SEAHAWK

Valley reflects on the zeal, pride and love his amateur team from Rye, N.H., brought to hockey through the 1940s and ’50s.

The author uses a considerable measure of polish, not unlike the surface of a pond after a long freeze, in this memoir of his hockey-playing years, principally for the Seahawk team from his native New England. From Thanksgiving until the ice rotted in April, his town was obsessed with hockey. World War II veterans started a club (perhaps, Valley suggests, not just to play but to help bevel some of the harsher experiences of war, in a game where warlike tendencies are kept in check) that rose to prominence through the B ranks. The author turns a bright light on the thrill of the game, its mesmerizing flow of speed, skill and color, but finds something deep within the Seahawks. The team members organized everything independently–the outdoor rink, uniforms and money needed to sustain a club–when times were still economically hard. They “gave everyone a source of community entertainment and, more importantly, something to identify with, get behind and make everybody proud.” Valley also captures some quality on-ice action, as he joined the Seahawks between the goal’s pipes when he was 14 years old. It’s good, cringing fun to read of the poor goalie’s circumstances–the equipment was primitive, and he wore no mask. Still, the author shrugs off one encounter that left a number of his teeth on the ice and 80 stitches in and around his mouth. He provides choice nuggets of club history–for their first game, since no local sport shop stocked the hockey variety, “each player was wearing an extra-large, bright pink ladies garter belt under his hockey pants.” No one will begrudge him if he goes on a bit about his coming retirement from the game and struggles to determine when his exit is graceful rather than premature.

A neat slice of local color, regional history and the joy of amateur sport.