Even with my penchant for trying anything once, I knew that there must be a reason that people don't start playing hockey at age 32. I was wrong, there's lots of reasons.
I already play two winter sports: nordic skiing and broomball. But in Homer, the cool girls play hockey. I would like to say that my adult choices have different influences than the junior high lunchroom, but they don't. I want to sit at the table with the cool kids. God put 24 hours in a day, and there must be time to squeeze in hockey.
It's actually pretty impressive that I grew up in Minnesota, where every neighborhood has a rink, and I have never ever played hockey. I tried to start in high school, and my parents said it was too expensive. Eighteen years later, in Alaska, it's still expensive, so they were right about that. There's a lot of gear involved, ice fees, etc, etc. But the cool girls give it a hard sell: half-price ice fees, free loaner gear, and a complimentary PBR. Sounds good, right?
Well, I love Homer Women's Nordic, and I'm not going to give that up, so I'll just have to make them jive. Of course, the nordic practice before my first hockey practice is running 8.5 miles and biking 8.5 miles. I hadn't caught my breath from that before I gathered my broomball helmet (my only piece of overlapping gear) and headed to the hockey rink.
First thing I realized is that I will need to hire a valet to haul my gear and help dress me. There is even a specific order to put the gear on in. My valet could remember this for me as well. If you put your skates on before your shin guards, you'll fall down trying to start over. Trust me. You also have to tape a bunch of stuff on. The loaner socks I had on over my shin guards were bright pink. My jersey that I only got half way on over my shoulder pads before I had to enlist outside help (where is my valet?), was bright green. The girl next to me passed me a roll of pink tape to strap the bright pink socks onto my thighs with. The hole-y red and blue gloves I used are like wearing lobster claws. I could neither open or close my fingers, so I threaded the bright pink stick I was given carefully through the holes in the claws and headed onto the ice.
Very quickly, you see who is a good skater. Ironically, they are the ones who move like they are not even wearing skates. They casually turn and stop and go and can even turn their heads a different way than they are moving. Somehow, these super-mortals start from a complete stop and you never even see them do it. As I understand the laws of physics, they must push off at some point to start motion, but I dare you to catch them. They just float away in any direction at will. The one skill I gleaned was that if you keep your stick on the ice, it's a third point for you to lean on.
You're getting the picture: I'm padded up as a big bright pink and green blob using a pink hockey stick as a cane as I limp around the ice. The thread on the toe of my borrowed right skate is unraveling and a wad of string drags along the ice like a black ball of snot coming off the nose of the skate to complete the outfit.
Practice starts with skating drills. The coach yells out each new drill when it starts, but it echos off every surface of the arena like we are in a cave and the only sounds that reach me are like those from the teacher's desk in a Peanuts cartoon: "Wah wah wah, wah wah, wah wah wah." All the women on the ice instinctually know what he says and switch back and forth between impressive puck juggling and line jumping routines. I just try to maintain forward motion and stay upright.
We moved into keep-away drills and I was paired with a tall girl from Maine. I never got the puck from her. When it was my turn, I didn't even finish starting the whole skating thing before I realized I no longer had the little black disc. After a few rounds of this, I subconsciously stopped trying. The junior high lunchroom took over again: We both know you are going to get my milk money, so why fight again? I'll just give it to you. I spent the rest of the practice avoiding anyone from a state that begins with an 'M', or anywhere in Canada, for good measure.
Once, during scrimmage, I fell and realized my valet's absence had failed me again and my shinguard had not been properly pink-taped to cover my knee. When I limped back to the bench, I slumped down and noticed the girl next to me used skull and crossbones tape to affix her socks. Nothing she wore was pink. The next girl I talked to introduced herself as 'Jim'.
Back in the locker room, I could barely hold up my PBR, even after removing the lobster-claw gloves. The cool girls all said I did really well, which is probably part of the hazing lingo that I don't understand. I promptly spilled half my beer on the girl next to me.
I'm as good at quitting as I am at saying 'no' to something in the first place, so an adult-sport disaster is in the making. Hopefully, hockey can be approached like any other challenge: one thing at a time. So, I'd better get on Craigslist to advertise for a valet.
I already play two winter sports: nordic skiing and broomball. But in Homer, the cool girls play hockey. I would like to say that my adult choices have different influences than the junior high lunchroom, but they don't. I want to sit at the table with the cool kids. God put 24 hours in a day, and there must be time to squeeze in hockey.
It's actually pretty impressive that I grew up in Minnesota, where every neighborhood has a rink, and I have never ever played hockey. I tried to start in high school, and my parents said it was too expensive. Eighteen years later, in Alaska, it's still expensive, so they were right about that. There's a lot of gear involved, ice fees, etc, etc. But the cool girls give it a hard sell: half-price ice fees, free loaner gear, and a complimentary PBR. Sounds good, right?Well, I love Homer Women's Nordic, and I'm not going to give that up, so I'll just have to make them jive. Of course, the nordic practice before my first hockey practice is running 8.5 miles and biking 8.5 miles. I hadn't caught my breath from that before I gathered my broomball helmet (my only piece of overlapping gear) and headed to the hockey rink.
First thing I realized is that I will need to hire a valet to haul my gear and help dress me. There is even a specific order to put the gear on in. My valet could remember this for me as well. If you put your skates on before your shin guards, you'll fall down trying to start over. Trust me. You also have to tape a bunch of stuff on. The loaner socks I had on over my shin guards were bright pink. My jersey that I only got half way on over my shoulder pads before I had to enlist outside help (where is my valet?), was bright green. The girl next to me passed me a roll of pink tape to strap the bright pink socks onto my thighs with. The hole-y red and blue gloves I used are like wearing lobster claws. I could neither open or close my fingers, so I threaded the bright pink stick I was given carefully through the holes in the claws and headed onto the ice.
Very quickly, you see who is a good skater. Ironically, they are the ones who move like they are not even wearing skates. They casually turn and stop and go and can even turn their heads a different way than they are moving. Somehow, these super-mortals start from a complete stop and you never even see them do it. As I understand the laws of physics, they must push off at some point to start motion, but I dare you to catch them. They just float away in any direction at will. The one skill I gleaned was that if you keep your stick on the ice, it's a third point for you to lean on.
You're getting the picture: I'm padded up as a big bright pink and green blob using a pink hockey stick as a cane as I limp around the ice. The thread on the toe of my borrowed right skate is unraveling and a wad of string drags along the ice like a black ball of snot coming off the nose of the skate to complete the outfit.
Practice starts with skating drills. The coach yells out each new drill when it starts, but it echos off every surface of the arena like we are in a cave and the only sounds that reach me are like those from the teacher's desk in a Peanuts cartoon: "Wah wah wah, wah wah, wah wah wah." All the women on the ice instinctually know what he says and switch back and forth between impressive puck juggling and line jumping routines. I just try to maintain forward motion and stay upright.
We moved into keep-away drills and I was paired with a tall girl from Maine. I never got the puck from her. When it was my turn, I didn't even finish starting the whole skating thing before I realized I no longer had the little black disc. After a few rounds of this, I subconsciously stopped trying. The junior high lunchroom took over again: We both know you are going to get my milk money, so why fight again? I'll just give it to you. I spent the rest of the practice avoiding anyone from a state that begins with an 'M', or anywhere in Canada, for good measure.
Once, during scrimmage, I fell and realized my valet's absence had failed me again and my shinguard had not been properly pink-taped to cover my knee. When I limped back to the bench, I slumped down and noticed the girl next to me used skull and crossbones tape to affix her socks. Nothing she wore was pink. The next girl I talked to introduced herself as 'Jim'.
Back in the locker room, I could barely hold up my PBR, even after removing the lobster-claw gloves. The cool girls all said I did really well, which is probably part of the hazing lingo that I don't understand. I promptly spilled half my beer on the girl next to me.
I'm as good at quitting as I am at saying 'no' to something in the first place, so an adult-sport disaster is in the making. Hopefully, hockey can be approached like any other challenge: one thing at a time. So, I'd better get on Craigslist to advertise for a valet.
