Horrific Ice Hockey Incident, The Aftermath of My Killing Anger and The Bombshell that Exploded Two Weeks Ago

What happened on that dreadful day is emblazoned on my being. A red hot branding iron searing the soft flesh of innocence and leaving its gnarly welt forever. Never to be forgotten. Always seen — reflected, ugly and red, in the mirror of my conscience. A twisted insignia of temporary madness.

One frigid Saturday afternoon when I was 14, we had a hockey game on our home, outdoor rink. Some dedicated parents in puffy parkas from our team and the visitors would stand around the boards watching and cheering us on, stamping their feet, trying to keep warm.

One of our opponent’s players got the jump on me and was racing towards our goal on a breakaway but I was able to skate after him and reach out with my hockey stick and trip him. When I heard the shrill pitch of the referee’s whistle I knew I would be getting a penalty. At that instant I lost it and skated after the referee in a fit of blind rage and swung my hockey stick as hard as I could. There was a sickening crack as the stick smashed into the back of the ref’s neck and broke in half. He collapsed and fell to the ice in a heap -motionless, lifeless. Dead.

The scene was surreal. The spectators released a collective gasp. Then there were screams and angry accusations: “Murderer!” “Killer!” “Call an ambulance!” “Call the police.”