He hated the game but loved the concussions. Each match, a puck, a stick or some gorilla’s forearm would make him see stars, and he would navigate the pain and fading consciousness by those stars. There was a gondola and a skull. When he shifted his weight, a surge of pain leapt from some invisible tuning fork to its twin, his sympathetic spine.

Each hit changed his body and disrupted his thoughts. Each hit toughened him while reducing him to a helpless newborn. The crowd placed bets on how long it would last. The birds sang. The bells rang. It was almost like being in love.

Bio: Glen Armstrong