Stockholm and its hockey
May 27th 2008 08:55
Cold
As George Orwell, the renowned writer, essayist, and cross-country skiing ignoramus observed: ‘Sport is war minus the shooting.’
Which brings me neatly to ice hockey, Sweden’s national sporting obsession. Stick-boxing on ice. Such is rugby to the Commonwealth, bull-fighting in Spain, and family grievance based talk shows in the United States, ice hockey is the requisite blood sport that circumnavigates the northern hemisphere above the 45 degree latitude. Of all those cold countries, the Swedes are the best – the reigning Olympic champions. Their Elitserien is the top league of about a dozen teams that play late September to April twice a week. Occasionally if you are lucky you might stumble upon Stockholm when there’s an international scheduled, the local Scandinavian rivalries being the fiercest. I found a ticket outlet within Stockholm Central complex for Djurgardens IF, the local Stockholm team, against HV71 from Jonkoping. The home team, the dear old Järnkaminerna (The Iron Stoves as us ice hockey aficionados like to call them) had been a touch off this season, while HV71, consistent with their name sounding like a nasty strain of virus, were swarming all over the top of the table.
For the ice hockey watching novice it's a vastly more structured sport than the zipping free-for-all you pick up on ESPN. Despite my tele-visual memory of the sport being restricted to images of brutal fighting, checks against the sidings that make teeth come out, stick throwing, and throbbing, riot level crowds, the entire affair was a civilized study of players testing strategy and skill. This is partly due to the puck being easier to see than on television. Also, the players swarm and maneuver around the goal like seagulls organizing around picnickers, engage in darting sneakiness in the area that would be off-camera land for the folks at home.
Colder
The Elitserien has twenty minute thirds with twenty minute breaks between, so you spend almost as much time waiting for the players as you do watching the match. The intermissions were long enough for locals to go home and make an open sandwich with salmon gravalax between play. This casualness was done away with in the final ten minutes of the game when, like mile runners walking the first 1500 metres and sprinting the final stretch, the leisurely maneuvering stopped and intense stick led attacks on the goal rushed at either end. HV71 looked as if they’d been toying with the home team for the first hour to give them a chance; the Iron Stoves looked as if they’d been told trying was un-cool. People began leaning forwards in their seat, mistakes became glaring, and HV71 scored twice to end the game victors 3 to 1.
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