Article February 11, 2002 Issue

The smell of the ice

Vince Winkel

There is something magical to me about a skating rink. The smell of the ice. The faint scent of popcorn. The sound of steel blades carving through the surface. The echo of a puck shot off the boards.  The blinding whiteness.

After 30 years of playing hockey, I still love the smells, the sounds, even just the sight of a rink. The pleasure that comes from putting the puck in the net, or sending the perfect pass to a teammate. The speed. The contact. All part of a wonderful game.

For me as a teenager, hockey meant 5 a.m. practices before school. It was parents carpooling players. Dedicated coaches working before the sun came up, before heading to the office. There was respect—a lot of respect—for coaches and referees. Parents encouraged us at every game and practice.