Of Ice and Men

Do you remember your first love? You were a brash sixth-grader, she a blond, fifth-grade beauty. One day you sat down on the bus and there she was, across the aisle.

You didn't say anything to her, just the obligatory anti-girl comments to your friends, but you watched her secretly until she got off two stops before yours.

And, you continued watching her the rest of the year, until you saw that freckled nose and those clear blue eyes every night in your dreams.

Finally, on the last day of school, you made your move. You got on the bus, saw her sitting in a window seat, and with a marvelous display of sixth-grade cool plunked yourself down beside her. Suddenly, as you turned toward her, she stood up in a rustle of papers and streamers, squeezed past you into the aisle and she was gone. Off to another seat, shooting scorning stares at your with her babbling, fifth-grade friends.

You felt angry. Unhappy. Resentful. And then, you rationalized--"It never would have worked, she was too immature. Next year..."

I began the winter sports season a hardened journalist, immune to feelings of affection for a team and totally impartial. Yet somehow, along the way, I fell in love with the Harvard hockey team.

The affair was brief, passionate. Alas, for all their charms, they were unfaithful.

They'd woo me with an overtime win over B.U. and a trouncing of New Hampshire on the road, then bring me crashing down to a painful, melancholy with a loss at Princeton, a disaster at Maine, blow-the-lead ties at Yale and Brown.

They'd awe me with stretches of playoff-caliber play, like the first period against B.C. at the Beanpot, or the second period at Dartmouth. And then they'd sneer, and throw me an impotent power-play or lackluster loss to Colgate crushing my hopes and expectations like a slap in the face on a first date.

Maybe it was Mark Fusco's ringing bullets from the point, or the old warriors, Hynes and Garrity, doing it one more time, but they kept luring me back with promises of fidelity. The good moments seemed like heaven, the bad-heartburn. And I always came back for more...

I remember coach Cleary, our chaperone, always putting in a kind word about his charges, yet staying realistic. He knew their unfaithful ways. He consoled me, time and again--"Jeez, they're young, they've got to learn."

Maybe that's why I haven't given up hope. The team and I will be riding the same bus together next year, and like Cleary says most everyone will be back, and a year older too. It's just that they're not ready for love now, right.

Meanwhile, I have memories. I'll think about the little secrets we had and read the romantic love notes I sometimes composed, like the stat sheet for the Northeastern game.

And, I'll remember our little triumphs--Dave Connors raising the stick at Walter Brown, or Greg (1-2-3) Olson at Yale. They'll console me during the long, lonely summer.

But, most of all, I'll look forward to next year. Then, it'll all be different. I hope.