Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

Not to Jason, anyway. They looked like bona fide sweaters! The kind that your Aunt Sophie would, maybe, have knitted for you—at Christmastime.

They must be made of wool, he thought. But, they look almost like cashmere. How can this be? I don’t even think they’ve even invented cashmere . . . in this day and time.

He was not surprised—that there was only one referee. He’d known that the NHL had not gone to the two-ref system till—he thought—maybe, the nineties. Jason seemed to remember having attended a few contests—when the game had featured a single one.

Something else that he’d not expected: The Wings were wearing their traditional red jerseys. They’d changed very little—over the years. It seemed to Jason that the “Winged Wheel” logo was, maybe, slightly different than what he’d been used to seeing, in the late-nineties. The 1942 model seemed somewhat smaller—than the 21st-century version. He’d not been to a game—at “The Joe”—since the 1998-99 season. It hadn’t been much fun, anymore! Not without Grandpa around!

The Leafs were wearing their blue jerseys. It occurred to the new attendee, at that point, that it would be the afore-mentioned advent of television—which would be five years in the future! TV would, eventually, dictate that one team should wear white tops! To offset those pesky, low-tech, varying, shades of gray! The game seemed much more colorful, to him—without the white jerseys. Watching the red and blue bodies intermingle was much more pleasing to the eye!

Much less colorful, though, were the goalies’ leg pads. They—and the gloves of all the players (on both sides) were kind of a blah-brown. No dazzling teal-and-white or red-and-black or two-tones-of-blue equipment. No almost-paisley designs (a term unheard of in 1942) on the goalie’s blocker glove! Just that brownish, kind-of-colorless, color.

And the net minders’ catching gloves! They looked almost like your run-of-the-mill first baseman’s mitt. None of the massive webbings that denoted such items, in the late-twentieth century. And, as indicated, a fan could barely make out the “blocker”! Those wooden boards were almost buried—inside the huge sort-of-glove, worn on the goaltender’s stick hand.

This—this whole picture! All these images! The entire scene—was incredible! It was almost unimaginable—given the changes, in the future game! The mind-warping changes, that would take place, in—apparently—the not-too-distant future. Totally amazing!

Also, the goalie’s “crease”—in front of the net—was much smaller. And was not painted blue. It was a pure, square, rectangle, outlined by—delineated by—a simple, narrow, red-painted, line. It had no “rounded” edge to it.

Play began—and Jason’s, very-real, fears of being conked, with a puck—or an errant stick—vanished! Completely! Disappeared, ever-so-quickly—as he’d gotten thoroughly “in” to the game! As stated, he—and his landlord—were seated, a mere two rows from the ice! With nothing separating them, from the scrambling players! And all those flying, frozen-rubber, pucks! Nothing—but, air!

There had been one time, during this amazing contest, when Carl Lipscomb, of the Red Wings, had sent a puck screaming along the, red-painted, top of the boards—just a few feet down from where Our Boy was seated. He’d flinched—mightily—and hadn’t noticed an elderly gentleman, in the first row! The old guy had grabbed off the, hard-rubber, disc! He’d made a “helluva save”—observed Jason’s, calm, obviously-unperturbed, landlord.

Something else the young man had not expected: With no glass partitions atop the boards, the referee and linesmen were able to jump up—and almost sit—upon them! Steady themselves—on that more-or-less “railing”, atop the boards. Virtually no pucks bounced off, of the officials—since, in these “Neanderthal” days, they’d had “a place to go”! To dodge the flying rubber! The differences between this game—and the one, to which he’d become so accustomed in the 21st-century—was simply staggering! Astounding!

And the tickets! They had cost $3.60! These were the most expensive seats, in the house! Located so close to rink-side! “A fortune”—Eric had commented, as he’d cashed out the money, at the ticket window. Usually, he’d said, he sat “in the buck-and-a-quarter seats”—up in the balcony. “But, for you, Jason… nothing is too good”.

So, they’d wound up sitting two mere rows from the ice. There had been more than one time—in the first few minutes, of the match—when Our Boy would’ve preferred being tucked away (safely) up, in the balcony. But, that stark fear wore off—after six or eight minutes. No one else had seemed to have been spooked! Especially the little old lady—who was seated, in the first row! Right at the blue line! Seated—and screaming at the Leafs’ players. (Not obscenities! Jason had not heard one “swear word”—directed at a Toronto player! From anyone! Ever! Male or female!)

Another totally-unbelievable aspect of the game: The league had provided only one penalty box! Players from both teams—were directed to go, to that one, dinky-little, “sin bin”!

Late in the second period, Jack Stewart got into a fight with one of the Toronto players—and both were sent, to the storied “sin bin”! Two great big, burly, players! Sitting there! Sweating! Side-by-each! And glowering at each other! And making highly-threatening gestures—toward one another!

Well, as it developed, they’d remained side-by-each—for only a few seconds! Before play had resumed, some poor—much smaller (much smaller)—Detroit policeman was assigned, to sit between these two belligerent behemoths. It almost looked like something out of a Marx Bros. movie.

In addition, in that era, a two-minute penalty was—in point of fact—a two-minute penalty! If the penalized team gave up 14 goals (which has never come close to happening) in those two short-handed minutes, it was their tough luck. Each and every goal, scored during the penalty time would—and did—count.

And the press box? It was not a press box at all. Not at Olympia. Simply a table! It was kind of long—and painted red! And it was located, in the first row—right next to the penalty box. Just up the ice from where Our Hero—and his benefactor—were seated. There were eight or nine people seated at the “press facility”—with their traditional Underwood typewriters blazing! The public address announcer also sat at that table. This whole scene was—for the duration of the entire outing—utterly unbelievable! To Jason, at least.

And