C haim stood by himself about a hundred yards away from the hockey court. He could see the players: the Neos Deshe team in their new red hockey jerseys the Matzav guys in silver jerseys. (The other team had also come with practice jerseys Singer had breathlessly informed him.)
Chaim inhaled deeply. There was something about this newly discovered paradise called camp he thought that made every evening seem like theater: the inky sky heavy darkness and bright lights making the hockey court look like a stage. And just like in a play where the actors seem more alive than they do in real life so too the characters in this play.
Chaim smiled at the thought. His family would look at him oddly if he articulated it that way. He remembered how at Chana Leeba’s sheva brachos he’d tried to express his emotion how marrying off a daughter was like planting a part of your soul somewhere else and he’d teared up. Later Rivky had looked down into the center of her half-cantaloupe and said “Well that was awkward. You started a sentence and couldn’t finish it.”
The whistle rang out as someone scored a goal and the cheers rained down on the metal bleachers which seemed to shake with excitement. Chananya Singer was in his customary place at the center of the court his face burning with intensity as he watched the Neos Deshe team tie the game at six.
