The Game
As far back as I can remember I have always played the game, yet I don’t remember the first time I laced up the skates, nor do I remember where I stepped on the ice for the first time.
As far as I can tell, I have always done it. Truth be known that’s not exactly correct. I obviously learned to walk first and I’m sure I was speaking before I stumbled out on the frozen stuff, otherwise how could I ask my parents to take me skating. I should find out if I asked to skate or they put the blades on my feet first. Hopefully they will be able to provide me with an answer before they forget and I’m left with this eternal question.
So unlike many firsts in one’s life, my initial contact with this magnificent game is a complete blank. Oh sure there are pictures of me in hockey gear, smiling, posing for the camera. However, these standard photo opportunities don’t jog any memories other then vague recollections of the general pandemonium created by the multiple teams of hyper-kinetic youngsters who would have a scant 10 minutes to organize and get these treasured moments in time.
Thankfully I remember some moments in my early hockey career that stand out - scoring a penalty shot at the first hockey school I attended, dramatic comebacks in a tournament, the blades of a frantic skater trying to out run the biggest player on the opposing team, various hits, cuts, bruises and injuries. So many to list that eventually they have all blended into one big long game.
If I were to guess at what period I would be at now, I would say the second period, and only halfway through that one. Luckily I have spent most of that time on the ice and not in the penalty box, but that is best left for another story.
Now what makes these startling revelations all the more relevant right now is the fun I have experienced recently playing the game. Like everyone I’m sure, we’ve all had our moments of disappointment in our playing ability. Those fleeting timeless screw-ups where we question our talent and wonder if we should either hang the skates up or finally admit we’re playing in a game or league above our playing abilities.
Thankfully these moments are few and far between, and quickly leave our thoughts when our playing ability comes back and we rise up and deliver a royal whip-ass on another team who we find out has the average age equal to the lifespan of a hockey puck. It is here that the years of experience kick in and combine with the youthful desire I still hold. That is until all the groaning from the aching body parts kick in after the game. I was once told that, “youth is wasted on the young for we are too naïve and stupid to realize the vast potential of our bodies, bodies that when subject to aging rarely respond the way we want them to.” For me, it seems that the only way to soothe the aches and pains of the game is to either bathe in A5 –35, down a club Pack bottle of Ibuprophen, or sequester myself to the bed and hope that Homeopathy does actually work. There is a reason our league spaces the games out on a weekly basis and it’s not for lack of ice time.
As far back as I can remember, I do remember the days of putting on the equipment at home. Going into the hockey room where all the equipment was stored, airing out, neatly all in place. Taking the time to systematically put on each piece of equipment, knowing I would grow into them, the anticipation of the ride to the rink, arriving at the rink and putting on the skates with the assistance of the lace puller device while sitting at the rink side bench.
Then at some point in my early minor hockey life, the first period, I started going into a dressing room. It is here the first of many superstitions appeared. That is the practice of sitting in a certain place every time I would be in a dressing room. I don’t know why it mattered, but to this day the dressing room seating position can determine one’s playing ability.
The dressing room was a place to arrive and greet all those who you played with. The place where friendships started regardless which school you attended or what economic background your family hailed from. Many acquaintances grew from all the teams I encountered and I am in awe as to the number of people I have played this game with. I couldn’t even begin to name all the fellow players, let alone how many of them crossed my path.
It was in these dressing rooms that the knowledge of the game was past on from coaches and parents to a young player’s mind. The chalk talk, the strategies, the breakout (everyone was taught that a million times). Then as I grew older the knowledge I found was past on from player to player, as new ideas on an old way took root. Now the talk in the dressing room before a game is anything but hockey. It’s our watering hole, our chat room, our place of sacred transferring of knowledge of parenting, politics and pop culture events. Okay, a slight amount of hockey talk may slip into conversation every once in a while, but only in tense playoff situations and or when every other topic has been discussed.
The most important aspect of the dressing room is the laughter. The comments can be classic, the comebacks priceless and the ‘digs’ legendary. One should not want to miss a game, not so much for the fear of missing the actual game, but for the fear of being the butt of many comments and jokes. Only, it’s these jokes and comments that in most cases builds a team, brings all its players together, and makes them better on the ice. As soon as the laughter is gone though, the game is over and thankfully the laughter is far from over.
I still can’t remember the first time I played this game and I’ve come to terms that it really doesn’t matter now. I’ve come to terms with what matters and that is the love of the game, the passion to play, the desire to achieve and the hope it never ends. To walk into an arena carrying my equipment over my shoulder, to smell the cold rink air, to hear the slap of the puck on sticks, the crunch of skates on the ice is as much a symphony to me as Mozart is to someone else. To lace up the skates is only a teaser for what is to follow. Each and every time I step on the ice, I’m young again, re-born. The troubles of the day have been placed on the bench, to be dealt with after the 3rd period buzzer. My focus for the next 75 minutes is getting that little black disc down the ice surface and into the opposition’s goal. The sweeter the goal the more satisfying it is. To deny the opposition a goal is equally important and in some cases even more satisfying.
So as far back as I can remember I’ve always played this game, and as far forward as I can I will always play this game, right down to sudden death if I have to.
As far as I can tell, I have always done it. Truth be known that’s not exactly correct. I obviously learned to walk first and I’m sure I was speaking before I stumbled out on the frozen stuff, otherwise how could I ask my parents to take me skating. I should find out if I asked to skate or they put the blades on my feet first. Hopefully they will be able to provide me with an answer before they forget and I’m left with this eternal question.
So unlike many firsts in one’s life, my initial contact with this magnificent game is a complete blank. Oh sure there are pictures of me in hockey gear, smiling, posing for the camera. However, these standard photo opportunities don’t jog any memories other then vague recollections of the general pandemonium created by the multiple teams of hyper-kinetic youngsters who would have a scant 10 minutes to organize and get these treasured moments in time.
Thankfully I remember some moments in my early hockey career that stand out - scoring a penalty shot at the first hockey school I attended, dramatic comebacks in a tournament, the blades of a frantic skater trying to out run the biggest player on the opposing team, various hits, cuts, bruises and injuries. So many to list that eventually they have all blended into one big long game.
If I were to guess at what period I would be at now, I would say the second period, and only halfway through that one. Luckily I have spent most of that time on the ice and not in the penalty box, but that is best left for another story.
Now what makes these startling revelations all the more relevant right now is the fun I have experienced recently playing the game. Like everyone I’m sure, we’ve all had our moments of disappointment in our playing ability. Those fleeting timeless screw-ups where we question our talent and wonder if we should either hang the skates up or finally admit we’re playing in a game or league above our playing abilities.
Thankfully these moments are few and far between, and quickly leave our thoughts when our playing ability comes back and we rise up and deliver a royal whip-ass on another team who we find out has the average age equal to the lifespan of a hockey puck. It is here that the years of experience kick in and combine with the youthful desire I still hold. That is until all the groaning from the aching body parts kick in after the game. I was once told that, “youth is wasted on the young for we are too naïve and stupid to realize the vast potential of our bodies, bodies that when subject to aging rarely respond the way we want them to.” For me, it seems that the only way to soothe the aches and pains of the game is to either bathe in A5 –35, down a club Pack bottle of Ibuprophen, or sequester myself to the bed and hope that Homeopathy does actually work. There is a reason our league spaces the games out on a weekly basis and it’s not for lack of ice time.
As far back as I can remember, I do remember the days of putting on the equipment at home. Going into the hockey room where all the equipment was stored, airing out, neatly all in place. Taking the time to systematically put on each piece of equipment, knowing I would grow into them, the anticipation of the ride to the rink, arriving at the rink and putting on the skates with the assistance of the lace puller device while sitting at the rink side bench.
Then at some point in my early minor hockey life, the first period, I started going into a dressing room. It is here the first of many superstitions appeared. That is the practice of sitting in a certain place every time I would be in a dressing room. I don’t know why it mattered, but to this day the dressing room seating position can determine one’s playing ability.
The dressing room was a place to arrive and greet all those who you played with. The place where friendships started regardless which school you attended or what economic background your family hailed from. Many acquaintances grew from all the teams I encountered and I am in awe as to the number of people I have played this game with. I couldn’t even begin to name all the fellow players, let alone how many of them crossed my path.
It was in these dressing rooms that the knowledge of the game was past on from coaches and parents to a young player’s mind. The chalk talk, the strategies, the breakout (everyone was taught that a million times). Then as I grew older the knowledge I found was past on from player to player, as new ideas on an old way took root. Now the talk in the dressing room before a game is anything but hockey. It’s our watering hole, our chat room, our place of sacred transferring of knowledge of parenting, politics and pop culture events. Okay, a slight amount of hockey talk may slip into conversation every once in a while, but only in tense playoff situations and or when every other topic has been discussed.
The most important aspect of the dressing room is the laughter. The comments can be classic, the comebacks priceless and the ‘digs’ legendary. One should not want to miss a game, not so much for the fear of missing the actual game, but for the fear of being the butt of many comments and jokes. Only, it’s these jokes and comments that in most cases builds a team, brings all its players together, and makes them better on the ice. As soon as the laughter is gone though, the game is over and thankfully the laughter is far from over.
I still can’t remember the first time I played this game and I’ve come to terms that it really doesn’t matter now. I’ve come to terms with what matters and that is the love of the game, the passion to play, the desire to achieve and the hope it never ends. To walk into an arena carrying my equipment over my shoulder, to smell the cold rink air, to hear the slap of the puck on sticks, the crunch of skates on the ice is as much a symphony to me as Mozart is to someone else. To lace up the skates is only a teaser for what is to follow. Each and every time I step on the ice, I’m young again, re-born. The troubles of the day have been placed on the bench, to be dealt with after the 3rd period buzzer. My focus for the next 75 minutes is getting that little black disc down the ice surface and into the opposition’s goal. The sweeter the goal the more satisfying it is. To deny the opposition a goal is equally important and in some cases even more satisfying.
So as far back as I can remember I’ve always played this game, and as far forward as I can I will always play this game, right down to sudden death if I have to.
posted by Spiny Norman at 11:04 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home