Ghosts of October

Here is the bench that faces the hockey field.  Lake Michigan laps gently at the breakwater to the east.  Bare branches wave in the wind that blows from the north.  Shivering I bend my head down into my jacket and stroll over to the goal.

I can hear them now.  The ghostly players as they hit their sticks together for the face-off at center field.  Wings are ready to scoop the ball and send it flying, forward.  My heart beats a little faster.  I am there, legs padded against the certain contact with the hard and unforgiving ball.  Bending down I take my defensive stance.  A forward is pushing toward me, aiming for the goal.  I dart and put my stick in front of her, making her change her running step.  She looks at me with challenging eyes.  I meet her stare with my own.

And then I have it.  I hit the ball as hard as I can.  It zooms insanely past the forward line and is mastered by our own center.  And the action moves away from me.  Still breathing hard I watch as our forward line moves into offense.  And Goal!

I can hear the faint cheers on the sidelines.  And smiling I turn to walk toward the bench again.  The ghosts of October are alive and well.  And as I sit on the bench I can hear the game continue, sticks making contact, swift feet flashing by.  Lake Michigan ripples in the distance.  And even the cool wind can not make me leave the bench where I celebrate the ghosts of October.