ZANABIAN WINTER SPORT
In most sensible parts of the world, winter sports involve strict rules, helmets with liability waivers, and a deep fear of dental injuries. In ZANABIA, winter sport involves ice hockey—and a collective agreement that chaos is part of the scoring system. Ice hockey is not just popular here; it is inevitable. When a lake freezes in ZANABIA, it doesn’t ask permission. Sticks appear. Scarves tighten. Someone yells, “First goal buys cocoa,” and history repeats itself. The official ZANABIAN Hockey League claims to have rules. This is adorable. The puck is regulation-sized, but the interpretation of “offside” depends largely on whether someone is currently airborne. Mayor Hawthorn insists on refereeing most games. As a half-eagle, half-human with vision sharp enough to read expiration dates from the bleachers, he takes this role very seriously. Unfortunately, his tendency to screech “FOUL” while hovering above the rink has caused several players to score out of pure panic. Jeremiah the Frinter is a defensive legend. As a Frog of Winter, he never slips, never freezes, and occasionally melts the ice behind him just enough to confuse opponents. Standing near him during play is discouraged—not for strategy, but because spectators begin to feel uncomfortably relaxed, as if they’ve wandered into a spa with slapshots. Then there are the Sky-Buns. Flying rabbits are technically banned from competitive hockey. Technically. However, enforcement becomes difficult when they flutter innocently above the goal, drop straight down, and “accidentally” redirect the puck midair. Their defense is always the same: wide eyes, twitching noses, and the phrase, “Gravity started it.” Barnaby, the elephant-retriever gentleman, plays goalie. He blocks every shot flawlessly, remembers every score from every game ever played, and then abandons the net mid-match because someone in the crowd bounced a snowball suspiciously like a tennis ball. Leo floats above the rink as an unofficial commentator, tethered by a scarf held by his mother. He calls plays before they happen—not because he’s psychic, but because from up there, you can see who’s about to collide, fall, or invent a new rule. No one remembers who wins. Everyone remembers who laughed, who fell, and who shared cocoa afterward. And when the ice cracks, the goals melt, and the lake sighs itself back into water, the people of ZANABIA simply nod. Next week, we’ll talk about the most competitive sport of all in ZANABIA: spring cleaning—where the houses fight back.
