
"The Boston College team has gold helmets, under which the long black hair of the Roman centurian curls out . . . Ant they begin. How weird the goalies look with their African masks! The goalie is so lonely anyway, guarding a basket with nothing in it, his wide lower legs wide as ducks' . . . No matter what gift he is given, he always rejects it . . . He has a number like 1, a name like Mrazek, sometimes wobbling his legs waiting for the puck, or curling up like a baby in the womb to hold it, staying a second too long on the ice."
Dikten finns med i ett litet häfte från FIB:s Lyrikklubb. Tomas Tranströmer har översatt hockeydikten. Tyvärr har vi inte den boken, så Ridderwall får nöja sig med sina internetärenden.
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