Shakespeare's Puck

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

It is the rink, and the heat lamps are the sun

And in their glow the waking crowd does gather

And watch with bated breath til th'game is done.

Two teams, both alike in dignity,

In the arena, where we lay our scene 

From recent grudge break into familiar mutiny 

Where civil blood may slip out from behind a mouthguard to make the ice unclean.

From forth the fatal benches of these équipes 

Two groups of stick-crossed players, lock'd in strife,

Within the bounds of twenty minutes, thrice,

Do chase the sliding glory, knife by knife.

Oh hockey, hockey, wherefore art thou hockey?

Thou hast no hock; deny thy pretense and be called puckey

Or if thou wilt not, be but honest about thine etymology:

Shepherds chased with hooks the sneaky, myst'rious sprite.

Eager crowds do mob the canteen stall

Press'd close from wall to door, from door to wall 

French fries are boundless as the sea

The slushie as deep

The more they make, the more the people buy

For both are infinite.

Let me not to the flirtations of two teenagers

Admit impediments

Hair is not hair 

Which is not tossed when it admiration finds

Or tucked behind an ear, with upward glance.

Oh no, it is an ever-fixèd sign

From the mall to the school to the rink 

Surer than a wink.

All the rink's a front porch

And all the crowds and players merely neighbours

They have their hellos and water bottles and coffee,

And all may play, or sit, and rest, and cheer.

(I know, I know; it's not even Christmassy, but we went to the game tonight and I was struck, as always, by the poetry and ritual and neighbourliness of the rink. It's truly the town's front porch, and I love it. Xo.)