Mitchell College - Thames Log Yearbook (New London, CT)

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For the past forty-five minutes he has donned his armor, he never wavers from his habitual order of dress, an idiosyncrasy, some call it. Others call it superstition. But is it any more superstitious than the orderly sequence of preparation a priest performs before serving mass and saving souls? The man must save also, not souls, but nonethe- less, his ritualistic preparation gives him emotional, and thus physical, comfort. Superstition is not dishonorable to him. He'll do anything to feel comfortable. Dressing according to ritualistic perfection assures him that extra self- confidence which may help lead him toward executive perfection. At any rate, he invented HIS superstition which is more than can be said for the priest . . . But the priest saves souls. The man wonders if anyone would dare question the physical and psychological make-up of a priest. He wonders if priests would even bother to answer. One thing's for sure, priests don't suffer from psychomatic asthma. They fast, but for nobler reasons than he. The man dons his jersey last, ironing out the wrinkles with skillful tugs. He looks at his number - 11 - reflected in the mirror behind him. For as long as he can remember, he has had great affinity for that number, Why, he cannot answer. Most men of his position bear the number 1 - but he is too modest for that. 11 is his number. It might as well be his name. He covers his face with his mask, as tight-fitting as a death mask. Perhaps this mask has saved his life once or twice. Certainly, it has maintained his self-respect. The mask conceals the tension-grimace constantly worn by the man. The tension-grimace is a requirement. ,Without it, the man would not ever be ready to react. Thank God for the mask, for without it, his constituency would easily perceive that he is no better than mortal. But he must beg what about that two-tenths of a second reaction time? Nevertheless, thank God for the mask. Even though he doesn't bless himself before each mission like some of his pears, he prays every night. He has prayed to God for as long as he can remember. Prayer has given this man some peace of mind. Why, he doesn't know. He can't answer that question, either. But thank God for the mask. The horn sounds, calling the man to his mission. He would vomit if he could, but the fast has denied him even that base release. He knows from experience that the tension and anxiety subsides as soon as he hits the ice. This phenomenon has never failed him, and it has always intrigued the man. Perhaps the total concentration demanded by the two and one-half hour mission placed him in a state not unlike the extra-mundane, spiritual world of the priest. But who knows? Certainly not himself, nor the priest, for their roles are incomparable even though both must save because of the nature of their missions. The man instinctively skates towards his position. His strides are heavy and awkward. He seems to be drawn towards his goal by some nebulous attraction. Either that, or he is pushed towards it by some nebulous subconscious drive.

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Private Hell by joseph Krakol The man arrives earlier than the others. His appearance connotes solidity, yet he seems slightly afraid. He is aggres- sive yet defensive, which is no less irrational than the ambivalence he feels towards his mission. He utters no sound, for he can scarcely breathe - psychosomatic asthma, they call it. He has fasted for at least five hours, for the risk of vomiting isn't worth the fleeting pleasure of steak. He unlocks his cubicle and pulls out forty-five pounds of protectiveness, armor worthy of a medieval knight. Yet this neo-knight has more than his life to defend. He defends his pride and the pride of those whom he represents. The very nature of his mission is frustrating. If he succeeds, his plaudits are few. But if he fails, he's damned by his constituency. Such is the nature of his mission and the determinant of his personality. Ask him why he does it, heill say, I don't know? Ask others why he does it, their replies are just as nebulous: He's a masochistf' He has suicidal tendencies. He's too short for anything elsef' It's the only thing that he does well. Anyone who gets in there must have a screw loose. He does it for the money. But these analyses don't sting the man who has become callous to professional booers. His fear of personal failure transcends the humiliation of psycho-physical classification. Long ago, he quit asking himself the same stupid ques- tion. He couldn't answer WHY, why must others ask WHY? And why should this man even bother with others, he realizes he is special, his reflex-reaction time being less than two-tenths of a second. His lightning finesse is admired by his adversaries. What plagues him is why he cannot grow callous to the tension and unbearable anxiety that accompany his mission. Intuition tells him that if he ever grows callous to tension and anxiety, his reflexes would become dull concomitantlyg his effectiveness would deteriorate. And intuition is of the utmost importance to this man. It is an academic tool of his trade, it is almost a confederate upon whom he can rely during times of indecisiveness.

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His mission is to defend an area four feet high and six feet wide. He enters his assigned area, as a test pilot would slip into a jet cockpit - with power and a crude facade of nonchalance. The man tends his area by scraping the ice surface with quick, sideward motions resembling the movements of a crab confined to a small, rectangular box. Then, he sweeps imaginary ice chips off to the side of his domain with smooth sweeps of his huge stick. There is a long, pregnant pause before the blaring of the Canadian and American national anthems. He never sings, it's not his style. To mouth the words would truly be superstitious and meaningless, perhaps insulting, because it is not HIS superstition. The singing of the anthems is a social ritual. Perhaps it brings nations good luck, but right now, he doesn't care about nations. He scarcely hears the anthems and is almost totally unaware of the many heads tuming his way. He realizes that the ritual is over only when his five confederates slam their sticks against his massive leg pads - another ritual, but one that never fails to move him. His squinting eyes are fixed upon the black nibber disc held by an authority figure standing some ninety-five feet away. His eyes will seldom stray from that disc. To lose sight of that object is the cardinal sin of men of his position. To allow that object into his domain is the mortal sin. The puck is dropped, the contest begins. His problem now is strictly geometric. He must cut down the angle between the disc and his territory. His tools are lightning-quick reflexes, intuition, and forty-five pounds of defensive equipment. The man is the last line of defense. Any puck entering his domain taints himself, his confederates, and his constituency. He is ultimately responsible for all these sins. Many times during the contest all eyes are upon the man, but he is not conscious of them unless he fails. He cannot fail, but if he does, thank God for the mask.