hockey
goalkeeper
blocking
a
shot
I
recently
lost
a
good
friend.
Men
and
women
I’ve
known
since
we
were
boys
and
girls
poured
into
my
Minnesota
hometown
for
the
funeral
last
Friday,
some
from
as
far
away
as
the
coasts.
Outside
the
church,
at
the
crack
of
the
rifles
for
his
military
honors,
a
tear
ran
down
my
cheek
and
promptly
froze
into
the
upper
reaches
of
my
beard.
He
will
be
greatly
missed.
Mitch
had
been
a
staple
at
a
longstanding
tradition
amongst
a
group
of
his
peers:
hockey
weekend.
This
tradition
entails
everyone
meeting
up
from
wherever
they’ve
ended
up
in
the
country
then
going
somewhere
for
the
weekend
to
attend
a
Minnesota
college
hockey
game
(not
necessarily
in
Minnesota,
the
Dakotas
and
other
nearby
states
are
in
the
mix
too).
We
also
gear
up
like
old
times
and
attempt
to
play
a
hockey
game
ourselves.
Since
we’d
planned
this
year’s
hockey
weekend
for
the
Twin
Cities
several
months
ago,
and
since
almost
everyone
going
was
at
the
funeral
anyway,
we
decided
to
go
ahead
with
it.
In
the
past,
outdoor
ice
conditions
had
occasionally
prevented
us
from
doing
the
amateur
hockey
game
part
of
hockey
weekend.
Though
we
are
all
citizens,
the
skin
tones
of
a
couple
of
our
buddies
nonetheless
served
as
a
compelling
reminder
that
outdoor
ICE
conditions
in
the
Twin
Cities
merited
a
postponement
of
that
part
of
the
tradition.
We
would
still
watch
a
college
hockey
game,
though.
This
year
we
were
traveling
to
the
St.
Paul
campus
of
my
old
law
school
alma
mater
to
see
its
brand
new
stadium.
Of
course,
a
dozen
hockey
hooligans
need
a
hearty
meal
and
a
few
rounds
with
which
to
toast
their
fallen
compadre
before
watching
any
competitive
athletics.
We
headed
to
Tiffany’s
(the
local
sports
bar,
not
the
fancy
jewelry
store).
We
arrived
at
sunset
to
the
large
four-way
intersection
where
Tiffany’s
is.
A
group
of
several
hundred
anti-ICE
protesters
braved
the
cold
to
gather
there.
Wanting
to
show
my
support
(especially
given
that
a
little
toasting
had
already
taken
place),
as
we
crossed
at
the
stoplight
I
formed
a
megaphone
with
my
hands
and
yelled
as
loudly
as
I
could,
“FUCK
ICE!!”
My
breath
boiled
from
my
body
and
whipped
away
in
the
wind.
The
intersection
was
big
enough
that
it
took
a
couple
seconds
for
the
sound
to
reach
every
corner,
and
for
the
applause
and
cheering
to
make
its
way
back
to
me.
Encouraged,
I
reared
back
again,
and
this
time
bellowed,
“FUCK
BOVINO!!”
It
was
a
cool
moment.
As
I
write
this
two
days
later
it
still
sounds
like
I’ve
been
taking
voice
lessons
from
RFK
Jr.
whenever
I
try
to
speak
—
totally
worth
it.
When
we
finally
arrived
at
the
game
(a
little
late
for
puck-drop),
another
wave
of
sound
hit
us
as
we
found
our
way
to
our
seats.
We
assumed
the
home
team
had
scored
a
goal,
only
to
discover
it
was
the
visiting
fans
of
the
Michigan
Tech
Huskies
who’d
generated
such
a
robust
roar.
This
was
not
an
isolated
incident.
Lots
of
Michigan
Tech
students
made
the
long
journey
to
cheer
on
their
team.
On
the
other
hand,
I
saw
almost
no
one
who
wasn’t
on
the
ice
who
I’d
take
to
be
student-aged
wearing
a
Tommies
jersey.
Most
of
the
hometown
fans
seemed
to
be
stoney-faced
older
white
men.
Though
the
hockey
was
competitive,
the
energy
advantage
was
overwhelmingly
in
favor
of
the
Huskies.
It
probably
didn’t
help
that
the
stadium
was
half-empty.
It
was
a
beautiful
building,
though
one,
as
we
soon
discovered,
in
which
an
attendee
of
the
proper
age
had
no
ability
to
purchase
an
alcoholic
beverage.
To
see
a
hockey
arena
without
beer
in
Minnesota
was
almost
akin
to
encountering
a
panda
bear
on
the
streets
of
St.
Paul:
the
vague
familiarity
of
the
shape
isn’t
necessarily
out-of-place,
but
the
overall
picture
is
uncanny
and
somehow
wrong.
I
took
a
walk
to
clear
my
head
and
find
the
manager
in
charge
of
the
Jumbotron
to
see
if
he’d
flash
“Goodbye,
Mitch”
briefly
on
the
screen.
This
request
was
denied.
I
mean,
fine,
it’s
not
the
end
of
the
world,
but
I
wasn’t
asking
for
a
10-minute
video
tribute
or
anything.
Two
words
of
text
for
a
few
seconds
didn’t
seem
completely
unreasonable
as
a
favor
to
an
alum
who’d
walked
in
accompanied
by
a
meaningful
percentage
of
the
whole
crowd
at
$35
a
ticket.
I
could
have
missed
it,
I
suppose,
but
as
the
game
went
on
I
saw
no
acknowledgement
of
the
other
two
great
Minnesotans
we
lost
this
month
either,
whereas
an
earlier
event
that
day
at
the
History
Center
in
St.
Paul
that
a
few
of
us
had
planned
on
going
to
was
canceled
entirely
due
to
the
federal
occupation
of
the
metro
area.
By
the
time
we
left
the
game
(early)
I
found
myself
cheering
for
the
Huskies.
I
spent
about
a
week
in
Houghton
versus
three
years
in
law
school,
and
by
the
end
this
hockey
game
caused
me
to
shamefully
pocket
the
St.
Thomas
stocking
cap
and
mittens
I’d
been
wearing.
Well,
all
things
considered
it
was
a
great
weekend
which
featured
a
lot
of
great
tributes
to
my
friend,
and
which
could
have
turned
out
a
lot
worse
considering
how
masked
federal
goons
have
been
needlessly
abusing
protesters
and
bystanders
alike
in
the
Twin
Cities
these
past
few
weeks.
Still,
that
hockey
game
was
a
definite
lowlight.
Hopefully
next
year
we’ll
be
somewhere
else
for
hockey
weekend,
maybe
with
something
to
celebrate
instead
of
someone
to
mourn,
and
maybe
even
in
a
city
that
isn’t
besieged
by
the
federal
government.
Jonathan
Wolf
is
a
civil
litigator
and
author
of Your
Debt-Free
JD (affiliate
link).
He
has
taught
legal
writing,
written
for
a
wide
variety
of
publications,
and
made
it
both
his
business
and
his
pleasure
to
be
financially
and
scientifically
literate.
Any
views
he
expresses
are
probably
pure
gold,
but
are
nonetheless
solely
his
own
and
should
not
be
attributed
to
any
organization
with
which
he
is
affiliated.
He
wouldn’t
want
to
share
the
credit
anyway.
He
can
be
reached
at [email protected].