cornfield with distances of Rhode Island in the marshy ways across and the secret scent of oysters from the sea–but something dark and rog-like.— J had seen it before … Ah weary flesh, burdened with a light … that gray dark Inn on the Narragansett Road … this is the vision in my brain as I take the pan from my father and take it to Shammy, moving out of the way for LeNoire and Leo Martin to pass on the way to the office to see the book my father had (a health book with syphilitic backs)— SCENE 25 Someone ripped the pooltable cloth that night, tore it with a cue, I ran back and got my mother and she lay on it half-on-floor like a great poolshark about to take a shot under a hundred eyes only she’s got a thread in her mouth and’s sewing with the same sweet grave face you first saw in the window over my shoulder in that rain of a late Lowell afternoon. God bless the children of this picture, this bookmovie. I’m going on into the Shade.

SCENE 24 “Tiens, Ti Jean, donne ce plat la a Shammy,” my father is saying to me, turning from the open storage room door with a white tin pan. “Here, Ti Jean, give this pan to Shammy.” My father is standing with a peculiar French Canadian bowleggedness half up from a crouch with the pan outheld, waiting for me to take it, anxious till I do so, almost saying with his big frowning amazed face “Well my little son what are we doing in the penigillar, this strange abode, this house of life without roof be-hung on a Friday evening with a tin pan in my hand in the gloom and you in your raincoats—” “II commence a tombez de la neige” someone is shouting in the background, coming in from the door (“Snow’s startin to fall”)—my father and I stand in that immobile instant communicating telepathic thought-paralysis, suspended in the void together, understanding something that’s always already happened, wondering where we were now, joint reveries in a dumb stun in the cellar of men and smoke … as profound as Hell … as red as Hell.—I take the pan; behind him, the clutter and tragedy of old cellars and storage with its dank message of despair–mops, dolorous mops, clattering tear-stricken pails, fancy sprawfs to suck soap suds from a glass, garden drip cans–rakes leaning on meaty rock–and piles of paper and official Club equipments– It now occurs to me my father spent most of his time when I was 13 the winter of 1936, thinking about a hundred details to be done in the Club alone not to mention home and business shop–the energy of our fathers, they raised us to sit on nails– While I sat around all the time with my little diary, my Turf, my hockey games, Sunday afternoon tragic football games on the toy pooltable white chalkmarked … father and son on separate toys, the toys get less friendly when you grow up–my football games occupied me with the same seriousness of the angels–we had little time to talk to each other. In the fall of 1934 we took a grim voyage south in the rain to Rhode Island to see Time Supply win the Narragansett Special–with Old Daslin we was … a grim voyage, through exciting cities of great neons, Providence, the mist at the dim walls of great hotels, no Turkeys in the raw fog, no Roger Williams, just a trolley track gleaming in the gray rain– We drove, auguring solemnly over past performance charts, past deserted shell-like Ice Cream Dutchland Farms stands in the dank of rainy Nov.—bloop, it was the time on the road, black tar glisten-road of thirties, over foggy trees and distances, suddenly a crossroads, or just a side-in road, a house, or bam, a vista gray tearful mists over some half-in cornfield with distances of Rhode Island in the marshy ways across and the secret scent of oysters from the sea–but something dark and rog-like.— J had seen it before … Ah weary flesh, burdened with a light … that gray dark Inn on the Narragansett Road … this is the vision in my brain as I take the pan from my father and take it to Shammy, moving out of the way for LeNoire and Leo Martin to pass on the way to the office to see the book my father had (a health book with syphilitic backs)— SCENE 25 Someone ripped the pooltable cloth that night, tore it with a cue, I ran back and got my mother and she lay on it half-on-floor like a great poolshark about to take a shot under a hundred eyes only she’s got a thread in her mouth and’s sewing with the same sweet grave face you first saw in the window over my shoulder in that rain of a late Lowell afternoon. God bless the children of this picture, this bookmovie. I’m going on into the Shade.

We’re more proficient than women at arm wrestling, fresco-painting, ice hockey and particle physics. We make better cabinets, sun decks and booster rockets. We know how to read a map. In the movies, most Westerns and martial arts films would be poorer without our presence. ...So let’s renew our male mission and wear our antlers high on our heads. Let’s stand up straight, aim well, and exercise our prerogative to leave the seat up. After all, we’re MEN, and we hold a proud heritage in our hands.

What does a playoff team look like?.., It looks like this... A playoff team is tired. They're in pain from a long season. They're frustrated about losses. But they're full of passion. Passion that will let them overcome the fatigue and the pain... A playoff team has to have energy. They have to be prepared to do whatever it takes. to battle one-on-one late in the 3rd period. To block shots. To play 2 or 3 overtime periods, i that's what it takes to win. They have to be the 1st to the puck, Clear the net. For the next 2 months, a playoff team has to bring that energy to the arena every night... It's not just the passion and the energy. It's not just physical conditioning. It's mental conditioning too. You have to stick to the game plan. You can't let fatigue or distractions get in the way of how you play. Some of you men have never been in a playoff game. Everyone will tell you it's a whole new season. Everyone will tell you it's intense. You have no. Fucking. Idea... All of you have trained yourself to leave everything behind when you step on the ice. And that's what you have to do now... You have to make the mind shift that this is a new season. The only that matters now is what we can control -- being ready for the next game... You have to have confidence in yourself. And n your teammates... Some of you guys haven't been playing together that long. But I've seen the teamwork you all bring. The work ethic. I've seen the relationships and the chemistry develop. You have to have trust in each other... and that means being trustworthy. Being there for each other. For the team... coaching staff. Trust in the game plan. Trust in the preparation... I ave trust in you. We can do this.

Patrick Sharp remembers how bad it was. He remembers hosting a blood drive with Duncan Keith in 2007, the two future stars wandering around Millennium Station wearing bright-red Blackhawks jerseys with their names on them, trying to hand out free tickets and failing miserably. Even with their own names on the backs, nobody knew who the hell either of them was.

reading books, watching shows, even practicing wasn’t like the real thing. And it bothered her when people tried to pretend it was. Go watch all the hockey games on TV that you can feast your eyes on. Read every book on strategy, stick-handling, hitting, defense, everything you can possibly find. Now go step on the ice. Do you feel ready? You’re good to play in your first game?

I’ve wanted this since I was five years old. I’m now twenty-one and time is running out. Of course, looking back, I realize I had lots of time, but in September 2001, all I knew was that playing the game I loved more than anything in the NHL was the only option. There was no Plan B.

The final score was five to zero, with high-scoring Brother, the hockey hero! The cheers for the Cousins were long and loud. They left the ice to the roar of the crowd. So there you have it. A stellar performance by Brother Bear and another victory for the Bear Country Cousins. This puts the Cousins in the big Valentine’s game against… the Beartown Bullies-- a dubious privilege at best. There was a special cheer for Brother as well. The cheerleaders gave him a well-deserved yell. They then addressed Brother in more personal terms. “Yuck, when it comes to mush, I’d rather eat worms.

me through, gentlemen and – er – madam. Your reaction was not unexpected. Let me put it this way: Fort Knox is a bank like any other bank. But it is a much bigger bank and its protective devices are correspondingly stronger and more ingenious. To penetrate them will require corresponding strength and ingenuity. That is the only novelty in my project – that it is a big one. Nothing else. Fort Knox is no more impregnable than other fortresses. No doubt we all thought the Brink organization was unbeatable until half a dozen determined men robbed a Brink armoured car of a million dollars back in 1950. It is impossible to escape from Sing Sing and yet men have found ways of escaping from it. No, no, gentlemen. Fort Knox is a myth like other myths. Shall I proceed to the plan?’ Billy Ring hissed through his teeth, like a Japanese, when he talked. He said harshly, ‘Listen, shamus, mebbe ya didn’t know it, but the Third Armoured is located at Fort Knox. If that’s a myth, why don’t the Russkis come and take the United States the next time they have a team over here playing ice-hockey?’ Goldfinger smiled thinly. ‘If I may correct you without weakening your case, Mr Ring, the following is the order of battle of the military units presently quartered at Fort Knox. Of the Third Armoured Division, there is only the Spearhead, but there are also the 6th Armoured Cavalry Regiment, the 15th Armour Group, the

Missing this interview? It's not the end of the world. It is the beginning.

The aforementioned “active stick”—besides being an essential achievement in the Eddie Olczyk NBC broadcaster drinking game—describes what the defenseman needs to do with his twig when taking on an attacker. It should always be on the ice, always in motion, always seeking to be as close to the shooter’s blade as possible.

You don’t have to be a scout to spot the tough guy. A true tough guy has a kind of aura about him. Watch a bunch of dogs in the park. They all know which one not to mess with, even if he’s just trotting along with his tail in the air.

Derek’s center of gravity rested low, in his thick thighs and massive seat, more like a speed skater or a cyclist than a hockey star.

Players are shaped into puzzle pieces that fit with all the others. A boy is stripped to a set of skills at the whim of coaches and scouts. To keep playing hockey, do more of this and less of that. The untalented and undedicated are discarded, swept away at the end of each season. Survivors plug away, baited by hope.

Even if he only stands there looking pretty, they’ll be lining up ten deep. Your chocolate and a hunky hockey player—match made in heaven.

I swear I am seeing stars, and it's not the night sky that I'm looking at, because my eyes are shut, and she's lighting up the heavens as I feel things buried deep within me.

There’s stuff happening on the ice.

Mark my words, Grey. Your next first kiss will be your best first kiss. It might even be your last first kiss.

Montreal was the location of ice hockey’s first formal game (1875), its first published rules (1877), its first official club (1877), its first major tournament (1883), its first intercity league (1886) and its first national champion (1893).11 That occurred when the reigning governor general, Lord Frederick Stanley of Preston, presented his famous Cup, and a five-team league—three of which were from Montreal—settled on its winner.12 For much of this time, hockey as an organized sport had been marginal and largely unknown in Toronto.

It was not uncommon for a quality performer to suit up with multiple teams in the same year, or to be employed in two different leagues at the same time. The phenomenon was reaching its logical extreme in Edmonton, where local management began buying star players from across the country as part of its plan to assemble a Cup contender. Another downside of unregulated competition was the inability of pro leagues to enforce on-ice discipline. It should be noted that, contrary to what the amateur organizers claimed, violence in hockey was by no means a professional phenomenon. The papers of the day are full of on-ice assaults, all-out brawls and spectator bedlam in the unpaid ranks. However, when amateur leagues dealt with these, they could enforce their rulings throughout the amateur world.

A coach will set up the next three lines after the one that’s on the ice. But then, seeing what the other team puts out on the fly, he’ll tell players at the very last second that it’s their turn to hit the ice, even if they’re not the next line in the rotation. That’s because the opposing coach has done something—put out his top line, put out his bruising fourth line—to influence the line match. For some coaches, this is the perfect system through which to defeat an opponent. For most observers, it’s a handy way to unbalance your players’ ice time to their detriment.

As for those forwards who remain on the ice for too long, we’ll pass the mic to venerable blogger Tyler Dellow: “Being on the ice after a minute is sort of like being in a bar after 1:00 am—there’s no guarantee that something bad will happen, it’s possible that something good will happen, but the odds are slanted heavily in favor of something bad.

Love can be icy. Love can be a warm whisper. Sometimes it is both simultaneously.

Tory is so beautiful that it violently smacks you in the face every single time you look at him. The kind of beautiful that makes people squirm with discomfort.

He's rugged, yet angelic. Poetic, yet blasphemous. Unkempt, yet meticulous.

Looking at Tory is like looking at the sun. Life-giving, yet utterly destructive.

But he is mine. Not mine in the true, real sense of the word. Mine in the purely delusional sense.

She thinks she's not the prettiest girl in school. I think that's pretty stupid.

Watching Tory is like watching poetry on ice. He moves with graceful precision that maintains a certain level of brutality.

In the kitchen, something rumbled behind us, and without my permission, my body went flying. One minute I was on my side of the couch, the next second I was landing on Ryan. He grunted. Oh my god. I scrambled hard, fighting to get off him. I felt a huge hand wrap around my back, pulling me against him. He sounded amused. “You’re shaking.” “Something made a noise in the kitchen,” I sounded breathless. “Stay,” he said, pulling me off balance against his hard chest, “I’ll protect you from the fridge.” I lay there rigid against him, feeling his breath rise and fall beneath me. He was radiating heat. “That was the fridge?” “The ice maker,” he sounded amused.

Ah, well, because I’m in it?

Fucking Quentin.

Keith Klouda, an ex-police officer and thriving construction business owner, aspires to become the Treasure of Costa Linda. His journey from law enforcement to construction management equips him with a unique skill set. Keith's passion for ice hockey, family dinners, and cigars adds a personal touch to his commitment to ensuring the resort's financial prosperity.

Emily.

No, you idiot. You have to live,” I cry, fisting his jersey with both hands. “You may look like a hockey Thor, but you’re not a god, Ilmari. You’re flesh and blood and you’re grinding yourself into that ice. And I won’t allow it.