I played hockey with the Willow Park Mapleridge Jets for two (2) consecutive seasons in Calgary. The first season ended with a provincial win in Edmonton. After being introduced to a lacrosse stick that spring I cut the palms out of my gloves, put on the same baby blue jersey and went on to win the provincials in that contest. In the fall I wore the same god damned sweater, sharpened my skates and completed a second season with the Jets. Once again a victory in Edmonton was secured, only this game was different, it was I that was being played.     We arrived in Edmonton around noon and drove straight to the arena. The dressing room was small and stunk of sweat and fear just like the the jersey I wore. Black with a blood red maple leaf on the front and big white numbers on the back. As the story goes, our blues were similar to the other teams and this was the remedy. I wore two (2) numbers that day. One (1) because I had to, the other, a strategic coaching decision. After all this is a serious game we play.   The ice was lit but the rest of the building was dark. Not a fan in the stands, only armed shadows graced the halls and in the corners. This truly was a lights out experience.   The boxes are opposing, ours filled with black and red, theirs filled with white, trimmed in blue, red, and crested in gold. They must have been fed the same line about the blues.   It is late in the second period and were down a couple goals. We have been completely dominated.   It is only a matter of time before this club hands us our ass and shows us the door. The face off is in our end of the ice to the right of our net. I am at left wing, my mirror at right. He is one of the best, both big and mean and in my face. I feel nauseous, trapped, like a guinea pig in some weird political experiment, we all feel the same. You see these guys we play wear the colors of Russia and for one reason or another they had to.   My left skate blade comes down on his right ankle bone with the precision of a surgeon.  The referees back is turned. Of the two (2) linesmen one (1) has been summoned to our bench to the left,  the other on the right is obscured by the players. It was a decision made split. There is no one here, there is no crowd, no spectator for witness just a cameraman rolling in the corner and he has just filmed me smile and slip on the ice before I strike. The Russian, he's done, crippled yet still shooting his mouth off until his brain recognizes the pain, he folds and leaves the ice, game over. I changed sweaters for the third period...that’s about all I remember. ******************************************************************** This e-mail message is privileged, confidential and subject to copyright. A