The group was called White Lightning.
We played hard and we played fast
on a small-town rink
on late Friday nights.
At the end of the night
we’d gather in the dressing room,
half-dressed, sweating like pigs.
We’d drink ice-cold beer
like pros.
One year we ordered jackets,
team jackets.
I ordered my jacket.
It’s black and white,
and has stitching on it.
White Lightning,
Number 18.
I finally got my number.
I finally got my boy skates.
It took over forty years
but dreams don’t die,
until they get fulfilled.