Today Jeff and I did not have any classes or other pressing matters in between the eleven a.m. and two o'clock p.m. hours, and since the Ice Park was offering shinny hockey during that exact same time period, and we both happened to have our hockey equipment handy, freshly taped sticks ready and I, my new Vapour Select II skates sharpened - we went for it. A good a chance as any we thought to begin our much anticipated return to hockey and subsequent reunion tour (eg. a once a week low amateur beer league). Now all we need is Phil Wilson in net (unless he wants to play out, but keep in mind that the net minders play for free. Actually, you probably had to return your equipment back to KMH 20 years ago and you're probably not 4 foot 9 anymore, so...wanna play out?), Brent on defense with his slick skating and wicked backhand (actually, the latter is his father Rick's forte), and J.P on the wing in case we want to practice our open ice hits. It was ten years ago to the day (actually, I have no idea what day it was) for me when I last laced em up (minus that one disappointing effort on New Year's day 2001), so I was expecting at the very least a colossal disaster of monumental proportions. Maybe a lung would burst. Or a leg break off. An eye punched out by an errant slapper. None of that happened, but it wasn't the greatest of sights either, I assure you. However, it was quite cheap and very fun. And very winding. For seven bucks, you get two hours of ice time, the same amount of nets, and a random team consisting of, as Bizzel calls 'em - 'all walks of life.' So, with secret hopes of attracting a lucrative NHL contract, but with more realistic dreams of just lasting the entire two hours without dying from extreme out of shapeness - Jeffrey and I hit the ice. The east side pad because the other one is now being used for Soares' Soccer School. Peter Soares maybe? Probably not. Our stick and puck adventure started out well. Warm ups are always fun, pressure-less, and a great opportunity to see if you still remember how to stick handle, shoot and skate backwards. I did! Well, sort of. I quickly realized that I am now a larger, balder, older, hairier, and slower version of the past player I was - both mentally and physically, but mostly physically. All things considering, I can still skate half-decent with equally decent speed, but my effectiveness is limited to one rush, 35 second shifts or a series of short and sporadic spurts. Whichever comes first. Because my endurance came last. After twenty minutes of skating in circles, a few weak slappers off the net and more than one poor pass, it was game time. Shit. I looked around and saw only three other white jerseys besides my own, five dark and one goalie. I was not looking forward to a two hour sure to be suicide shift my first time out in a decade, for even after the nonchalant warm ups I had to take a two minute break, doubled over, panting and in search of water. This was going to be intense and it might kill me too. Ten minutes later, it was still four on four and somehow I had not yet collapsed. I could barely breath, was dead tired, sweating profusely from my non face-masked face, and spitting white blanks when I saw a few more sweaters of each shade and another goalie come onto the ice. I had never been so relieved to see a bunch of perfect strangers I would barely know and probably never see again. This was better. It was and it did. Get better that is. A painful hour and three inhaler puffs later, I was still sticking to my defensive minded game plan, guaranteed short shifts, and okay outlet passes but, in between the no shots and blind man stick handling, I still found time and energy to make a few misguided, ill advised and ultimately puck losing rushes - but it was fun. And I'll probably play again. I sure hope there are enough subs next time, because the one younger kid, and probably best player (it's between either him or the older moustache sporting cherry picker with a problem) said there is usually only six or so guys with no goalies. A lot of skating, open ice and lame goals off softly undefended posts. That sounds like fun. Not. Well, maybe for a few minutes, but not two hours. "You picked a good day to come," the best player said. Thanks. Oh yeah I forgot, Jeff scored. He looks like a real hockey player out there. I didn't see his dirty rebound and stuff goal, but he said it happened. I believe him, because it's hard to observe and understand anything when sweat's stinging your eyes, your head is spinning and between your knees and your lungs are close to popping out of your chest.
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