I have this picture in my head of all these Cooper hockey gloves slowly breaking through the dirt of Greenwood cemetery with a full moon in the sky. One by one the bodies start lifting up through the soil, the jerseys are old and tattered, they are Blackhawks, Rangers, Northstars, Penguins and Flyers. You can't see their faces because there are none. One by one they start standing up and slowly skate on the blacktop that leads out of the cemetery and to McDonald Avenue. Down the hill they go through the darkness of a cold Brooklyn night with splintered old Sherwood and Koho wooden hockey sticks in hand. The blades are worn and almost pencil thin, their quad skates are still spitting dirt and grass from the cemetery as they fly down the hill and zip past cars and buses. Almost floating until they reach Avenue F some two miles away. They make a hard left and skate right through cars heading north on McDonald under the El. Making their way to the court and take their places on the bench, they wait and wait until the sun starts to rise over the apartment buildings on Ocean Parkway.
Yes, it's Sunday morning and they are waiting for us. Because we said we would be there, and not let them down.