Open Ice: Reflections and Confessions of a Hockey Lifer by Jack Falla

By Jack Falla

OPEN ICEIn this new choice of exquisitely crafted essays, veteran activities author Jack Falla writes approximately hockey as he has visible and skilled it over the last fifty years. Reflections at the video game, its personalities and arenas, and twenty-five years of dedication to making his yard rink are woven into relatives stories and different fond remembrances.A heartwarming and fun assortment, Open Ice is certain to the touch each hockey fan and all those that have grown up loving the game.Praise for Jack Falla's earlier selection of Essays, domestic Ice"literary scorching chocolate that may hot your heart."—The ny Times"While domestic Ice could be a booklet approximately hockey and the attraction of yard rinks, it's greater than that, too. it's a e-book approximately relationships—between fathers and sons, husbands and wives—and how the sport can bridge the gaps that typically ensue among generations in a family... it is a treasure and person who readers can be chuffed they searched out. probably the simplest hockey publication for the reason that Ken Dryden's The Game."—The Globe & Mail"A mild and robust book."—Dave Bidini, writer of Tropic of Hockey and the simplest video game you could identify

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Only if you never want to see it again,” he said. 44 SKATING THE RIDEAU CANAL Barb and I crossed Rideau Street and headed down an embankment toward the canal, which seemed to us to have a lot of skaters for so cold a day. The only bad part of skating outdoors is putting on your skates. Our fingers were freezing as, one knee on the skate bag, we laced up and joined the hundreds of skaters in a river of humanity. There were skaters of all kinds: old smoothies, their long graceful strides carrying them easily over the ice; hockey players digging in harder than was necessary; children slipping and sliding while holding a parent’s hand; and packs of teenage girls, a few of whom had the then fashionable slices of bare flat-bellied midriffs visible through unbuttoned coats, vanity trumping common sense.

44 SKATING THE RIDEAU CANAL Barb and I crossed Rideau Street and headed down an embankment toward the canal, which seemed to us to have a lot of skaters for so cold a day. The only bad part of skating outdoors is putting on your skates. Our fingers were freezing as, one knee on the skate bag, we laced up and joined the hundreds of skaters in a river of humanity. There were skaters of all kinds: old smoothies, their long graceful strides carrying them easily over the ice; hockey players digging in harder than was necessary; children slipping and sliding while holding a parent’s hand; and packs of teenage girls, a few of whom had the then fashionable slices of bare flat-bellied midriffs visible through unbuttoned coats, vanity trumping common sense.

I was packing my suitcase as the tv showed the pallbearers walking with the casket down the center aisle. They were all former teammates, French 25 OPEN ICE and English, the flower of a club its French-Canadian fans call Nos glorieux. There was Jean Béliveau, who is to Richard as Joe DiMaggio is to Babe Ruth; Elmer Lach; Butch Bouchard; Ken Mosdell; Dickie Moore; Ken Reardon; Gerry McNeil; and, on the front left corner with his right hand on the casket, Henri Richard, who was crying. I listened to the rest of the service on English cbc Radio in the car as I picked my way out of the city and over the St.

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