# Junior Hockey in Canada's Heartland One of my favourite ever “[long reads](http://longreads.com/)” is a piece by Guy Lawson in the January 1998 Harper’s: “[Hockey nights: The tough skate through junior-league life](http://www.harpers.org/archive/1998/01/0059426).” It’s an account of ice-hockey as played in the rural Canadian town of Flin Flon, Manitoba by an under-20 team called the Bombers. Hockey there is pretty tough. (This might not be a surprise.) There’s a fairly casual attitude toward on-rink punch-ups, but violence is also deployed surprisingly dispassionately in other situations, like evaluating potential recruits. Here’s a sampling: > “Meeks isn’t the right guy. He’s too good a fighter,” Razor said to > me. “We’ll send someone else, and if the kid [Sides, a prospective > > > recruit] answers the bell and stands up for himself, he’ll be accepted > > by the team. If he doesn’t, we’ll go from there.” Sides scored three > > goals that session. The next afternoon he fought Ferlie, a man-child > > six inches shorter than Sides but an absurdly eager and able fighter. > > Skate-to-skate, lefts and rights were thrown in flurries. Sides’s head > > bounced off the Plexiglas as he and Ferlie wrestled each other to the > > ice. The players on the benches stood and slapped their sticks against > > the boards in applause. Sides and Ferlie checked their lips for blood, > > shook hands, exchanged a grin.   > Now Razor addressed the topic of fighting. Because of the SJHL’s > penalty of compulsory ejection from the rest of the game for fighting, > Razor said, other teams would send mediocre players out to try and > goad Flin Flon’s best players into scraps. “I know things are going to > happen out on the ice. It’s the nature of the game,” Razor said as he > paced the room. “But Rodge, Lester, Schultzie, the goal scorers, you > can’t fight unless you take an equally talented player with you. If we > lose one of our best, we need them to lose one of their best.” “You > told Ferlie to fight against Dauphin,” Rodge said. “No,” Razor > explained, “I didn’t tell Ferlie to fight. We were getting beaten and > I said, ‘If you want to start something, now would be a good time.’” > The Bombers all laughed.   > A few of the Bombers had told me about the present that Meeks’s older > brother—a giant of a man and an ex-Bomber, with 30 points and 390 > penalty minutes in one season—had given Meeks for his eighteenth > birthday: a beating. “Yeah, he did, Scoop,” Meeks said sheepishly. “My > brother would say, ‘I can’t wait until you turn eighteen, because I’m > going to lay a licking on you.’ The day of my birthday he saw me and > started coming after me. I grabbed a hockey stick and started > swinging, nailing him in the back, just cracking him. It didn’t even > faze him. Next thing you know, my jersey’s over my head and he’s > beating the crap out of me. My mom and one of my brother’s friends > hopped in and broke her up.” “Why did your brother do that?” I asked. > Meeks shrugged. “I turned eighteen.”   > “I hate rye,” Holly announced. “I get into fights when I drink rye.” > She told me about the Boxing Day social last year. “This girl pissed > me off, so me and a friend tag-teamed her. My friend slapped her and I > threw my drink on her and she started blabbing at me so I grabbed her > and kicked her in the head and ripped all her hair out. She was bald > when I was done.” The girl had to go to the hospital to have her > broken nose set, Holly said, now speaking in quiet tones because she > had noticed the girl’s aunt a few tables down from us. “And then she > went to the cop shop and filed charges, even though she was four years > older than me.”   > Meeks had explained his fighting technique to me back in Flin Flon: “I > can’t punch the other guy first,” he said. “That’s why I’ve got a lot > of stitches. The other guy always gets the first punch and then I get > mad.” Meeks took the first punch from Seventeen square in the jaw. > Meeks’s head jerked back. He grabbed Seventeen by the collar and threw > a long, looping, overhand right. He pulled Seventeen’s jersey over his > head. Another shot, a right jab, an uppercut; switched hands, a > combination of lefts. A strange sound came from the audience, a > mounting, feverish cry: Seventeen was crumpling, arms flailing, as the > linesmen stepped in and separated the two. Meeks waved to his > teammates as he was led off the ice by the officials to the screams of > the Weyburn fans. The Bombers scored four minutes later. Between > periods in the dressing room Razor shook Meeks’s hand. “Great job.”   > Meeks couldn’t play and wasn’t sure when he would be able to play > again. “I called Meghan and told her I broke my hand,” he said. “She > said, ‘You did not.’ I said I did, I had to fight. She said I > shouldn’t fight. She said that I always have a choice.”