THE HUMAN ZAMBONI
I SKATED TO center ice, set my toe pick to anchor me to the spot, and posed in the opening attitude of my program—hands on hips, eyes tilted up to look at the hockey banners hanging from the ice arena’s grimy ceiling. I smiled playfully as part of the choreography of my program, but I didn’t have to fake a smile today.
I felt it!
Not the eyes of my skating friends as they leaned on the rail of the bleachers above me. Not the eyes of my dads as they pretended not to be concerned. And certainly not the eyes of the judges wrapped in fleece in the hockey box across from me, looking like they’d run screaming for the hills if they heard the soundtrack to Annie one more time.
What I felt was the.
