Hockey Train

I was dreading the dawning of this day. DCR's invitation to hop a train to L.A. and see the Kings play jolted me out of my routine weekend. I think I have reached that point in my life where routines are indicative of safety, comfort and a sense of well-being. How old is that? Well, my train ticket was stamped "62 or older." Once you get to 62, why bother counting any more?

I did not hesitate more than a nano-second to respond to his invitation. For one thing, it gets me out of a tuxedo event at the yacht club. In truth that was not a factor. Truth is I sensed a need not to become entrapped in routines. Maybe it was a need to face some man-to-man issues with my 50-year old son: it's time I told him what I think of his life. Whether or not he's ready to hear that. Whether or not I'm ready to tell him. Whether or not I'm able to tell him. Am I up to that stretch? I dared myself.

How would I start it out?

[Later]


Well, I did mention to him that I'm real proud of him and what he has accomplished in his life time, especially as compared to what little I have accomplished. He acknowledged, modestly, that (a) he could imagine doing something else, (b) and maybe he has been doing his thing (maybe) too long.

That's as far as that conversational gambit made it in the rarefied oxygen of the arena restaurant.

What have I learned on this trip?

I still hate all things from Colorado. (The Colorado Avalanche ended up beating the L.A. Kings, 3-1.)

I learned that I enjoy watching hockey less than I used to. Hockey, among all of the great spectator sports, is poorly rendered by the TV screen. For that reason alone, I was interested in the spectacle aspect of this trip. But the NHL version I saw last night did not approach the bloodsport standards I recall in my youth. The version I saw last night was more entertainment than sport. I'm referencing the constant over-stimulation of the visual and audio sense with laser lights, audience participation and jump-ass rap music. With all of that, the game was sort of a side light. In truth, once the outcome was assured, there was the traditional L.A. early departure. But it was not comparable to the early rush at Dodger Stadium, where fans actually come for more the game than the show or spectacle.

I learned that train travel is not as scenic between Santa Barbara and L.A. as I remembered or imagined. For one, this time we had to detour off the tracks, on to the highway for the coastal part of the itinerary because of railroad repair underway.

One special image will not fade from memory. Out my window when we were parked briefly to take on or drop off passengers, I glimpsed a vacant lot. The ground was covered with long grass. On the far side, next to the fence, was parked a Cal-20 on its trailer. No spars. No rigging. Just the boat. It had been there for some time. Decades, maybe. Forgotten, of course. However, I cannot get it out of my memory.