Wayne Gretzky's Lament

My dream has always been to drive the Zamboni. I know that sounds odd coming from the greatest hockey player ever, but in all my years playing the game I have paid only marginal attention to the play on the ice while anticipating the Zamboni’s emergence with the same kind of enthusiasm as the people of Punxsatawny awaiting Phil. Even during my four triumphant Stanley Cup-toting skates, the Zamboni was never far from my mind. Each time, I waited and waited for the Zamboni driver to say, "hey, Wayne, I'll let you drive the Zamboni if you let me hold the Cup." I would have let him hold the Cup for a year, let him keep it in his living room and use it as a spitoon if I could take his Zamboni for just one spin around the ice. Look at those post-game celebrations, you can see my eyes darting from side to side, my ears cocked, desperately waiting for the Zamboni driver’s suggestion, my shoulders slumped in disappointment when it never comes.

I know all there is to know about the Zamboni, that it was invented in 1949 by Frank Zamboni, an American, the son of Italian immigrants, and that his machines are manufactured in Los Angeles. That’s one reason I sought a trade to the Kings, and why I still live in L.A. Not for the sun or the glamour or the plastic surgery, but so I can be close to my true spiritual love.

And, of course, this is my favorite song.

The Zamboni provides the best intermission entertainment in all of sports, better than any marching band or half-court shooting competition, any seventh-inning stretch or overblown Super Bowl halftime show. Round it goes, slow and lyrical as a poem, creating ice as beautiful and perfect as the arcs it turns, ever sharper and tighter, until the circle is complete with a single horizontal dash, like the grand flourish of a great artist signing his masterpiece. A Zamboni driver's touch is tangible and instantly visible. Before the Zamboni is tarnished ice, scarred and ugly, like a back alley in a bad part of town. Behind, the ice is clean, untouched, like virginity restored. When a Zamboni driver goes home at the end of the day he knows he has accomplished something. He knows he has done good work.

"How was your day, dear?" I dreamed my wife would ask me.

"I made something bad into something good," I said proudly, knowing I'd earned an honest day's pay.

But I was cursed with this great hockey talent and despite my attempts to pretend that talent did not exist, to convince myself that I was no better than some beer league hack struggling to stay upright on his skates, I couldn't help but follow my instincts on the ice. Soon my skills had come to the attention of the professionals and I felt obligated to set my Zamboni dreams aside for the NHL. Still, when I sat in the locker room between periods pretending to listen to the coach’s endless motivational and strategic prattle, I was actually thinking of the Zamboni. Just a few feet away it turned its elegant ovals and perfect curves, and I envied the fans who watched from their padded seats. Sometimes it was all I could do to keep from running down the tunnel, struggling against my skates to keep from falling over, until that glorious machine appeared like the face of God, the hum of its engine like the music of a million harped angels.

I never failed to feel a twinge of guilt as I stepped onto ice freshly renewed by the Zamboni. Early in my career I made a point to follow my teammates from the locker room so I could tell myself that at least I was not the one to spoil such beauty. Later, though, after my damnable talent made me a team leader and left me no choice but be first on the ice, I silently asked the Zamboni driver’s forgiveness each time I left those awful first gashes on his smooth sheet of perfection.

Even on my honeymoon, as I made love to my stunningly gorgeous Hollywood  wife, I imagined the two of  us naked on the black upholstered seat of a Zamboni, both my beloveds turning and twisting to the deft movements of my fingers.

I hoped to use my position as the world's preeminent hockey player to bring long overdue attention to the beauty and elegance of the Zamboni and to the dedicated people who drive them. Sadly, no one listens to me. They want to talk only about my skills, my ability to skate past opponents like they stood still, to find Kurri in the slot, to zip a wrist shot through an opening no larger than the puck itself. But the Zamboni? I might just as well offer my analysis of the state of Canadian politics.

Now when I watch hockey on television, it bugs me when the networks show a team of smiling, smarmy announcers in a hypeactively lit TV studio when they could  show the Zamboni turn its magic ovals on the ice. It hurts also to see Zambonis marked up with corporate logos and decorations as if nothing more than tawdry billboards. Does no one realize that something capable of creating such beauty should not be treated as just another opportunity to generate revenue?

On my local cable system I can find no Zamboni Channel among the 58 offerings, nor among the 623 on my satellite TV system. Entire channels are devoted to gardening, cooking, even antiques, but nothing to the Zamboni. Not even a "Zamboni This Week" program on CNN or ESPN. It is clear to me now, however, that I am the one to start the Zamboni Channel. The talent I did not ask for is actually a blessing that allowed me to amass the millions needed to make the world aware of the Zamboni's magnificence. My accountants and financial planners have advised me that such an investment is folly but they cannot deter me because I know that is why I have achieved all that I have. The records and the glory and the Stanley Cups, they were not achieved for themselves, but to show the world the majesty of the Zamboni.

Even on my honeymoon, as I made love to my stunningly gorgeous Hollywood  wife, I imagined the two of  us naked on the black upholstered seat of a Zamboni, both my beloveds turning and twisting to the deft movements of my fingers.

I hoped to use my position as the world's preeminent hockey player to bring long overdue attention to the beauty and elegance of the Zamboni and to the dedicated people who drive them. Sadly, no one listens to me. They want to talk only about my skills, my ability to skate past opponents like they stood still, to find Kurri in the slot, to zip a wrist shot through an opening no larger than the puck itself. But the Zamboni? I might just as well offer my analysis of the state of Canadian politics.

Now when I watch hockey on television, it bugs me when the networks show a team of smiling, smarmy announcers in a hypeactively lit TV studio when they could  show the Zamboni turn its magic ovals on the ice. It hurts also to see Zambonis marked up with corporate logos and decorations as if nothing more than tawdry billboards. Does no one realize that something capable of creating such beauty should not be treated as just another opportunity to generate revenue?

On my local cable system I can find no Zamboni Channel among the 58 offerings, nor among the 623 on my satellite TV system. Entire channels are devoted to gardening, cooking, even antiques, but nothing to the Zamboni. Not even a "Zamboni This Week" program on CNN or ESPN. It is clear to me now, however, that I am the one to start the Zamboni Channel. The talent I did not ask for is actually a blessing that allowed me to amass the millions needed to make the world aware of the Zamboni's magnificence. My accountants and financial planners have advised me that such an investment is folly but they cannot deter me because I know that is why I have achieved all that I have. The records and the glory and the Stanley Cups, they were not achieved for themselves, but to show the world the majesty of the Zamboni.