I skate behind for the view ahead: the bejeaned grace of men who have been doing this forever. You can see the hockey that lives in the legs of one, the figures coiled and ready to spring in those of the other. I try to match the movement, know I can’t, still love the way the ice moves under me as the globe spins.
But back to the asses I began to objectify: Both of these boys have slid past the sixty-year line, one likely ten or fifteen years ago. I whisper a prayer to Something Out There that in twenty-thirty years I’ll still be able to move like this . . . this fast . . . faster.