Battle Cry!

“God damn it! I hate this fucking place!”
You could hear him screaming,
the second the elevator door opened.

I’ve heard it said that life whittles
you down to your core. When my father’s
systems shut down, he was bed-bound
stuck in a hospital, then a nursing home.

When I was a kid, he loved going
to Clinton Comet hockey games
on Friday nights.  He’d leave
the sheet metal shop’s grime
in puddles next to the bathroom
sink, splash on a healthy dose
of Old Spice and off we’d go.

I don’t know what he enjoyed more
hockey or heckling.  Once inside
the Utica War Memorial Auditorium,
my father turned into a creature
with leather lungs and the empathy
of a sociopath. He loved to ride
the officials, “What’s wrong ref, your seeing-
eye dog can’t skate? Then buy a cane!”

Visiting goalies having a bad night caught
it often, “Have you thought about turning
the net around?”  Followed by, “There’re fries
at McDonald’s spending less time under red lights!”

He especially saved his wrath for players
who got up slowly after a check and milked
the crowd for sympathy. They all heard
the same bellowed taunt, “Aw did he hurt you
honey?” But after a few beers, somewhere
in period two, he’d start to really loosen up
and let go with his favorite phrase,
free advice he lived by until the end,
“Hey, ya you, if you can’t skate, fight!”