Ode to the Puckaround
When the rink lights fade and the doors are locked tight,
When the crowds disappear and the roar turns to night,
One puck remains faithful — it waits where you stand,
On concrete and pavement, in the palm of your hand.
It’s the same size and weight, the same shape and the feel,
A mirror of battle — the closest to real.
It glides without ice, it rolls without sound,
It lives where the hungry and the hopeful are found.
When no one is watching and the spotlight is gone,
When the weak choose the couch, the driven train on.
Through rainstorms of doubt and the blizzards of pain,
They carve out their greatness again and again.
With a Wraparound’s shield and this black disc of might,
They sharpen their craft deep into the night.
For the dreamers, the grinders, the ones who still try,
The ones chasing glory the crowd can’t deny.
So here’s to the hours when the work’s done alone,
To the sweat-soaked garages and driveways of stone.
Here’s to the dream that demands you endure —
The puck that reminds you your purpose is pure.
It’s not just a puck — it’s a promise you’ve made:
To chase down the vision that refuses to fade.
The End.
Or is it the beginning?
See you in the trenches,
—Bobby Robins, savage motivator, ex hockey pro, poet???