Keith Harrison


Making little jerks on the small black steering wheel, the driver of the Zamboni machine leans out over the ice, looking. The machine circles the arena, leaving behind rising steam and slick dark-grey ice. I wish the game would start. The driver steers into a controlled slide in front of the net that the other workman has dragged out ·from the crease. The younger man in a brown uniform rests against the crossbar of the goal while the Zamboni makes another, smaller sweep of the rink. Wet ice shines in pools from overhead lights.



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