Arcadia Scotland

“When I came over, being on an Ice Hockey team was not on my bingo card.” I found myself chuckling as I tied my St. Andrews Typhoons Tie around my neck.

September Myree had no idea what she had gotten us into. That night was our second game of the season; we had won our first game against the University of Edinburgh, so going against Sheffield seemed like no biggie. We were missing a whole line that night, but I was certain that we would be okay.

I sighed, it was 6:30 pm, time to start heading to the bus. I was already low on fumes from a day of “low executive function,” so my brain was not up for this taxing event. I wasn’t even working that hard; at least, not compared to my teammates who were playing in the game.

I met my friend 33 in the lobby of our dorm, his bags taking up a corner of the door. 33 is our goalie; thus, he has a lot of gear compared to regular players. He sighed as we left our dorm. He was lugging his giant bag and had his sticks in his other hand, a good counterbalance for his rock of a bag. I had his shin pads slung over my shoulder, one pad being the length of my torso.

After we hiked up the hill from our dorm to the road downtown, 33 stopped to take a break.

“I feel we’re going to lose,” he sighed.

“Why’s that?” I asked, genuinely worried why our goalie, who is one of the best in the league, was thinking we were going to lose.

“I dunno, I just have a gut feeling that we’re not going to do well.” Thirty-three grunted as he slung his bag back over his shoulders.

“Well, maybe we’ll surprise your predictions?” I said, my voice warry with false confidence.

As we walked to the bus, our other teammates started to slowly trickle in. Some were playing, like 33, and others were there for support or to help with the rink tech, like me.

Chatter on the bus increased steadily as more and more players came in, hype for the game. Before we had even closed the door of the bus, music was going on, and people were, mentally, getting into the game.

“Alright, alright!” A voice sounded over the chatter. “Now, we’ve got a good game against Sheffield today. So, let’s go bear hunting!”

The voice came from 7, our captain. His face was beaming with happiness, the thrill of hockey bouncing from his smile.

It was a 45-minute bus ride to the Fife Ice Arena down in Kirkaldy; I could have sworn there was a mist of anticipation flowing through the seats. Music was bouncing, people were meditating, and others were talking about drinking games to be done during the game. Non-playing teammates brought wine and ciders for those on the sidelines and working tech, a simple hockey tradition.

As we got into the rink, we split into our respective groups. Those playing went to the left as they needed to start warming up and focusing for the game. Those supporting and doing tech moved to the right. Each of us needed to get comfortable; we would be here for a while.

I ran around getting all the audio and score equipment ready for the game. This would be the first time, in a while, that we were able to play music during warmups and the game. Through all my running around, time caught up to me. I got a signal from another teammate; it was time for the show to begin.

I dimmed the sound for the walk out of the teams. Out first came the St. Andrews Typhoons in their white home jerseys, taking on the right side of the ice. Next came the Sheffield Bears in their yellow away jerseys, taking on the left side of the ice.

The anticipation was palpable, each team going through multiple warm-ups, stretching out for the impending combat.

The whistle blew, yanking me from my focus on the music to focus on the ice.

The puck shot onto the ice, the black blur bouncing around the rink. My teammates pounced on the puck, trying to gain control of the puck quickly. Sheffield grabbed the puck first, flinging it across the white page of ice. The puck and players glided across the ice, dancing with each other like two assassins at a ball.

Seventy-three caught the pass and started sliding back to give himself more room, his cogs turning until one of the bears came in from the side and slammed into him. They scrapped for the puck, other people on the teams moved close to assist. The puck flung around, catching in a Sheffield stick. Within a blink, the puck shot into the air and flung straight into 33’s glove. As he moved to protect the puck, other bears came in to try and knock the puck out of his glove and into the net. The bears hounded 33, and Typhoons tried to get in to protect 33. Thirty-three covered the puck, securing it within a safe area. Other bears still tried to get at the puck, accidentally flicking their sticks into 33’s face. Two whistles from the refs dissipated the cloud of people, not without tensions tightening between the Typhoons and the Bears.

As the first period wound down, the Bears had possession of the puck. There was no way for them to get close, so they shot from the blue line. The puck whizzed just by 33’s head and into the net. The score was 1-0, Sheffield lead.

The buzzer sounded, stating the end of period one. Two more periods left, the score so close and yet so far.

The two teams squared up again, the bears looking down into our lines with fire in their eyes. As soon as the puck was slapped, they attacked with tenacity and aggressiveness, their goal fueling them.

The puck jumped between the two sides, each team trying to get the upper hand on another immovable force.

Two players scraped for the puck along the far-left wall, flinging out straight into a Typhoon’s stick. Eighty-six shot across the ice like a javelin, moving through the ice like a fish through the ocean. They passed it to another teammate back and forth, keeping it away from the one Sheffield bear in between them. There was a two-on-one, and everyone else was too far away to help in the split-second play. A slap, and a swish right into the net. Typhoons score! 1-1, with one and a half periods left in the game. Now was not the time to get cocky or to lose sight of the game.

Face off again, Sheffield rising to the occasion against the newly fueled Typhoons. The fight for the puck was starting to swelter, boiling over between the teams.

Typhoons had the puck in the Bear’s area, passing back and around, trying to get a good angle into the goal. Seven passed to twenty and twenty to twenty-eight. In a blink, twenty-eight lunged in, tipping the puck right into the net. Typhoons score!!! The buzzer sounded as the second period concluded. The score 1-2, Typhoons lead.

The Zamboni sauntered out to the ice, hoping to provide a cleaner surface to hold the battle. The air seemed to hold still as the Zamboni wandered around the ice, leaving a slug-like trail of water behind it.

As the Zamboni retreated into its cave, the teams came out again. The Typhoons rocketed out, ready to end the game with a bang. The Bears shuffled out, their grey mist of focus almost visible against the white ice.

Two whistles, the start of the last period. The Typhoons had twenty minutes to either keep the Bears away from the net or to charge their net.

The dance between the teams started again, each team flipping through players like synchronized swimmers. The clock whittled down: ten minutes left, eight minutes left, five minutes left. Spectators held their breaths as if stuck underwater, unable to leave.

Bears had the puck; they came screeching down the ice, coincidentally right next to the Typhoon’s bench. In a second, seven tagged in for twelve, right when a bear was right in front of the Typhoon’s bench. Seven snapped forwards, hitting the bear perfectly. They lost the puck and went down, taking seven with him. Whistles blew, allowing the players to settle back. Until, one of the bears came from behind to slam into seven. Seven stumbled forward, rolling onto the ice, then back up in one move.

The clock stopped; the refs deliberated what to do. The seconds seemed like minutes, minutes seemed like lifetimes, until one of the refs came out. They called a penalty on seven. There were less than five minutes on the clock, and the Bears had a power play. (Power play is when there are more players of one team on the ice than another, so they have the advantage due to manpower). The refs did not call a penalty on the bear that slammed into seven after they had blown the whistle; leaving most of us wondering what must have gone down on the ice that was different from what we saw.

The bears had a limited time left, and the manpower to do it. The bears jolted forward, preparing to strike when we were down.

Our team retaliated back with just as much fervor as the Bears. The puck flashed through the ice, moving from player to player and team to team. Our players flew across the ice, blocking all of Sheffield’s advances through the line.

Seven’s penalty clock was winding down. There was still time to keep them away from the net, and it seemed to be working so far.

As soon as their penalty was up, seven shot across the ice. Eighty-six and seven were preparing something to keep Sheffield away from the net.

The clock went down, one minute left. The seconds slowly lowered in the clock. Each second passing was one more second till victory.

As the clock got to the last ten seconds, Sheffield got a break. They all started to slam towards the net, the puck falling right in front of our goalie. It was the last ten seconds, a last-ditch effort for a tie. Something other than a loss for the Bears.

It was a mass of black and yellow and white as all the players coagulated into one mass in front of the goal. Slapping and shouting could be heard echoing through the rink. Then, silence.

The puck was in the net. Sheffield had done it; they scored.

The buzzer screeched into the silence, Sheffield jumping into celebration. 2-2, a tie. They had managed to score in the last couple of seconds. There was no overtime, no shootouts, nothing. A tie.

A wash of grief splashed over me. A tie, it’s just as bad as a loss. We were so close!

The Typhoons and Bears lined up to give the Budweiser packs out to the MVPs of each team. For thirty minutes, the air seemed stagnant, impending worry of how the bus ride home would feel like.

As I got on the bus, I could feel myself slowly drifting, my shutting eyelids becoming anchors to sleep.

It was late, past midnight, when I was awoken from my slight slumber by the jostling of the bus along the highway. It took me a second to remember my surroundings, remember how the game ended. I looked up, expecting to see a somber bus, but I got quite the opposite.

Music was playing in the background, people were laughing, some were drinking, and there were smiles all around. Even though our game was a tie, our energy was slowly slipping, and school had been beating on our brains like a woodpecker, we were still around, still fighting, still the Typhoons.

Being on an Ice Hockey Team was not on my bingo card; but, who needs that anyway?

Who do I play for? TYPHOONS!