What can YOU say in six sentences?
His left hand hooks like a lobster claw, the weathered baseball mitt all crusty and snapping. On his right, he wears his brother’s beat-up hockey glove, just as ugly and cumbersome. He’s cut a foot off the end of his stick for an easier shot. Behind him leans a makeshift net of discarded hockey sticks, laced and lanced in the snow to serve as goal posts. He fires the rubber ball off a wall some twenty feet away, then quickly flips his stick around, legs splaying like Glenn Hall as he attempts to stop the returning shot which rattles off the lumber, upstairs, glove side. The game goes on for what seems hours as he fires and turns, kicks and flails, flops and bounces about the frozen yard as if it were a slippery trampoline - each miraculous save followed by a heady roar, each mishandled goal spit upon with a savored school yard profanity - until Mrs. Shaver skates out her door and tells him to “stop it already!” as he’s knocked a picture from her wall and completely rattled her glassware and nerves.