Ego stop, and just describe this man.
The hockey player is one of the fastest on the ice.
The seats in the stands are empty.
There is no championship, no playoff and no score counted for these guys.
Only a loose tally in the minds of the players.
And perhaps a more serious accounting in the minds of the goalies.
No god looks down through the fortified complex roof.
No sprawl of nature blows sacred wind across a pond.
The player is fast because he wants to score.
But for who?
The player is fast because he feels an urgency for the puck.
But for what?
The player carves heel to toe.
The hands rake the stick precisely to battle for a possibility along the boards.
The pivots and passes are impressive to the self and sometimes to the others.
But they’re remembering their own rakes and pivots.
What on earth is happening to a man playing a game in front of no one?
No ticket sales.
No crowd roar.
No commentary by broadcast witnesses.
Only a player developing.
Speed for the sake of feeling.
Coolness on a hot face.
A water bottle squirt to blast salty sweat from the eyes.
A man alone in a dream.
A game of develop the self for the entertainment of a personal king within.
