A/N: First essay to be published here. And, of course, it’s hockey-themed. Sorry if you don’t like hockey… But just to let you know, you’re really, really missing out. Actually, we all are…

-mo

…

I live in a hockey state. More specifically, I live in a hockey city. It’s strange, really, with the NHL lockout going on; it doesn’t affect Ann Arbor as much as it does Detroit. While the streets of Motown go empty and dark on Saturday nights, around here, things are still buzzing. The arenas -- all, say, six of them -- are still lit; hockey teams still skate; games are still won and lost. Boys and girls, men and women still suit up so they can fly across the ice and be a hero two nights a week. Tears are shed, awards are won, injuries are sustained, and wounds heal.

But some wounds will never heal.

A week or so ago, I was in Detroit, for the International Autoshow, and then, later, for my friend’s hockey game at Joe Louis Arena. The Joe… The home of the Red Wings, the place that keeps Detroit alive, the very essence of Hockeytown and hockey in its own right… The Joe was silent. It was empty, dead, and dusty. Roaring music ceased to blare from the loudspeakers; fans ceased to cheer and yell; the concession stands ceased to sell hotdogs and Coca-Colas.

There’s an image that I’ll never be able to rid my mind of. I was walking through the silent, darkened hallways of the deserted Joe Louis Arena, through the noiseless concession area, and I paused to look up at the ceiling. Nestled in the dusty shadows of hockey games’ past were red and white banners, flags bearing the famous winged wheel, a giant, purple Al the Octopus, wearing his custom eight-armed Red Wings jersey. Black and white photographs of Gordie Howe, Terry Sawchuk, and Steve Yzerman, masked by the dust and darkness, looked down upon me, disapproval and worry written across their faces. The legends of Detroit were restless and helpless, aware that there wasn’t a thing they could do to bring hockey back to Hockeytown.

At that moment, as their eyes bored through my soul, I began to cry. I cried for the future of the NHL -- for the future of the Red Wings and the Maple Leafs, the future of the Canadiens and the Flyers, the future of the Canucks and the Bruins. I cried for Joe Louis Arena, in its state of silence and desolation; I cried for the people of Detroit and Michigan, and the United States and Canada, the hockey fans who were suffering slowly throughout this prolonged lockout. I cried for Steve Yzerman and Chris Chelios, Kirk Maltby and Nick Lidstrom, Brendan Shanahan and Kris Draper. Most of all, I cried for what was once such a great force, now reduced to empty, silent streets.

I was glad to return to Ann Arbor, where the tradition of hockey runs so deep. We’re like a miniature slice of Canada in Michigan, some people say, with our liberal views and our love of the sport on ice, the Coolest Game on Earth. It’s something different, to be able to see a University of Michigan hockey game, let alone to skate on their home ice, at Yost. It’s thrilling to see the USA Hockey Boys easily oust their opponents. And it’s satisfying to root for the Pioneer Girls’ Hockey Team, even if they lose game after game.

And though there are so many hockey games to attend here, there’s still something missing. It’s the lack of the NHL, the lack of watching Hockey Night in Canada on CBC. It’s the Wednesday and Friday night games that I miss so dearly. And as the lockout wears on and on, forcing hockey fans to go to their limits, all I can do is wonder. I wonder when someone will step up, I wonder when someone will say This is enough. And I wonder how long it will take.

One of the slogans for the Red Wings was Believe, after Vladimir Konstantinov was forever changed in that tragic 1997 car accident. Right now, that’s what we need to do. We need to believe.

…

A/N: I will personally kick Gary Bettman’s ass if I see that man within fifty miles of me. If you’d like to help out, you can come along for the trip. Curses to the lockout! Please, please, please bring the NHL back!!!

-mo