Number 10 was on an obvious breakaway when he was brutally crocheted from behind and brought to the ice; even a blind person could see that. The linesman, who’d had his eyes checked the week before, and was reported to have 20/20 vision, didn’t apply any pressure to the whistle, which he held between his lips like an artificial nipple.

The linesman wasn’t biased against the team, nor against the player. In fact, the linesman was thinking of his penis - his love muscle, as he fondly had thought of it until yesterday.

Yesterday, as he was preparing for his morning, libidinal game of tug ‘n war, he could discern an area of dryness and moderate discomfort, somewhere in the proximity of his shaft and the glans.

He paused his forenoon chafing, bent down and examined the scene of the crime. A chalk outline, surrounded the lesioned area, which looked like it had been artificially bevelled. He thinks about how such a blemish could have come across his, otherwise, manly perfection, but he draws a blank.

‘C’mon. What are you, blind?,’ Number 10 shouts belligerently at his expressionless face.

He shrugs apologetically, and murmurs something about trying to pick it up next time.

A whisper passes through the crowd. The befuddled image of the linesman seems as out of place as a female Canadian player in the men’s Finnish league .

‘Look at the linesman. Is he on crack or something?,’ one hockey dad says to another, a mere half hour before he is to bludgeon him in the parking lot. ‘Yeah, fucking linesman’s on crack.’ The future bludgeonee nods in agreement with the tense judgement of his future bludgeoner.
On the ice, the linesman scratches his scrotum through the sonaflash polyester, doubled up on ribbed lycra hockey pants.

All he can feel is his jock strap, or rather his customized aluminum cup, that his friend, Bobby Thurlow, welded for him at the refinery.
He doesn’t allow himself to be discouraged as he gears his gloved hand underneath the metal protector and feels the lesioned crater that has grown exponentially from the second period intermission to present - midway through the third.

The player in green, a brutish character of sorts, known for his impenetrable defense, lifts his eyes from the oncoming attacker and notices the linesman writhing spasmodically near the far blue line. He is too late in raising his head, as the blue player, not a skilled offensive-minded player, mind you, passes right through him. The two collide with a thunderous thump on the watery ice, to the obvious exhilaration of the crowd.

At the side entrance of the arena, Nobi, the fashion-conscious Zamboni chauffeur, adjusts his chauffeur’s cap smartly and looks at the linesman – a new one he’d never seen before, and lights a smoke. He knows the new regulations strictly forbid smoking, but he says two things to himself: 1st, he’s the only Zamboni driver in the county, and 2nd, he’s got lung cancer and he seriously doubts anybody could be such a cunt as to attempt to make an issue out of it.

As he’s thinking about the upcoming chemo, and simultaneously, sucking feverishly on his cig, he notices the linesman squirming furiously while his glove is wrestling with his jockstrap.

Nobi feels an itch of his own, and, as he’s a rather uninhibited individual, unzips his corduroys and checks his merchandise. Now, Nobi’s never had an unblemished reproductive organ, but, as he reaches for the source of his itch, he can make out a cratered scab and – and he’s transfixed. He is probing the afflicted area with his smoking hand, negligently letting the ashes fall over his soiled undergear.

The linesman has apparently lost his interest in the game. The players skate figure-eights around him and up and down the ice and back to more figure-eights. He is in his own little world of venereal bliss.
The main referee, probably wary of being associated with such a debacle, does what he feels is required of a man in his position – he skates gingerly over to the genitalia-engulfed linesman, and asks matter-of-factly, ‘Hey, Kenny, you alright? You seem a bit out of it.’
The linesman raises his hand in much the same manner he would regularly do, were he to signal an infraction, and indicates that he’s fine. ‘Yeah, just got something here…’ The linesman points downward.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ the Ref says, skating away.

The players continue, attempting to disregard the afflicted linesman’s, by now, obtrusive presence.

Occasionally, they stumble into him, and as he is the fixed vector, he is usually the one that tumbles the furthest. The impression is given that the players are running him over intentionally. One thing is certain, the few fans gathered are recipients of a rush of pure glee everytime the linesman is bowled over; their sweet, little revenge for all bad calls ever given by a linesman, from Atom through to Peewee, up to Hockey Night in Canada nationwide.

The clock is ticking away. The blue team is one goal behind and they pull their goaltender out in favour of an extra attacker. On his way to the bench, he slashes the linesman and waves to the crowd, who in return, wash him with a momentary wave of adulation. Perhaps, this will sweeten his upcoming team’s loss, and consequential drop into last place in the division. And, perhaps it will make light his own part in two of the unwarranted goals that he allowed to seep through his loosely strapped pads.

The game’s end catches the linesman near the Zamboni cubicle, where he notices Nobi the chauffeur, making final adjustments before hitting the ice.

Neither man is smiling. ‘Something’s in the air tonight,’ Nobi offers poetically.

‘Guess so,’ the linesman agrees glumly.

Now, in this particular arena, in this particular county, it is customary for the Zamboni chauffeur and the officiating cast, to share a common locker. They convene in the musty rooms before the game, usually quiet, each man in his own personal and private realm of game preparation; during intermissions, where they are known to make laconic comments about what has transpired on the rink, pointing out different aspects of the game; and, of course, at the conclusion of the game, in somewhat a more freed atmosphere. On this particular evening, Nobi and Kenny find themselves, side by side, in the shower. At 1st, each man is preoccupied with his own phallic crater. Grand Canyon, perhaps, would be more descriptive, because let’s say, with caution, that the original crater has been significantly deepened since both men have stepped off the ice. What is visible to the eye, is a hollowed member - a black hole roughly outlined by loose flesh.
One man is circumcised, the other not - evidence that it’s not a religious or hygienic issue we’re dealing with.

Both men are oblivious to the other. Nobi, balances his probing and his smoking (yes, Nobi smokes in the shower, because time is scarce and there is much tobacco to be consumed. He is careful to not dampen the butt though.) Kenny diligently balances the exterior of his once unblemished organ with a self-assured right hand, while probing the gaping mouth of his pathology with his left pinky.

The mutual obliviousness continues until the main official enters the showers. As he sheds his towel, he stops suddenly in his tracks at the sight of the two.

‘What the…’

He takes a glance at his own manlihood, which is neither known for its perfection nor for its imperfection, and sees something new and alarming. It is not a crater by any means, but somewhere (the measurers would place the site at exactly 5/8th from the bottom of the shaft) along the shaft, a minor indentation is painfully apparent, yet not painful, just slightly itchy. As he enters the shower, he gently scratches his male bag and accessories. The other two men, who are somewhat on a more elevated plateau, at least as far as concavity goes, raise their eyes in acknowledgement towards the newly inducted member of venereal acquisition.

‘It might be something in the water.’ Nobi offers dryly.

‘It could just be that we’re not overly careful as to where we’re putting it.’ The linesman offers with a naughty twinkle in his eye.

The main ref, either comforted by the fact that he’s not alone in his affliction, or encouraged by this rare moment of male bonding says, ’There is definitely something in the air tonight.’

The other two agree with the abstract judgement, and continue their urogenital inspection under the steam-hot water.

Outside the arena, the bludgeonee is walking with his kid, the sieved goalee, and they’re going over the game’s fatal mistakes, when the aforementioned dad, with whom he exchanged a few formalities not a period ago, walks up nonchalantly and bludgeons him from behind.
The murderer quickly looks around for witnesses, and only when he’s content at their absence, he hastily makes his way to his car where he’s compelled to address a new and slightly urgent matter that has suddenly come into play.