Writing Hockey in a War Zone

By Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel

Water carves the land and family shapes the soul. Three generations strong: (left to right) the author, his son Simon, and his grandson Ariel this month at Banias Falls, the largest waterfall in Israel.

I haven't heard our air raid siren for a while here at Kibbutz El-Rom.

That's a good sign -- sort of.

Recently, I’ve gained a reassuring familiarity with what we in our little village about 3,000 feet up from Israel's Galilee call a "safe room."

When the sirens wail, that's where up to six family members crowd on either a large mattress or a couple of makeshift ones, waiting for the all-clear signal to be heard.

Sometimes the wait is interminable, which meant that we all "safely" try to sleep–sardine-style–until dawn breaks and we can resume what amounts to normal work.

My means of making a living at age 94 consists of writing at least one three-part column about the sport of major league hockey and its mother hen, the National Hockey League. I do it with a rare blend of uncertainty and stay-alive zeal.

For the past four war years, I have never missed a daily deadline because of a combination of rent-to-pay motivation and sheer luck. While the motivation speaks for itself, Lady Luck arrived in assorted forms.

Since the North Golan Heights is shoulder-to-shoulder with the Lebanese border, hostile Hezbollah ravage with incessant rocketry such villages as Metula where all of my grandchildren practice their ice hockey.

Metula's Canada Centre, a gorgeous array of sports such as swimming, bowling, ice skating and workout rooms, has to be off-limits, as well as the little town Kiryat Shmona, a larger community where our family shops. The town was targeted daily until it became another ghost town. Yet–as pure luck would have it–El-Rom was spared.

Mind you when I say "spared," it refers to actual bombing. We never were spared the incessant fear that we were next. As they say, "You never know."

But chance-taking is quite de rigeur as part of our lifestyle. When my son Simon and I required a trip to bombarded Kiryat Shmona, we drove there, hoping for the best. And got it. Not long after we loaded up on groceries and medical supplies, a rocket hit the very street where we shopped.

Another time, we visited our favorite falafel joint and discovered that it was partially boarded up–a direct hit–but still serving their herby and earthy Israeli eats despite the damage.

The "ceasefire" is such that we never know when it will cease. We drove through Metula as it rebuilt after an earlier ceasefire, only to be blasted by more rocketry once the ceasefire ceased.

Arguably the most refreshing aspect of the conflict, from my point of view, is the positive manner in which the general public has energetically maintained what my mom Molly called a "grin and bear it" attitude.

Wherever I've turned–and I've done my share of whirlwinding–war-weary citizens continue to rebound. Exhibit A was our visit to heavily blitzed Kiryat Shmona, where Simon and I met Ariel and his gal pal, Adel Kogen.

Kiryat Shmona has a fresh look, and new enterprises are growing like

wildflowers in the Golan. We pulled up to a vintage Leyland truck that was turned into a much-loved pizza place.

Before the war, the pizza truck stood alone. It has since been moved to a formerly empty area the size of Yankee Stadium. But here's the trick: an assortment of eateries is now spread in a circle with the pizza truck at home plate.

Suffice to say, I savored the best burger of my entire life at -- what else? -- the new concentric food-filling station.

At the moment, calm prevails and my computer is doing what it did during the worst of times–working. Our family, thanks to Simon and his wife Lilach, not to mention the kids, has found a way to carry on through the whole ugly mess.

But we don't kid ourselves for one half-second that the latest ceasefire will be reduced to "fire" and the ugly song of the sirens will again be heard.

And the "safe room” will become a temporary bedroom air-raid shelter once more.

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Stan was gifted with a silver hockey stick when inducted into the USA Hockey Hall of Fame by the Islanders in 2020

Stanley I. Fischler (born March 31, 1932) is an American historian of hockey and the New York City subway, as well as a broadcaster, author of over 100 books, and professor. As a broadcaster with MSG, Fischler has won seven Emmy Awards (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Fischler)