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

the clock—hanging over the center of the rink! Of course, Our Boy had not expected to see a sophisticated Diamond Vision screen up there. But, this clock was positively Neanderthal. It was not digital, for one thing. Had a sweep second hand, and a semi-stationary minute hand. Jason—eventually—got the hang of it. But—at first—it was very difficult, for him to follow. He’d started off—believing that the clock was unreadable!

And the benches! The Wings bench was almost directly across from where Jason and Eric were seated. There was just the bench—period! No room for Jack Adams—the legendary coach/general manager—to wander around, behind the players. He’d sat on the bench with them—at the very end, but seated, on that very same bench. More than a few times, a player would have a bit of a problem—trying to skitter past him. Mr. Adams—even at that young age—was rather (ah) portly.

And the players! NONE of them wore helmets! Not a one.

Not even the goalies! These were the players—who were, literally, “center stage”! In a shooting gallery! There were none of those lavish, extravagantly-artistic, facemasks—that the goaltenders always wore—in Jason’s “home epoch”! No masks of any sort! No protective headgear! Nothing! This was incredible! How did they—how did any of them—survive? For even a few minutes?

But, you could see—and, actually, identify—the players, much more easily, when they were sans all those helmets. By the end of the game, Jason seemed to know—and recognize—virtually all of the Wings! And most of the Leaf players! Another surprise!

And the uniform numbers! The highest numeral on the back of any of the players was 19. Jason couldn’t remember who wore that number for the Red Wings—but, the guy didn’t get to play much. Apparently, a number that high would have been—continually—suffering a bit of a put-down. He didn’t remember seeing any Maple Leaf with a jersey numbered above 17. Both goalies wore number one. No 68s. No 99s. No 31s. Nothing! And no names were printed on the backs, of the players’ jerseys. Amazing!

In the eighties and nineties—and well into the 21st-century—number 19, on the Red Wings roster had been worn, by the legendary Steve Yzerman. He was still going strong in 2001. There were those who’d thought that he’d play—till he was older than Gordie Howe had been, when he had hung up his skates. In the future—Jason knew—number 19 would be far from a put-down number.

And the players’ skates! They were called “tubular” skates—much different than what players wore in the late-nineties, and the early 21st-century. Admittedly, this had been just one game—but, Jason had not seen one player “lose his edge”, and go tumbling down! From fierce body checks—yes! But, none—from lost edges!

And the way they’d resurfaced the ice between periods! Look, Ma! No Zamboni! That vehicle was, apparently, not even a gleam in the eye of the revered Mr. Zamboni.

The stadium had four men—wearing more-or-less Red Wing sweaters—pushing large, concave, shovels, one beside the other! They’d made their rounds—until they’d cleaned the many, many, pounds, of ice shavings, from the rink. Then, two other men—each pulling a closed-up, cart-like, device, filled with hot water—dragged those conveyances, over the entire surface. The water was, though, dispensed—much in the same way, as the machinery on the back end, of the new-fangled Zamboni, would coat the ice, a few decades later.

The whole entire environment was far beyond anything Our Hero could ever have imagined! And he was beginning to see what Grandpa had meant—when speaking about “The Big Red Barn”. There was something—some glorious, indefinable, something—about the sacred Olympia. He could even feel it! Well, eventually he could feel it! This was a special building. Truly, it was—a cathedral.

The Wings and Leafs skated to a 3-3 tie. That was another adjustment. At the end of 60 minutes, of “regulation” play, if the game was tied—well, it remained a tie! Period! Paragraph! Went into the books as such! Each team came away, with one point—in the standings!

Jason had become used—to the five-minute, sudden-death, overtime periods, of the 21st-century. He would not be aware, of the fact that—beginning, in the 2005-2006 season—the NHL would go to a “shoot out” formula, if the game had still been knotted, after the five-minute, overtime, period.

Indeed, he would be completely unaware that, the 2004-2005 season would not be played at all—due to the lack, of a labor agreement between the players and the league. Truly, things were different! A lot had changed—over the ensuing 59 years!

It would be argued that—as the game had evolved—that the powers that be, would actually realize that ties were “like kissing your sister”. And—as time had gone on—the league officials seemed to devote themselves to assuring that fewer and fewer, would go into the books.

But—the “sister-kissing” element notwithstanding—the “visitor from another era” had been thrilled, by the, extremely-physical, game. The tilt—that he’d just witnessed.

The result of the contest was, actually, an anti-climax! Almost an afterthought! When compared to the new, and wonderful, world—the unbelievable world—that had just been opened, to Jason! An unheard of scenario—had just played out, before his unbelieving eyes! The whole, entire, experience was one of the most sanctified (now why did he decide to use that word?) happenings, of his entire life!

What a game! What an evening! What an experience!

FOURTEEN

SEPTEMBER 18, 2001: 10:45AM

Sheila Rutkowski limped (an exaggerated motion) into the coffee shop—on Michigan Avenue, in Dearborn, Michigan. Spying Manny—before he saw her—she made a beeline, toward the swarthy little man.

“Manny,” she bellowed—louder than she’d planned, and much more loudly than the wizened manager would’ve preferred, “I’ve got to talk to you!”

“Not now, Sheila. For Christ sakes… not now! Get your ass… outta here! Can’t you see that I’ve got a restaurant to run?”

“Manny! I’ve not… I haven’t… Jason’s not been home! It’s been a week, now! And I’ve never seen him! Not in a whole goddam week! Manny! Not since he left . . . left here . . . on that morning! When those damn planes hit the…”

“And that’s my fault? All I know is I sent