For three months, I lived in Nürnberg, Germany, studying creative writing at an arts discipleship school. One night, in an attempt to stay true to my Red Wings' roots as a Detroit native, I found my way to the hockey arena — home of the Nürnberg Ice Tigers.
Tigers on Ice
Red and black jerseys checkered the arena as Zambonis slicked strategic circles on the frozen floor. Well-worn bleachers creaked beneath the ardent anticipation of hundreds of stamping feet. The mascot manipulated the cries from the crowd, as his tail teased back-and-forth in glee. For sixty minutes the arena rumbled with their relentless roar.
A white-whiskered tiger head cuddled the white-whiskered cheeks of an old fan, as its paws draped down his back like a mighty snow cape. His blue eyes burned as he belched liquid fire and belted out the anthem of his team.
Sparklers sizzled in the stands as the roll call of starting players began. The announcer called, “Patrick…….”
“REI-MER!” The audience thundered their reply.
“Alexander…..”
“O-BLING-ER!”
Skates sliced the ice as they skillfully slid onto the stage. At the shriek of the whistle the poised statues shattered into motion. Like a wild note, the puck picked its way across the page, dancing a fast and frenzied tune between the staves. Frantic faces followed its frenetic melody, until finally at the end of the second stanza it came to rest in the home team’s net. Amidst the cries of injustice, the referee discovered it wedged beneath the goalie’s skate, its chin tucked just inside the line.
After the referee refused to be heckled into changing his call, the fans’ faith stood firm as they dismissed the neon numbers with a wave of their hands and recommenced their fervent fury—their chants charging forward with even greater resolve.
Filled with fresh ferocity, the Tigers tore after the little black puck with renewed determination. The arena rang with pleasure when their players pounced upon their prey, pressing the enemy against the wall.
Suddenly though, the little black puck skipped across the scene and stuck itself a second time inside the Tigers’ white web. Shock splattered on the stands, painting the home team fans’ faces with disbelief.
Crowing in disappointment, a woman vehemently spat her discontentment forward from the back of the stands. Her cackled condemnation chipped away at the fans’ resolve. A graying veteran disdainfully flung back a disapproving rebuke. The line between faithful frustration and disloyal disavowal must not be crossed. She was a silly woman to think that she could stand against the fervor of a tiger’s friend.
Yet at the third strike against the Tigers, hope snuck out by the back door, and the stadium was filled with the silent sound of sinking hearts.
The white-whiskered old fan hung his head in his hands, his blue eyes burnt—his passion spent. His snow tiger cape now lay tossed onto the wall; its lifeless head flopped across the top, broken at the neck.
After the second break, the drums beat on, but the bleachers swayed with the wearied wag of dreams dismayed. The chanting crept along quieter now, crippled by the steady stream slinking out of the stadium.
With five minutes to go, the Tigers finally pulled through, placing the puck where it belonged—behind enemy lines. Lights flashed and speakers boomed with gratitude. Plastic beer cups brimmed once more in relief—that was more like it.
In the back of the stands, the white-whiskered fan straightened up and shoved his hands in his pockets—reassured once more—and wiped the streaks of shame from the corners of his eyes.