There is a moment in the rink, when the ice resurface ends. The zamboni leaves the ice, the doors are closed, the mats are put back to their place.
Then, just before the referees enter the rink again and blow their whistles to get the racers on ice, to wake up the monster called 'racing crowd' for an un-wanted awakening, just before the rink is starting to get surrounded again by all the excited coaches, racers, parents, helpers and supporters - there is a moment.
The moment when the rink is clean in its virginity. The ice is perfect and smooth and shiny. Plain as plain as it can be, only few patches of water left behind to start to turn into that so much loved and so much hated material we call ice.
That moment is filled with silence.
Those up in the seats look at the boards to see which heat is a'coming, the coaches look at their papers and check their stopwatch; and the racers look at the ice. They look at the ice and see the upcoming moments.
The moments before the start, filled with enourmous anxiety, the seconds after the gun was shot before they reach the first corner.
They see the battle for position, the first straight where they realize the possibilities and threats, the fights they have to fight to gain a position, the 'wars' they are to wage soon.
They hear the clip-clap of the post-start rush, the carving sound of the steel urging to get a grip, the blade cutting the ice firmly in the turns, the smooth sssssssshhhhhh when they negotiate the calmer straights.
And they hear the sound of the blade losing grip, the human falling down, the lycra gliding on the ice and the inevitable whop when one crashes into the mats.
They hear the one beat that parents' heart miss when they see their children crash, the beset moment the distressed moms and dads have to live through until they see if their beloved can stand up.
And they see and hear the moment at the finish line, when everything is over. The seconds when they can stand up again and look down at the ice, glide in free lines not caring about boyes or opponents again. The seconds when they replay what they have done in the seconds they have just left behind and rethink if it was worth it.
All these things are there, in that given moment, filled with silence.
That moment is what I love most on shorttrack competitions. You should try to get a chance to catch that moment someday.
Then, just before the referees enter the rink again and blow their whistles to get the racers on ice, to wake up the monster called 'racing crowd' for an un-wanted awakening, just before the rink is starting to get surrounded again by all the excited coaches, racers, parents, helpers and supporters - there is a moment.
The moment when the rink is clean in its virginity. The ice is perfect and smooth and shiny. Plain as plain as it can be, only few patches of water left behind to start to turn into that so much loved and so much hated material we call ice.
That moment is filled with silence.
Those up in the seats look at the boards to see which heat is a'coming, the coaches look at their papers and check their stopwatch; and the racers look at the ice. They look at the ice and see the upcoming moments.
The moments before the start, filled with enourmous anxiety, the seconds after the gun was shot before they reach the first corner.
They see the battle for position, the first straight where they realize the possibilities and threats, the fights they have to fight to gain a position, the 'wars' they are to wage soon.
They hear the clip-clap of the post-start rush, the carving sound of the steel urging to get a grip, the blade cutting the ice firmly in the turns, the smooth sssssssshhhhhh when they negotiate the calmer straights.
And they hear the sound of the blade losing grip, the human falling down, the lycra gliding on the ice and the inevitable whop when one crashes into the mats.
They hear the one beat that parents' heart miss when they see their children crash, the beset moment the distressed moms and dads have to live through until they see if their beloved can stand up.
And they see and hear the moment at the finish line, when everything is over. The seconds when they can stand up again and look down at the ice, glide in free lines not caring about boyes or opponents again. The seconds when they replay what they have done in the seconds they have just left behind and rethink if it was worth it.
All these things are there, in that given moment, filled with silence.
That moment is what I love most on shorttrack competitions. You should try to get a chance to catch that moment someday.
