Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12
Almost every home game does he see
A grey haired man with a clip board sits
Two seats over and one down from me
He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch
Can't watch as a fan anymore
They know he made it, was up with the Bruins
Played defence with Old Number Four
He watches intently for five minutes or so
Just enough to watch each kid skate twice
Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp
and then he returns his eyes to the ice
The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name
Has seen kids who've got game disappear
They find out he's watching, they get all uptight
And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear

I watched for four games, got his routine down pat
Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate
He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass
Watching close through the plexiglass plate
He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well
And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague
If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy"
He'd smile, and give an answer so vague
His career ended early with a stick to the head
Almost killed him, but, he was too mean
His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame
The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green


Each season he'd sit, watching game after game
In arenas all over the land
Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch
They were just something that wasn't planned
He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score
And go home with two names on his list
One a defence man, and the goalie as well
But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed
Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids
Some were right, and the kid would go pro
He may be a star in the minors right now
But, the bigs...well, fate only knows

He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys
Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr"
Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word
He knew the kid would be heard from no more
Putting pressure like that on a young players back
Is like saying, "My boy will be God"
From then on it's never, the talented kid
I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod
Many young players get compared to the best
But to say it out loud is a curse
You put a red dot on the young players back
He may as well leave in a hearse

Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums
Played when the game was real tough
They  had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now
and Ted, as we know liked it rough
His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot
But to the untrained they look like a mess
A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote
Nor a court stenographer I guess
He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell
More of them about kids who fell short
Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..."
and the name of the best in the sport

Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year
Most times he's gone early on
He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff
And by the end of the first, Ted is gone
He's off on the road to another ice rink
To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold
To listen as parents and coaches again
Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old
Terrible Ted has a warriors soul
And his grey hair is thinner but, curly
He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart
Too bad his playing time ended too early.

I worry so much about you,
About how you feel,
What you feel,
Wether it's pain sadness or happiness,
I worry all the time,
I worry or that fact that I will not always be here for you,
That one day you'll need me a I won't be able to come,
I worry that no matter how hard I try,
You will take the most painful route,
Of death pain and sorrow,
I worry all the time ,
I worry over little things and bigs,
But my worrying is justified because I care,
And I care with all my body mind heart and soul,
About you,
So I worry all the time.

Mother’d say, don’t go by
How blue a man’s eyes are,
But by the size of his bank

Account, and she thinks on
That now, taking a sip of wine,
Holding a cigarette, some things

You don’t forget, some things
Are branded into the brain,
Especially Mother’s words,

Her philosophy, her way of
Viewing the world. She pauses,
Watches her husband parking

The car from the window, the
Way he walks around it, gives
The door handles a pull, taps

The bonnet like some *****’s
***. Yes, hubby’s got the dough,
Got the big bank account, buys

Her expensive clothes, rings and
Pretty much other things, but love,
Affection, that sitting side by side

Holding hands and kissing sort
Of thing, he just can’t bring, has
No clue what to say or what to do.

Sure he has the connections, the
Right kind of friends, takes her
To parties, to functions, gets her

To meet the Mr Bigs and their hold
On the arm, give a pretty smile, wives,
But he doesn’t give her love, or know

How she feels or if she wants children
Or not or how well she is or if she’s
Got the pox. Sure, he can **** her as

Good as the next guy, give her a car,
A necklace, get her to see Paris, Venice
Or wherever, but he can’t give her that

Deep down sense of being wanted, of
Being needed for who she is, just like
The rest of the wives she knows, an arm

Hanging, pretty smile wearing, well dressed,
Bright eyed wife, but unloved, unneeded
Just another possession for him to have

And hold, with a beautiful complexion,
But with a heart grown bitter and cold.