Black Ice Gospel
The question hung in the frozen air, sharp as a skate blade against his throat. "You gonna just stare..."
Introduction
This screenplay adaptation of "Black Ice Gospel" serves as a practical exercise in narrative translation, a core component of modern digital literacy. It explores the challenge of converting a story driven by deep internal monologue and psychological turmoil into a script that relies solely on observable action and subtextual dialogue. By dissecting this process, we can better understand how different media formats tell stories and how creators make crucial choices to convey complex emotions and themes without the benefit of a narrator, transforming internal states into compelling visual and auditory experiences.
The Script
EXT. OUTDOOR RINK - NIGHT
A low-grade TINNITUS HUMS under everything.
The rink is a scarred sheet of black ice under the sickly orange glow of malfunctioning city lights. Cracks spiderweb the surface like grey veins.
JOEY (20s), defined by a quiet hesitation, stares down at a hockey puck sitting inert on the ice. The tape on his stick blade is frayed, peeling in white strips.
Across the ice, a chaotic game of shinny unfolds. A dozen men, a swirl of faded hoodies and work jackets, chase the puck. The only sounds are grunts, curses, and the percussive RHYTHM of sticks and skates.
SHAWN (20s), his face worn and tired, glides to a stop at the boards beside Joey.
<center>SHAWN</center>
You gonna just stare at it or you gonna play?
Joey doesn’t look at him. His focus remains on the puck.
<center>SHAWN</center>
Joey. C'mon, man. We need another body. Marco's crew is playing dirty tonight.
Joey finally looks up. He sees MARCO (20s), bigger than him, with a frost-collecting beard, bulling his way through another player.
Joey pushes off the boards. The SHARP TEAR of his blades on the ice cuts the night. He glides into the chaos.
The game absorbs him. A stick LIFTS his. A body BUMPS his hip. The game swirls on, unconcerned.
The puck squirts out of a scrum. It comes right to him.
For a beat, he sees it all. A passing lane to Shawn. A defenseman cheating.
He holds the puck a fraction of a second too long.
The lane closes. A stick SLAMS against his. The puck is gone. A clumsy, sprawling IMPACT sends him to the ice.
The cold seeps through his jeans, a deep, wet chill. He looks up at the starless black sky.
INT. SCOUT'S OFFICE - DAY (FLASHBACK)
Sunlight streams through blinds, illuminating dust motes. The air is stale with the smell of old coffee.
PETERSON (50s), soft gut and a firm, judgmental air, sits behind a desk. He looks at a younger, cleaner Joey sitting opposite him.
<center>PETERSON</center>
You see the ice, maybe better than anyone. You anticipate the play. But when it’s time to go into the corner, to pay the price… you hesitate.
Peterson leans forward, his voice calm, clinical.
<center>PETERSON</center>
You lack the fire, son.
EXT. OUTDOOR RINK - NIGHT (PRESENT)
Joey pushes himself up from the ice. His knee aches. Shawn skates past.
<center>SHAWN</center>
Get up, Joey!
Joey starts skating again. Not chasing, just moving. A phantom.
The puck caroms off the boards. A high, wild bounce. It lands right on his stick.
He dekes left, pulling the puck back with the toe of his blade. A defenseman lunges and misses. Joey is in the clear.
Just him and the GOALIE, a dark shape against a snowbank net.
He sees Marco, a freight train in his periphery, closing in from the side.
Peterson's voice echoes in his head.
Joey makes a choice. He doesn't shoot. He doesn't brace for the hit.
He makes a soft, apologetic saucer pass. It hits a teammate's skate and DIES in the corner. Marco blows past him, a gust of cold air and a muttered curse.
<center>PLAYER (O.S.)</center>
Jesus, Joey, shoot the damn thing!
Joey skates away, his lungs burning. Shawn coasts up beside him, breathing in ragged plumes.
<center>SHAWN</center>
You alright, man? You're playing weird tonight.
<center>JOEY</center>
I'm fine.
<center>SHAWN</center>
Look, just… play. Don’t think so much. It’s shinny. It doesn’t matter.
Shawn claps him on the shoulder pad, a HOLLOW THUMP, and skates off.
Joey watches the game. The checks are harder now. A SLASH across the legs. An elbow in a scrum.
Something in Joey's posture shifts. His jaw tightens. The aimless glide is gone. He digs his skates in, driving his legs, his face a mask of cold fury.
He chases down a loose puck. A player leans on his back, trying to pin him to the boards.
Joey lowers his shoulder, spins, and sends the other player sliding past. The rink opens up.
He sees a KID (17), hopeful energy, new skates, back-pedaling in front of him.
Joey doesn't deke. He lowers his shoulder and skates straight at him.
The IMPACT is a solid, jarring CRUNCH. The Kid goes down.
Joey is past him. The path is clear. But Marco is there. A wall.
This is it. The corner. The price.
Joey puts his head down and drives. Straight at Marco. He doesn't slow. He doesn't flinch.
For a split second, their eyes meet. Grim determination on both sides.
THE COLLISION.
A WET, UGLY CRUNCH of bone and gear. A stick CRACKS, loud and sharp.
Joey pushes through the tangle of bodies, stumbling, falling. He swings his stick wildly, a one-handed swipe.
THUD. The puck hits the snowbank. A goal.
Joey lands hard on his hip and slides to a stop. The puck sits nestled in the dirty snow.
Hollow whoops of victory rise from a few players, then die.
Silence falls over the rink. Thick. Heavy.
Joey looks back. His broken stick lies in two pieces. Marco is curled on his side. Not moving.
Players form a loose, uncertain circle around him.
Shawn kneels at Marco's side.
<center>SHAWN</center>
Hey, man. You okay? Marco?
No answer.
Joey pushes himself up, his body aching. He skates to the edge of the circle. He looks down.
Marco’s leg is bent at a sickening, unnatural angle.
Nausea rises in Joey’s throat. Shawn looks up, his eyes meeting Joey's. Not with anger. With a bottomless, weary disappointment.
<center>SHAWN</center>
(to the others)
Someone call an ambulance.
Shawn shrugs off his jacket and lays it over Marco.
The game is over. Players drift away, shoulders slumped. Someone fumbles for a phone, its blue screen an alien glow.
Joey stands alone, gripping the jagged end of his broken stick.
It begins to snow. Soft, fine flakes swirl in the orange light.
A distant SIREN begins to WAIL, cutting through the night.
The flakes land on Marco's still form, a dusting of white.
Joey stares at the puck in the snowbank goal. A black hole in the white.
The siren grows louder. A screaming judgment rushing toward him.
What We Can Learn
This adaptation from prose to script highlights the critical challenge of externalizing a character's internal state. The source text is almost entirely Joey's inner monologue—his memories, his self-doubt, and his interpretation of events. To translate this for the screen, his psychological journey must be made observable. His hesitation becomes a physical pause on the ice, his memory of failure is triggered by a specific in-game event, and his shift from apathy to rage is demonstrated not through narration, but through a visible change in his skating style from aimless gliding to aggressive, leg-pumping drives. The script must trust the actor's performance and the visual language of cinema to convey the complex emotions that the prose could simply state outright.
The process of creating this script serves as a lesson in the technical craft of screenwriting as a tool for storytelling. The strict adherence to the "show, don't tell" principle forces the writer to think visually and sonically at every moment. Formatting conventions, like breaking action into short, four-line paragraphs, are not just stylistic rules; they are functional tools that control the pacing and rhythm of the read, mirroring the staccato, violent bursts of the hockey game itself. Furthermore, the use of capitalized sound cues—from the initial TINNITUS to the final, sickening CRUNCH—demonstrates how a carefully constructed soundscape can build a subjective experience, placing the audience directly inside the character's chaotic and deteriorating headspace.
Ultimately, this exercise reveals how a change in medium necessitates a change in how theme is communicated. The prose uses explicit narration to explore ideas of failure, toxic masculinity, and the desperation behind the game. The screenplay must embed these themes within the action itself. The "violent ballet" described in the source text's analysis is no longer a description but a directive for choreography; the tragedy of a hollow victory is not explained but felt in the abrupt silence that follows the goal and the final, haunting image of Marco's broken body. The adaptation proves that a script's power lies in its ability to create an experience that allows the audience to derive the theme for themselves, rather than having it explained to them.