A sport that I don't follow at all is hockey. The few hockey games I've watched were Stanley Cup finals in which the Penguins were involved, usually the deciding game. Not many of those either. (Now it's not going to happen at all this year.) I just don't like the game.
But there's another way of looking at it, a poetic way. This is from a prose poem by Robert Bly from his book What Have I Ever Lost By Dying?
"How weird the goalies look with their African masks! The goalie is so lonely anyway, guarding a basket with nothing in it, his wide lower legs as wide as ducks'...No matter what gift he is given, he always rejects it...
The goalie has gone out to mid-ice, and now he sails sadly back to his own box, slowly; he looks prehistoric with his rhinoceros legs; he looks as if he's going to become extinct, and he's just taking his time...
When the players are at the other end, he begins sadly sweeping the ice in front of his house; he is the old witch in the woods, waiting for the children to come home."
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