Hockey Night in Canada

The valley was mute except for the crackling sound of the stream eating at holes in the ice. Matthew squinted his eyes. The glare of the snow was blinding. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of the bus he was supposed to have taken home. He’d spent his money earlier that day on hockey cards. He wished he had saved some of the gum. He was hungry.

The shadow of a bird skated across the crust of snow. Matthew looked up. A crow landed on a branch high in a tree top, like the hockey announcer on Hockey Night in Canada, high above the action. Or maybe like God. God had become a problem for Matthew. He could not reconcile all the bad things that happened to people with a God who was all loving. The crow displaced a flurry of snow down upon Matthew.

Matthew’s foot sank in the snow. He couldn’t move it. He pulled with all his might but the boot wouldn’t budge. Matthew put his books down on the snow, undid the entrapped boot and slipped his foot out. When he had freed his boot, he put his foot back in. His books were now covered in snow. Matthew brushed them off and moved on.

He was getting cold. The clouds of breath that earlier had fascinated Matthew as they rose like balloons from his mouth, now poured out in a stream of exhaust. His lips began to feel as if they were bleeding. Small pin needles began to jab at his cheeks. His lungs were sore. Curling his fingers up in his mitts, Matthew cursed the books that made it impossible for him to keep his hands in the warmth of his pockets.

The stream looked strong enough. It was about ten feet across. A journey around the stream to the bridge at Kipling Avenue was a long one and the day was already beginning to dim. How he wished he hadn’t bought those hockey cards; how he wished he’d taken the bus home. The ice was crystal clear, not a speck of snow on it. He had dreamed of such ice earlier that winter when he and Fred had planned to skate down the creek until it met the Humber River.

Gingerly, Matthew stepped out onto the ice. Each step was cautiously plotted and executed. It reminded Matthew of a war film he’d seen in which a company of soldiers crossed a mine-field. All of them didn’t make it. About half way across the stream, Matthew heard a crack. He looked around. Above him, the crow he’d seen earlier, cried out. Before Matthew knew it, he was up to his knees in water. The current of the stream pulled on his legs. He reached out for the shore, slipped, and fell through the ice. A mouthful of cold water choked him. Kicking and clawing, Matthew managed to grab a tree branch that hung over the stream. He pulled himself out of the creek.

Matthew lay on the snow, coughing and panting. Turning he spotted his history book sinking below the broken ice. The hockey cards he’d purchased that morning floated down stream, the Golden Jet passing Bobby Baun. Tears welled up in Matthew’s ice and froze. He tried to stand up but his boots, now filled with water, were as heavy as cement blocks. He tried to pull his feet out but could not. Don’t panic! he told himself. Finally by jamming his boot in the crux of a small tree, Matthew managed to pull one foot out and then the other, extricating each with a great sucking sound. Matthew took his socks off and squeezed the water out of them. His feet were blood red and freezing cold. He didn’t want to put the socks back on but knew that he must. He emptied his boots of water and pulled them on. He grabbed the rest of his books, stood up and began to move.

Matthew moved slowly, the weight of his wet clothes bearing down upon him. As the sun began to sink, the wind began to pick up. Remembering something his mother had told him, Matthew made a conscious effort to keep moving his toes. Tears ran down Matthew’s cheeks as he dragged his legs through the snow, pulling himself along at times by grabbing bushes and tree branches. In places the snow had drifted. Several times Matthew found himself in snow up to his waist. His pants were now frozen stiff. It was a great effort to bend his knees. Keep moving! he told himself. When he reached the edge of the valley and looked up the steep hill he had to climb, all hope left him.

Matthew sat down in the snow and cried. He could no longer feel his feet. His hands were beginning to go numb. He began to shiver. Matthew closed his eyes. A voice inside spoke to him. Maybe if I just slept for a while. Maybe I could get my strength back. The crow that Matthew had seen earlier landed on Matthew’s head and began to beat the boy around the ears. Matthew fought the crow off. He stood up. Matthew began to climb. The hill was slippery. Twice he fell and slid back down the hill. Each time the crow swept down over Matthew’s head, screeching. Matthew pushed himself higher and higher. He forgot about the top of the hill and concentrated on the next step. When he reached the top of the hill, Matthew fell to his knees and sobbed.

After a brief spell of tears, Matthew stood up and looked back down the hill. Darkness had filled the valley. The only sound he heard was the snapping of tree branches under the weight of the snow and the whisper of the breeze as it whistled passed his ears. As Matthew turned and headed home, the crow flew low over his head, screeched, and climbed into the night.

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The Moron