As I strolled out the dressing room around 5:00 PM yesterday, after a fine late afternoon game of shinny at the recplex, there was a wee lad in the hallway with a stick and an orange ball. He looked like a little brother of one of the slightly older kids who had followed our time slot. He was just rolling that ball back and forth, stickhandling it easily, lazily, almost unconsciously. As I approached him on my way out, he stickhandled the ball and himself out of my way and said not a word as I slid by and thanked him for moving. As I got to the other end of the hall, I looked back and he was still at it.
There’s just something about stickhandling. It’s like waves against the side of a boat on summer day, or rain coming down – it soothes the soul of any hockey player.