Week Nine (Dec. 11)

If the last two weeks of hockey had been all fun and games (or, more literally, all games), this week represented a return to the basics: drills, drills, and more drills. I had performed decently well in both the game and the previous week's scrimmage, so I figured I was about a week or so away from being promoted to the "A" league...and then a session of nothing but practice brought me crashing back to Earth like Felix Baumgartner.

Spoiler alert: I still can't stop.

The session started off ominously for me, almost as if my coaches were picking on me (not just me, I guess, as I'm not the only one who struggles with stopping). First drill: skate to the blue line, stop, come back; skate to the red line, stop, come back.

The task would've actually been less Herculean had they told me to literally fly to the blue line, stop, and come back.

However, I took my reps, three times in all. Here's how it went down:

Blue Line 1: Dragged my back foot and hoped no one noticed.
Red Line 1: Felt shame, tried to stop, panicked, used my back foot again.

Blue Line 2-3: Same as above.
Red Line 2-3: Stopped perfectly, spraying ice everywhere like a true champion...or same as above.

Having started my session off with abject failure, the coaches decided to give me a break by making the next drill the notorious push/pull drill, also known as "me getting pushed backwards and struggling to stay on my feet."

I ended up squaring off with one of the women in our clinic, a smaller girl who is a pretty good skater. I informed her ahead of time that this might get ugly, and she, bless her heart, didn't judge. I ended up being the "pusher" first, and did just fine. Believe it or not, I can actually skate.

However, once it was her time to push: chaos. The best way to describe it would be to say that it was like watching a person on ice trying to stop a car from accelerating with nothing but his hands. Have you seen Iron Man? There's a scene towards the end (and you can see it below) where Tony Stark tries to stop a speeding SUV. I'm Tony, my partner is the SUV.

I managed to stay on my feet, but on the inside, it was pretty much "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!" the entire time. You really haven't lived until you've been pushed up and down a rink by a 110-pound girl.

Sensing my vulnerability, the coaches decided our next drill would combine stick-handling, skating, and turning in very tight circles around strategically placed cones. NO PROBLEM!

There were rows of cones set up in four columns: one cone on the near blue line and one on the far blue line. Our objective was to skate up to the first cone, skate around it in a circle, skate to the other and repeat, all while maintaining control of the puck.

Some background: I recently received a pair of very nice hockey-style (read: no brakes) roller blades, and have been using those to do some skating when I can't go to a rink. It works the same muscles and is better than nothing. However, skating on concrete may have given me a slightly inflated idea of how good I am at turning.

On roller blades, I can spin around on a dime; on skates, I can spin around on, say, an area of 500 or so dimes. I imagine that me trying to skate around two cones probably looked something like a drunk frat boy trying to reenact Gene Kelly's lamppost scene from Singin' in the Rain.

My first two runs were humbling to say the least, so on my last two I decided to do what any smart person would do: slow down, and go in bigger circles around the cones! Hey, I may not be helping improve my turn radius, but I'm not falling!

Mercifully, the skating drills essentially ended there.

We shifted into a drill we'd done before (2-on-1's), and then tried something new: 1-on-1's.

For this drill, the skater stood on the goal line, and the defenseman stood at the red line. The skater sent a hard pass to the defenseman and started skating; the defenseman took the pass, sent it back towards the skater, then got back on defense. The skater took the puck and tried to take the puck to the net, past the defenseman.

The drill was pretty fun, and was a good bit of 1-on-1 competition. We were a bit short on defensemen, and at one point, I found myself matched up against my coach.

"Great," I thought. "I'm sure this will end well."

I made the pass and began skating, and was thinking about what move I could make when he started yelling, "my stick's on the outside, take the inside, TAKE THE INSIDE!!!"

Not one to defy orders, I did, and went right past him to shoot into the open net. HE SCORES, HE SCORES, HE SCORES!

Later in the drill, I was matched up with a teal teammate who had foiled me a couple of times before. This time, I decided to wait him out...and wait...and wait, until he finally reached with his stick, attempting a poke check. I then transferred the puck to my backhand and accelerated, skating past him and putting the puck in the empty cage to complete what I believe was my first-ever deke.

The video has probably already gone viral on YouTube, so be sure to check it out.

We ended the session with another unique scrimmage: no goalies, but there was a single cone laid on its side in each net. A goal was scored by shooting the puck into the cone. This made the previous week's bank shot goal look like a piece of cake.

Predictably, both teams struggled. Even clean breakaways went unfinished, with the puck hitting the edge of the cone or going just wide.

Towards the end of the scrimmage, I found myself in the slot with the puck, and decided to chuck up a Hail Mary, since no one else was scoring. I fired a low wrist shot that, miraculously, headed towards the cone. Could it be? COULD IT BE?! No, it hit off of the lip of the cone and skittered away, my coaches OHHHHH'ing and laughing in response.

The scrimmage continued for a while, and we actually got to play for about 30 minutes longer than we should have. Maybe the Zamboni guy was off having a sandwich.

Towards the end of the scrimmage, you could see the effects of those extra minutes: tired legs, no hustle, and lots of gliding. The game ended in a 1-1 tie, though I'm surprised either team got one.

Sitting in the locker room after the game, someone had brought Michelob Ultra, and was passing them out. The coaches were changing out of their skates in the locker room, and talking about the scrimmage.

"You had a good chance there," my coach said to me. "That was a great shot, almost went in."

"Actually," the other coach added, "it really is hard to score one like that. It's not just you guys, it's tough. We kind of just play that for the coaches' enjoyment."

At that, both erupted in laughter.

Hey, if nothing else, at least we're entertaining.

Week Eight (Dec. 4)

There are many ways to celebrate a 25th birthday: go to a bar, go out to eat, have a family party, pretend you're still a kid and go to Discovery Zone (I wish that place still existed)...the possibilities are endless.

I chose to celebrate my 25th birthday by going to the wrong hockey rink.

Our location changes from week to week, alternating between rinks in Dorchester and Canton. Since our previous week's game had been in Boston, I assumed this week's would be in Canton. I checked our schedule online and saw no mention of our clinic, but also saw no one penciled in for our time in Canton. As this had happened before, I decided Canton was the spot, and headed there after work.

For increased comedic value at my expense, the Canton rink is a solid 35 minute drive from my work; the Dorchester rink is more like 15. I drove down the Expressway to Rt. 24, blissfully listening to my music, wondering how many goals I was going to score in that night's scrimmage...you know, the usual.

I got to the rink in Canton, and there were far fewer cars than usual. "Weird," I thought. "But I'm not usually early, maybe that's why no one is here."

Still, I doubted myself enough to leave my gear in the car when I went inside to have a look around. There was a game on one rink, and a younger kids' practice on the other. I looked at the rink's video schedule-board, and saw that there were no sessions scheduled on either rink after 9:20.

Shit. Wrong rink.

My bad.

At this point, it was about 8:55, and if we play in Dorchester, we start at 9:20. Unfortunately, my Honda Accord can't fly, so I was considering just going home and calling it a night. However, I talked myself out of it and hit the road, somehow arriving at the rink right around 9:25. I went inside to make sure we were playing there, and sure enough, my teammates were already taking their warm-up twirls around the ice.

By the time I got back to my car to get my stuff and made my way inside, the scrimmage had already begun. We had refs, but no goalies; instead, the nets were turned backwards as if we were playing some kind of bizarro-world hockey.

I made my way to my team's bench, and sheepishly approached my coach; the scrimmage was about three minutes old at this point.

"Am I too late, or should I go get dressed," I said, probably making some kind of sad puppy face.

"What color are you?"

"This one," I said, gesturing to my teal teammates in front of me.

"Sure," he replied. "Go get dressed."

As I've said before, rushing to get dressed or get ready always leaves one feeling like something is missing; this time, I had to really rush, because the game had already started. Yeah, it was just a scrimmage, but I wanted to play, and wanted to get out there.

I entered the locker room with 21 minutes left to play (we ended up playing two 25 minute, running-time halves), and emerged fully dressed with 14 minutes left on the clock. NOT BAD.

Replace the office supplies with hockey gear and you get me, getting dressed.

I made my way to the bench to find that my team had four defensemen and six forwards; in other words, I was the "extra" guy. Things would've been easier without me. :(((((((((

I approached my coach and said, "so, what are we doing?"

"We'll rotate lines," he said. "You replace the right wing on the next change. You then play a shift at right, then next you go to center, then you go to left, then you come off and sit."

"OK," I said, having pretty much no idea what he was talking about. "I meant about the nets, how do we score? Just get it around the back."

"Nope," he answered. "Gotta get it in off the boards. Bank shots only."

I was stunned. Here we are, pretty much unable to skate efficiently, and these guys essentially want us to play pool on blades of steel and a sheet of frozen water. GAME ON!

Like this, but with hockey sticks. On skates. On ice. PIECE OF CAKE!

As I watched the shift in front of me, things unfolded hilariously predictably: shots skittered well-wide, pucks banged into the side of the net, and even the most carefully aimed shots flew passed the net mouth, almost as if physics itself was mocking all of us.

"You call that a bank shot? NOPE."

The skaters came to the bench for a change, and I didn't move. I didn't think he'd throw me on right away, considering there was a line behind me.

I was wrong.

"What are you doing?! Get out there, full change, full change!"

Oops. I charged over the boards and into the action, already imagining what kind of pool trick-shot goal I was going to score.

Truth be told, it's harder than you'd think. Because the puck isn't shaped like a ball, it's a little harder to judge which way it's going to go when it hits the boards. I found myself with the puck by one of the faceoff circles, and decided to just fling it at the net.

It would've been a great shot...if the net was facing the other way. The puck went off of the netting and onto the stick of an opposing player. Backwards Facing Net 1, Me 0.

After my first shift, our team scored to knot things at 1. Time went by, and I went out for my next shift. I think I was supposed to play center, but I didn't. I kind of just floated around, aimlessly looking for the puck, attacking when I got the chance.

One thing I've taken to very well is forechecking. As I said in a previous post, I've learned that attacking (most of) the defensemen in our clinic leads to either a turnover directly to me or a harmless dump out of the zone that my team retrieves. I consider myself tenacious on the forecheck, to borrow a term from Jack Edwards.

On one shift, I decided I'd attack the D and try to force a turnover. My target was a guy I didn't recognize wearing one of those old-school Calgary Flames jerseys with the flaming horse head. I set my sights on this Jay Bouwmeester fella, and attacked.

He went right by me.

Lesson learned: don't attack the unknown guys. They're probably good.

Later on, I decided to keep attacking. I'd go after the defense every time, and usually had good results. However, one time I tried to seal off the boards, as I read that the defenseman was going to try to use that as his escape route. I hustled over the cut off the boards and headed towards him. He flipped the puck up anyways, and it went off of my blade and out.

Considering that an object in motion stays in motion (hey, second physics reference of the post!), and that me on ice stays in motion until I hit something, myself and this defenseman found ourselves on a collision course.

I didn't want to hit him, nor did I want him to hit me, so I kind of veered into the boards. They absorbed most of the impact, and we had what I'd term a minor fender-bender of a collision. However, my left arm, apparently mad at my decision to bail into the boards, wasn't too happy, and responded by yelling at me with waves of "OUCH" for the rest of the night.

Being the warrior that I am, I decided to keep playing, because I'm all that is man.

Me, at hockey.

As we headed out to start the third period, I was playing center, and realized I'd get to take a faceoff for the first time in my illustrious career. There's an art to taking faceoff in the NHL, as players will read every twitch in the ref's hand in order to get an advantage.

In the clinic, taking a faceoff is a lot like trying to kill a mouse with a broom: JUST WHACK AT IT, EVENTUALLY WE'LL GET IT!

After a few whacks, the puck squirted free, and went to one of my teammates. Career faceoff winning percentage: 1.000% Patrice Bergeron can't touch me.

Midway through the third period, the score was still tied at 1. Myself and teammate Bobby (again, I don't know if that's his name) found ourselves in a puck battle down behind the net. The puck squirted free to an opposing defenseman, and, being the tenacious forechecker that I am, I forced a turnover and put it back behind the net. Bobby's bank attempt was denied, and I found myself with the puck at my feet, facing away from the boards.

I decided to go full trick-shot, back handing the puck off the boards without looking, hoping that by some bit of birthday luck it would go in.

Denied.

Later in the third, I had three great chances to score.

• Two came on potential breakaways. Our coaches instructed us to hang out by the red line in order to draw the defense out, and to give our defensemen outlets. Twice I was fed pretty decent passes, but they were just a bit behind me. Remember: changing from forward to reverse isn't my strong suit, and neither is skating while looking down for the puck. I ended up looking like a jogger trying to see if his shoe is untied without breaking stride, and didn't really do either successfully. Foiled again!
• Down the stretch, I carried the puck over the blue line with a defender in front of me and another behind him. Considering it was late in the game, I kept going, and the defenders kept backing off. I made it to about the hash marks and decided to let one of my trademark blazing slappers fly. The puck, as if it had eyes, made it through both sets of legs, hit the boards where I wanted it to, slid towards the open net, and...went wide by an inch. FOILED AGAIN AGAIN!

In case you didn't get the "foiled again!" reference...this guy.

I headed to the bench after that last failure, and looked at the clock to see time ticking away. Realizing that I'd probably played my last shift, I relaxed a bit.

My coach and one of my teammates, clearly focused on the game, were talking about fishing, catching sharks, and how one and his group of buddies really is a "drinking crew with a fishing problem."

We sure are a unique bunch.

During this discussion, our team managed two more goals, and we ended up winning 4-1. Team Teal remains undefeated.

After the game, we retreated to the locker room, where Jay Bouwmeester sincerely congratulated everyone on a good scrimmage and pulled two 12's of Narragansett out of a duffel bag. Even though I think Narragansett is awful (I know, nonsense coming from a guy who enjoys Bud Light), I'm not one to turn down a nice gesture. So there we sat, a bunch of misfits who combined to score five goals in a game with no goalies, drinking Narragansett and laughing about the game.

I don't think I've ever felt more like a beer league hockey player.

*Cue the sentimental music.*

Week Seven (Nov. 27)

For our first game, my team was assigned the later slot, meaning we wouldn't start until 10:30. Considering there are a number of guys on my team who are pushing/past 40, I was curious as to whether or not some of my teammates might show up in their pajamas.

Even though the game wasn't slated to start until later, I left early to pick up my Fan Club. The Dan Fan Club that night consisted of two members, Sam and Jill. One was trying to show moral support while stifling her laughter, and the other was there to see a comedy show on ice and make no attempt to stifle her laughter. I'll let you decide who's who.

As I walked into the rink, the other half of our clinic (the Yellow Team) was playing their game. The score was 4-1 late in the second period, and I stupidly wondered who was winning. The answer, not surprisingly, was "not my clinic-mates."

After some words of hearty encouragement from the Fan Club, I headed over to the locker room to get ready. As I was walking around the boards, I noticed that the referee who had asked me where my cage was a couple weeks back was working the game. He saw me and, with play going on, leaned over the boards by the scorer's table and said, "hey, did you bring one for me?" and motioned to the Fan Club.

How dare he?!

"No," I replied, "I'm selfish. They're both for me." He laughed and skated away, clearly dejected from having been shot down so easily. Me 1, Horny middle-aged ref 0.

Getting dressed for this game brought a new wrinkle: I borrowed a cage from my cousin Conor, and was going to wear it for the first time. However, the cage had two snaps, and my helmet only had one. My ghetto solution? Just jam the second strap up into my helmet and hope it stays. Hey, that college education really worked!

As the seconds ticked away in the first game, one the Yellow Team would lose, 6-2, I noticed that we didn't have many players. In fact, we only had five forwards and two defensemen. Luckily, a few more people showed up, and we had a few volunteers from the first game stay for the second. In the end, we were able to ice three full forward lines and two defense pairs. I was slotted as the wing on the second line, skating with Bobby (whose name might not actually be Bobby, I don't remember) as my center.

Our first line started, and I sat back to gauge our level of competition. The other team was a mix of older guys and kids slightly older than me, with the one hotshot that every team has. They were better skaters than us, and better everything else's too, probably, but they weren't that much better. We had a shot.

Me, before the game

To be honest, the game wasn't terribly different from our scrimmages. We started off OK, but had trouble establishing pressure. Once our defensemen got the puck in our zone, they kind of froze (except for Alexandra Ovechkin/Bobbi Orr, who just tried to skate through everyone). More often than not, the neutral zone was as far as we got the puck.

My first touch came on a loose puck by the blue line, one that I sent back to a defenseman, making the safe play. Phew. One touch, no goals allowed.

After getting back to the bench following one of our shifts, our coach told my line that the forwards (i.e. me) were too stationary, and that we had to move to give the defensemen an outlet. It was like getting yelled at for talking during class in middle school.

During a break in between shifts, I went to have some water, forgetting I was wearing a cage. What a project this turned out to be. At first, I considered unsnapping the cage and drinking like a normal human. However, when I remembered that I had to rig the strap into place using college-level logic and thinking and that it'd probably be easier to remove Bane's mask, that idea flew out the window.

So I settled on a kind of reverse-carnival game. You know those game where you have to squirt the water gun into the hole to make the character climb, and the first one to reach the top wins? It was like that, only my mouth was the hole, and I couldn't see where I was aiming.

First squeeze: all over my nose.
Second squeeze: chin.
Third squeeze: SUCCESS.

Having established myself as the Goldilocks of squirting water, I headed out for my next shift. Again, we failed to generate much offense, and actually ended up hemmed in our own end for a while. When the puck is down by the net, there's a sort of helpless feeling that takes over: I'm supposed to, by my assignment, stay by the points and help out along the wall.

However, seeing a scrum for the puck near my net, I kind of started drifting down there, only to see the puck squirt out to the point...where I was supposed to be.

"Uh oh..."

I hustled out towards the man with the puck and closed my feet together, attempting a blocked shot that would earn my praise for my "intangibles" from the between-periods analysts, only to have the shot sneak past me towards the net. I turned around, fearing a goal, only to see that my goalie had smothered it.

Bullet = dodged.

Later in the first, our best-skating defenseman (defensewoman, actually) took the puck up ice. I jumped into the play to turn it into an odd-man rush, but her speed caught the lone defenseman by surprise: she turnstiled him, leaving him in her dust and heading in on goal alone. I knew that the chances or her passing me the puck literally could not have been smaller (LITERALLY), so I stayed on my course towards the net, banking on a rebound.

My rebound never came, however, and instead I got a front-row seat to her backhanding the puck past the goalie and into the net. 1-0 Team Teal, and a +1 rating for me. SUCCESS.

In the second period, my line continued to have trouble moving the puck, and we found ourselves hemmed in our zone again. The puck was near the top of the right faceoff circle, and, jostling for possession, I somehow fell down. Shocking that I fell, I know. The puck was right in front of me, so I poked at it to get it out of the zone. Mission accomplished, but as I went to stand up, I fell down again. On all fours, I struggled to get up. I probably could've used a milk crate right then.

Embarrassed, I looked to see if my Fan Club had noticed my Benny Hill moment. Fortunately, they were too busy Instagramming to notice my foibles. Crisis averted.

Later in the period, we lined up for a faceoff and I found myself next to an older guy.

"Hey man," he said, "those skates look kind of loose. Are they too big for you?"

Feeling like I was in Groundhog Day, I said "nah, they're OK. I just can never seem to get them tied right."

I've decided that having the wrong-sized skates will be a running theme throughout this hockey odyssey.

Off of that same faceoff, the puck went back to the point. I skated towards the man with the puck, again trying to block the shot. This time, however, it worked: I caught a slapshot right off of the side of my foot, just next to my ankle. Granted, none of these guys were Zdeno Chara or anything, but it still stung quite a bit.

However, seeing my dedication and selflessness, I think I noticed the Fan Club visibly swooning at the sight of my manliness.

A book my Fan Club wrote about me after my blocked shot.

Later in the second, with yours truly watching safely from the bench, the other team finally got on the board, batting a rebound passed our sprawled-out goalie. Teal Team 1, other guys 1.

The third period featured more of the same, pressure from the other team and occasional sojourns into the offensive zone by our side. My line continued to have trouble moving the puck, and at one point we took three straight faceoffs in our own end. Needless to say, our coach wasn't exactly singing our praises.

As time ticked down, the score remained tied at one, largely thanks to our goalie making a number of big stops. Late in the third, I was on the forecheck when I suddenly ended up with the puck at the attacking blue line. The nearest defenseman was by the right faceoff circle, a good three or four strides from me. After a step or two in, I was right in the slot, alone with the puck.

I saw the goalie crouch in anticipation of the shot, and was trying to decided where to go: up top, over the shoulder? Five hole? Down low to generate a rebound? Why am I so hungry? What am I gonna do this weekend?

As you can see, I thought a bit too much, and focused a bit too much on where to put the shot as opposed to um...actually taking the shot. Sensing that my time was running out, I flexed to shoot, only to look down and see the puck slowly dribble off of my blade and about a foot away from me.

Opportunity lost. Again, to show my displeasure, I bellowed an expletive. I wanted to make sure my teammates knew how angry I was that I didn't get a shot off, when in fact I still have no idea how the puck even rolled away. I'm convinced that the ice must have been slippery or something.

I skated one last shift after that, hoping for a chance to redeem myself and give my still Instagramming Fan Club something to cheer about, but nothing really developed. With about two minutes left, I skated to the bench to watch the rest of the contest.

As the final two minutes ticked away, one of our defensemen made a bad pinch. It was one of those pinches that you can see as disastrous from miles away, but there's nothing you can do about it. "Noooooooooooo......", and away the opposing skater went, alone on a breakaway from the red line in with less than a minute left.

I almost looked away, certain that we were about to suffer an ignominious defeat on a last-minute goal; however, I hung in there long enough to see our goalie stone the shooter, and our team hung on for the tie: 1-1 in our first-ever game. Not bad.

I dressed after the game, reliving my near-miss and contemplating how many sponsorship dollars I'd cost myself with that miscue.

As I walked towards the exit, I was welcomed with open arms by the Fan Club, as they sung my praises, admired my selflessness, and asked me for autographs.

And by all that, I mean that they were waiting for me out in the lobby, having left as soon as the final horn went.

I should've scored a goal. Girls love goals.

Week Six (Nov. 20)

We took to the ice for the sixth week of the clinic just two days before Thanksgiving. I was thankful for many hockey-related things, especially the fact that I hadn't yet crashed through my stopping system the boards. I'm kind of like the Pilgrims: I came to this strange, new hockey land a novice, inexperienced and green.

Six weeks later, I'm still that green novice, so maybe my version of Squanto never showed up.

Week Six saw a return to drills and skills, as this session served as a practice sandwiched between the previous week's scrimmage and next week's actual game.

After warming up a bit, we were told to make a few laps around the rink. On the whistle, we had to change direction and go the other way. I was feeling pretty good about myself, admiring my mastery of slowing down enough that I could drag my back foot to stop. Compromise!

Next up was some backwards skating, an area I'm better at than I thought. I'm still not a smooth skater by any stretch of the imagination, but "line up, backwards!" doesn't strike the same fear into my heart as "stop on the line!"

As I was making one of my trips (backwards) up the ice, one of the coaches (the one who coaches my blue team in the scrimmages) said "hey, you got new skates!"

Feeling like a wife who got her haircut, only to have no one notice, I replied, "yeah, three weeks ago. They were two sizes too big."

"Good, those ones look a lot better. But still too big," he said.

Seeing another trip down 128 to Play It Again Sports in my future, I just lied.

"Nah, they're OK, I just didn't tie them tightly enough," I said, patting myself on the back for my smooth answer. "I was rushing to get down here."

As I finished that sentence, I was reminded that I was, in fact, going backwards on ice, as I stumbled and did one of those log-roller arm flaps to keep my balance.

 

Me, trying to stay on my feet while skating backwards.

Perhaps sensing that multitasking was just a bit too advanced for me, my coach finished the exchange with, "good, they look like they're a lot better," and skated away. Thanks for noticing, coach.

We took a few more laps, including some with the puck, and I was feeling like a regular Gretzky (the hockey one, not the Instagram one): two drills in, no falls, no embarrassments. Is this it?

"Alright, line up on the end, we're going to be pushing and pulling."

Uh oh.

We had done this drill before (it looks something like this, but instead of a gray block, there's another human), where I skated with nice guy/teammate Bobby. He went easy on me, but was nowhere to be found this time. Instead, I got paired up with member of the yellow team who is somewhat unsteady on his skates, so I figured we could fail together.

I was instructed to push first, meaning he had to offer resistance while skating backwards. I didn't push too hard, because I didn't want to send this guy tumbling backwards. However, a few strides in, I was, ahem, "implored" by one of the coaches to go faster.

"You gotta move your legs, skate, SKATE, don't just glide!"

My manhood challenged, I took off like a rocket, dragging my partner along in my wake. By that, I mean that I went a little faster, we managed to stay standing, and reached the end successfully. No falls, no bruised egos.

Except now it was my turn to BE pushed, which isn't my strong suit. Yellow guy began skating, and I dug in as best as I could. Fortunately, he wasn't exactly a power skater, and I managed to stay standing up. Aside from one or two log roll flails (see above), I hung in there. Same for the pulling drills that followed, so I was doing alright.

Any good feelings I had about my skating quickly evaporated with the next drill: turning around. We had to skate to the blue line, turn around in-stride and skate backwards to the next blue line, then turn around again and skate forward to the end line.

You know how those action movies make spinning a car around at full speed look really easy? It was like that, only on skates. And a Lamborghini on skates, I am not.

First time: fall.
Second time: spin around a full-360 degrees, then just keep going.
Third time: go slow enough to actually turn around OK, only to then lose an edge and fall.

GREAT SUCCESS.

The ensuing drill was crossovers, the figure-8 type skating drill we had done before. It was during this drill that we saw the first injury of the clinic, as Yellow Guy partner went down hard while coming around a corner. You could hear the "thump" from halfway up the ice, and he stayed down for a bit. He ended up catching his wrist between the ice and his stick, jamming it a bit. He eventually skated off and took a breather, but came back later on.

For the crossover drills, the coaches wanted us to stay on the circles as best we could, not skate inside of them or too far outside. Then, just for fun, they had us do the crossover drills with a puck. So it wasn't enough to have us skate on a tightrope; no, we also had to carry a puck on the tightrope.

The final drill of the night was a 2-on-1, in which two forwards, using only one half of the ice, had to get by one of the brave, kind souls who had volunteered to learn to be defensemen. Bless them.

My first trip up the ice was pretty much an unmitigated disaster, as my partner passed me the puck, I passed it back, and he then sent a pass four feet ahead of me. Rush = over. The next time through I did better, carrying the puck for a bit until we got near the defenseman, then flipping a pass to my partner, who rushed by him. I kept going towards the net, just to finish the drill, but wasn't really skating, so it was a good thing my partner decided to shoot on his own.

With the session winding down, we were told to put the pucks in the net for a scrimmage: three on three, no goalies. Since we had no goalies, the nets were put face-down on the ice, and a "goal" could only be scored by hitting the netting on the top (the part where the goalie's water bottle rests); hitting the pipe around that netting wouldn't be good enough.

Three on three hockey is pretty fun, as there's really no defense: it's just attack and counterattack, and even more so when there are no goalies. On my line's first shift, we controlled the puck the entire time. I started off the shift by collecting a loose puck in our zone (both teams were ordered to change on the whistle) and passing it up ice to a teammate. Hey, I didn't turn it over this time!

He then took off, creating a 2-on-1, and rung a shot off the post. After some more pressure in their zone, I found a rebound in the slot. My eyes probably got as big as the moon, with visions of my first career goal filling my head. I took the shot:

Clank.

Right off the crossbar.

One of my teammates eventually corralled the puck and managed to score, so the shift wasn't a total loss; however, I headed back to the bench dejected. I must have been in a hurry, because I (along with one other teammate) went in the wrong door on the bench.

I realized this when it came time to take the next shift, and the three people at the end of our bench looked at us, waiting for us to go.

"No, no, we just came off," I said. The look of derision they shot us was worse than the looks a shopper gets when he brings 13 items to the "12 items or less" line. What we did, essentially, was similar to getting to the front of the line at a checkout counter, then step back and let the three people behind us go through first. Not the best system.

"Guys, let's try to keep the order on the bench, we don't wanna be gettin' mixed up," a blue teammate said.

Gee, I wonder who he was talking too?

My next shift saw me attack the puck carrier at our blue line, only to have him dump it in further. We were under siege, unable to fill the passing lanes due to only having three bodies on the ice. The yellow team got a few shots off, but both hit the side of the net. The puck came back to a defenseman, and I charged at him, hoping he'd either A) miss it or B) be so intimidated by me that he'd skate away and I'd have a breakaway.

I ended up lifting his stick and taking off with the puck, with the man on my tail. Like the previous scrimmage, I got to the attacking blue line, going full speed, before I realized it was time to start thinking about stopping. I didn't think I'd be able to backhand it in, so I threw a blind drop pass, hoping my teammate would be there.

He was, and he rung one off the post too. Later in the shift, that same teammate had a breakaway. I followed him up ice, creating what was essentially a 2-on-0. He hit the post again, and the puck bounced right to my stick.

From there, everything went in slow motion: the puck was on my stick. I was all alone, cruising in. I flexed the stick, and took the shot. As it flew through the air, I heard the "Chariots of Fire" music playing. It was headed towards that rectangle of netting...

Goal.

I threw my stick and gloves up in the air, and jumped into the boards, Ovechkin-style. Players from both benches streamed onto the ice to congratulate me, then carried me off the ice like Rudy...

...either that, or I was so excited and confused about actually scoring that I kind of just turned around and headed back up ice. "No big deal, I score all the time," is what my body language said, while inside I felt like this kid:

 

The scrimmaged finished up a short time later, and the only remarkable thing I did was get praised for my effort on the forecheck. Our blue squad ended up winning 4-0, meaning we still haven't lost a scrimmage.

After that, we were told to line up and do one set of Herbies. Using my new found roller blade-style stop, I managed to half-ass them just enough to look convincing.

I walked off the ice and up the stairs to get changed, looking for the goalscorers locker room. I heard it had couches and beer on tap and models to massage the skate pains away. Turns out such a place doesn't exist, and us goalscorers just dress with everyone else.

Weird.

Up next? An actual game, as my blue team will play a team from the D League.

This should be interesting.

Week Five (Nov. 13)

As we were told at the end of Week Four, Week Five would be our second full scrimmage of the "season": no drills, just a game. Unlike the first full-session scrimmage two weeks earlier, however, we would have two goalies, so there probably wouldn't be nine goals scored this time.

I got to the rink a little early, and sat down on a bench to watch the game that was wrapping up. After a few minutes, I walked over to the "locker room," which is actually just a little enclave with metal benches behind a cinder block wall, and found that it was full: a few members of my team were in there, but the rest of the room was filled with gear from the teams playing before us.

Rather than try to sandwich myself in between mountains of awful-smelling gear bags, and decided to just dress next to the rink. I sat down on a bench behind one of the nets to put my stuff on, and had on my skates, socks, shin pads, and pants, when I realized where I was:

The girls' "locker room."

At UMass, there really aren't locker rooms available, so the women who play in the clinic dress outside of the cinder block garrisons used by the men. ("Dress" is used loosely here, as most people show up with their under-gear already on; there's no nudity in getting dressed, that comes later.)

The blond girl next to me said, "So why are you dressing out here with the girls?"

"No room in there, so I just sat down," I said, slowly realizing that I was probably setting myself up for a ribbing at the hands of the other players.

Realizing that my manhood may be at stake, I dressed as quickly as I could, then went off to stand by the glass, stretch, mingle, etc. as the Zamboni left the ice. CRISIS AVERTED, I DIDN'T TURN INTO A GIRL!

However, as is the case whenever one rushes, things felt amiss: my skates weren't tight enough, my elbow pads felt like they were on backwards, my pants kept sliding down. I was filled with the feeling of "do I have everything?", and skated onto the ice wondering if I forgot to turn off the stove, or if I left my garage door open.

I took my twirls up and down the ice, and gathered a puck to stickhandle it and generally look busy. As I was coming down the ice with the puck, I noticed that the goalie wasn't really paying attention, as he was stretching, getting his angles right, and doing other weird stuff that only goalies understand.

So I had two choices: either keep the puck and just stickhandle, or shoot the puck and risk hitting the kid in the face or catching him off guard. When one considers that my wristshot could probably sink an aircraft carrier, it's clear why I was so torn.

A video demonstration of the damage my shot can do.

As I got closer, the goalie slid back into the crease and got down in the butterfly, meaning he was ready for the shot. I took it, didn't score (obviously) and then realized that the reason he wasn't paying attention is because he knew he could just sidle over there whenever and still stop it.

Ouch. That's something like walking into a final exam without even opening a book to study.

With my pride hurting, I headed to the bench. Our coach was, again, looking for volunteers on defense, so I did my best to inspect every square inch of my blade to make sure he knew how busy I was, like reading REALLY HARD in middle school so the teacher doesn't call on you.

Mission accomplished, as I was assigned to play wing on the second line, and the game began.

This game went a bit smoother than the first one, but my line couldn't put the puck in the net. We didn't allow a goal either, and our team's other line had scored twice to give us a 2-1 cushion.

My best chance to score came in the first period, as my team controlled the puck in the offensive zone. I was in one of the corners, and as the puck headed up the wall I went in front of the net (Mark Recchi again!). The puck carrier ended up heading around behind the net, and the puck was knocked off his stick and towards me. I reached out for it, and attempted to pull it to my backhand, where I could've slipped it past the goalie with a defender draped on my back, and celebrated accordingly.

Instead, the goalie reached as well, and while I got the puck past his glove, the knob of his stick hit mine enough to dislodge the puck, and it was swept away from the crease and out of danger.

My line started to put things together in the second period, and I tried to get myself on YouTube with some stellar playmaking. On one rush, I managed to corral the puck at my own blue line and bank it off the boards and out of the zone. Turning on the jets, I raced up ice to try to beat the defenseman to the puck, and could see a linemate all alone on the other side of the zone. "If I can get to the puck, it's an easy breakaway from the blueline in," I thought to myself.

However, the defenseman had a stride or two on me, and, when I realized I wasn't going to beat him to the puck, I reached into my bag of tricks and pulled out an NHL13 play: I dove for the puck.

I laid out, reached with my stick, and whacked the puck towards the middle of the ice, only to have the defenseman tip it with his blade and send it into the corner. FOILED!

I got up and got some praise from my teammates on the bench, giving me kudos for my hustle, when in reality I just forgot that this was real life and not a video game. Oops.

I was involved in another scoring chance later in the second, when I got the puck at the defensive blue line and made a little tap pass back to a linemate who had some good speed going. The defenseman closest to me clearly didn't expect this, because my teammate blew past him and he was left spinning like an old-school MBTA turnstile. I skated hard myself, seeking to turn a 1-on-1 into a 2-on-1, and it worked.

My teammate gave me the puck at the attacking blue line, and then headed for the net. As I gathered the puck and plotted my next move, it crossed my mind that I had skated as fast as I could and was rapidly running out of real estate. If I didn't stop skating, I was about four seconds away from being Luis Mendoza.

I switched from a stride to a glide, and centered the puck, hoping it'd find my teammate's stick in the slot. No such luck, as my pass made its way past the stick and through the legs of the defenseman, but was just out of my teammate's reach.

As I skated back to the bench, our coach had words for both of us.

"You BOTH stopped skating! You gotta keep skating, or the defenseman's just gonna play the puck! You," he said to my teammate, "stopped skating at the blue line! He made a great pass to where you would've been if you hadn't slowed down, you gotta keep going!"

Great pass? Good for me.

As the teams lined up for a faceoff later in the period, one of the referees stopped by our bench.

"Boy, you must have a lot of faith in these guys to be out here without a cage," he said to me, the only player in the clinic without a shield or a cage.

"No," I said. "I just figure I'm tall enough that their wild sticks won't reach me."

"Yeah, I never used to wear a shield," he replied as play started up again. "Then a couple weeks ago I almost caught a stick in the eye and changed my mind. I'm getting a visor next week."

Yikes. Might be time to head back to Pure Hockey...

We went into the third period up 2-1, and my line still hadn't scored. As we were preparing to take our shift with around 7 minutes left in the game, we got on the board as one of my linemates collected a pass from a defenseman, the other joined him on the rush, and he put a rebound past the goalie to make it 3-1.

Two-goal lead, late third...just don't screw up, right?

WRONG.

I was hanging out in the neutral zone, anticipating the puck being chipped out by the other team, and it was. I skated back to retrieve it, and heard my goalie yelling at me, something to the effect of "you got time, you got time," meaning there was no forechecker on my tail.

I gathered the puck and looked for my options: there were two opposing players along the wall, I didn't know who was behind me, and I saw one teammate at the top of the slot, by himself. I KNOW that you should never clear the puck in the middle of the zone, so what did I do?

Sent it to my teammate in the slot. STUPID. As you may be able to guess, the puck skittered off his stick directly to a member of the other team, who then took it in on goal and scored before I could recover. I felt like this guy:

I then slammed my stick on the ice and bellowed the appropriate expletives to show my teammates how sorry I was. I probably should've given the goalie a tap on the pads and said "my bad" or something, but instead I just stewed and looked upset so no one could accuse me of being not sorry.

We lined up for the ensuing faceoff, which was won by our team. I ended up with the puck, and dumped it into the zone, then chased after it. An opposing defender got it, but I put pressure on him, as I've learned that putting any pressure on anyone with the puck in this clinic will lead to a turnover 99 times out of a hundred. I got the puck back, and sent it back around the net to a teammate, who went back to the point.

I decided to make my way to the front of the net again (probably not the smartest place for me to go when I don't have a visor, but I guess I'm living dangerously), stumbling between a defender and the goalie, all while trying desperately to not knock the goalie over, when suddenly a heard a "clink" and some cheers.

We scored. My teammate fired the puck from the slot right past the screened goalie, who was probably wondering why this 6 ft. 4 inch guy in a teal jersey who looks like Bambi on ice was trying to skate in front of him. I wasn't credited with the goal, but it felt good to do the dirty work necessary to get the puck in the back of the net.

After the goal, our coach, with time winding down, told our center to play defense, leaving just a two man forecheck. We won the faceoff, and I dumped the puck in. I went in after it and ended up blocking a clearing attempt and sending it in further, just trying to kill off the last few seconds.

With around 6 seconds left, the opposing team started carrying the puck out of their zone. I was tired, so I half-heartedly skated after them, looking at the clock.

"5...4...3...2...1..." and the game ended without the other team getting a shot off. 4-2 victory for Team Teal, and my undefeated streak continues...

Week Four (Nov. 6)

Something big happened on November 6th: no not the Presidential election. That happens every four years. This was a once-in-a-lifetime moment: the one-month anniversary of my hockey-playing odyssey.

I got to the rink late due to (what else is new?) traffic on the Expressway, and had apparently missed my celebratory one-month cake and ice cream. Weird. Drills had already started, and one of the coaches, still getting ready himself, said "you're late."

"Yeah, traffic," I muttered, feeling like I was late for sixth-grade math class.

"You're gonna have to skate laps," he said as he headed out the door.

After a pause, he laughed and said, "nah, just kidding," which was good, because the only lap I would've made was back to the highway and home.

I tried to dress quickly, which isn't easy with hockey. As is the case when rushing, something was missing. In this case, the thing missing was correctly tied skates. They were tied, but not nearly tightly enough. I decided to wing it anyways, and headed down the stairs (weird, I know) to the ice.

The coaches had started us off with some more backwards-skating drills, and by the time I got down there they were already done. I drifted down to the other end of the ice, employing my best "late to class in college so I hide in the back" sneakiness, and made it down in time for 2-on-0 drills.

We paired off, and headed down the ice. I managed to end up being the shot-taker twice, and, of course, didn't score either time. Soon, however, I found myself on the wrong end of some odd numbers, and was paired with one of the coaches.

This is like being paired with your teacher for an in-class assignment, in that you're not going to have any excuse for doing it wrong, and that everyone else is watching you. To my own surprise, I held my own, and my coach, being the generous man that he is, deferred the shot to me. That means I got to get stoned by the goalie in front of the whole clinic, so that's nice.

After the 2-on-0's, we started a skating drill we'd never done before. We were told to pair off, and I ended up with a kid named Bobby who is around my age and had actually skated on my line a few times during the scrimmage. He's a nice kid, more advanced than most of us, so maybe he wasn't the best partner for a drill where we had to skate backwards while towing our partner, and skate forwards while pushing him (and while he made every effort to make the pushing harder).

The drill resembled a football drill using tackling dummies, and I actually did OK pushing him down. He gave me words of encouragement and some tips, and I told him I'd do my best to not get in his way when we switched roles.

Yeah, that didn't work out.

I ended up looking like an old man trying to stop a car from pulling out of a space: both hands on the hood, pretty much holding on for dear life, knowing I'm going to get steam-rolled.

Bobby, to his infinite credit, eased up a bit, and told me how to better position my skates. What a saint. Mercifully, the drill ended soon after. I was one more run away from looking like the bad guy at the end of Roger Rabbit.

Next up was a stickhandling drill, in which we had to backhand the puck around some cones, skate in on the goalie, and shoot. Fun stuff. After a couple of twirls up and down, I still hadn't scored. Thinking myself a regular sniper, I was shooting my laser-beam squirt gun wrister from the hashmarks; when my coach saw this, he was indignant, and insisted that I shoot from the slot, closer to the net. I think it's because that way I can hear the goalie laughing when he saves it. Post here, pad there...still without a goal.

The last drill of the day was something like "the weave" of basketball practice fame: three players lined up, one with the puck. The player with the puck passed it to someone, then skated to the spot he passed it. The one who received the puck was supposed to adjust his/her positioning accordingly, pass it to the next person, and so on.

The coaches asked for volunteers who knew how to do the drill. Predictably, the first time one of the volunteers made a pass, two skaters crashed into each other like something out of America's Funniest Videos. Eventually, however, they got the hang of it, and the rest of us fell into line.

A VERY technical and scientific illustration of the drill I'm talking about.

After a few runs, the coaches broke us up into teams and we got to scrimmage, with a twist: one-minute shifts only. The coaches blew the whistle every 60 seconds, and we had to shuffle on and off the ice as directed. (One would think that this would make it easier, but truthfully it just made everyone more winded: short shifts also equaled short respites on the bench.)

I was skating at forward again, and had a few decent opportunities. My best chance was one that never really materialized: I followed one of the more hot-doggish players in the clinic up the ice, and that player went into the corner carrying the puck. The opposing defenseman followed, and I posted up at the top of the crease, doing my best Mark Recchi: stick on the ice, hairline slowly receding. I called for the puck, wide open, ready to bang it home...but the player kept skating, going around the net, into the other corner, and flipping a weak, bad-angle shot that the goalie easily turned aside. 

Needless to say, I wasn't happy, feeling that my glory had been stolen from me by a puck-hog. THE NERVE!

A few shifts later, my team made a bad change, and we got caught going the wrong way. I tried my best to backcheck, but couldn't help but remember that I can't stop, so maybe going full-steam towards my own goalie isn't the best idea after all. I had a front row seat to watch my goalie make a save, only to have a member of the opposition bang the puck into the vacant net. My first minus. :(((((((((((((((((((((((((

The scrimmage was short, and ended as a 2-1 win for my team. That's two wins for team blue/teal/whatever now. I could get used to that. We're supposed to have a full scrimmage next session, and then play another rookie team after that. 

Playing against a real team? Now that's going to be a real three-ring circus.

Week Three (Oct. 30)

Most of the scares and screams may have been saved for Halloween, but there was an extremely scary sight at UMass-Boston the night before the big holiday: me playing in an actual hockey game.

That's right: after just two weeks of practicing, the coaches decided to throw us out there and let us scrimmage, despite the fact that many of us still look like Bambi out there. But sure, why not throw a puck on the ice and tell us all to go get it?!

We were split up into teams based on our jersey color, meaning it was Team Teal pitted against Team Gold. However, due to disparities in both the number of players per color and the talent of said players, some people were asked to change sides. Surprisingly enough, I was kept on the Teal squad. Guess they needed the extra talent...

Our coach was late getting there, so we were left to organize ourselves. As I sat on the bench, the team gathered around and someone asked, "who wants to play defense?"

*Crickets*

I thought about volunteering, since I'm tall and assume that, since he's also tall, I'd be good at defense like Zdeno Chara. Then I remembered that defense requires a lot of skating backwards. Nah, better keep that hand down.

We got our four volunteers, and were good to go: we had those four brave souls on the blueline, and eight forwards, so someone would always skate an extra shift. We had actual NESHL referees, who must have been confused when they showed up expecting to ref a hockey game and got to run a comedy show instead.

Us forwards talked amongst ourselves on the bench, deciding who would play where.

"Anyone wanna be center?" (I said nothing.)

"Who wants what wing?" (I said nothing.)

Finally, I said, "I'll play on whatever side, doesn't matter to me. I'm still trying to stop."

My teal linemate laughed, and said, "hey man, we all are. No worries."

Clearly Team Teal should instead be called Team Understanding, or Team Empathy.

There were supposed to be two goalies, but one didn't show up. He probably figured that an empty net in a beginner clinic game would be about as effective as having a goalie, in that no one was going to hit the net anyways. However, a guy from the Gold team volunteered to play goalie in his standard equipment. Clearly he wasn't concerned about anyone hurting him with a ferocious slapshot.

I wasn't starting, and instead sat on the bench nervously awaiting my shift. The feeling was something like sitting in class in high school when you're due to present to the class next, a mixture of "do I know what I'm doing?" and "I hope they don't laugh at me."

After about two minutes, my teammates came back to the bench, and my first shift began. Time to go.

SHIFT ONE: I hopped over the boards and felt like I'd wandered onto the set of The Patriot: things flying around, people yelling...chaos. The only thing missing was Mel Gibson and his tomahawk. I had been assigned to play right wing, and floated around the neutral zone while my team fought for possession.

After a few seconds, the puck squirted free to a defenseman opposite me, and he fired the puck across the ice to a wide-open yours truly. I gathered it, took a few strides, and flipped it into the attacking zone, where another teammate retrieved it. SUCCESS. Our line applied a little pressure, and eventually got a whistle. I glided back to the bench feeling pretty good about myself.

SHIFT TWO: This time, we changed at a whistle. I glided out to line up for the faceoff in our zone, and our team won it. I drifted off to the right wing boards, and my defenseman went around the net and slid the puck to me. I, in turn, chipped it out of the zone, and we were off. After a bit of a scrum in the left wing corner of our attacking zone, the puck came free in the slot. I went after it, head down, focused on the puck, thinking "if I can corral this thing, I'll have a good scoring chance."

Next thing I knew, I was looking at the ceiling. A defenseman from the other team (like me, also unable to stop) was going for the puck as well. He, like me, was probably focused on the puck, and he walloped me right in the head. I'm not sure if his shoulder or bicep or elbow or pick-up truck hit me, but before I knew it, I was on my back. This being hockey, I immediately remembered what state I was in, rolled over to my knees, and got up. As I got up, the Leveler offered a heartfelt "sorry, man. My bad!" Our shift ended shortly thereafter, and I sat on the bench feeling like I had one or two or 12 too many Bud Lights the night before. Ouch. Bell = rung.

SHIFT THREE: Shaking off the cobwebs, I headed back out for my next shift. At this point, Coach Okie had arrived. He asked my trio who the fastest skater was, and no one really answered. Finally, one linemate reluctantly raised his hand, to which Okie said, "you're the center." It figures that our worst shift would come as our coach got there, but we were buried in our zone. I drifted in and out of passing lanes, trying to discourage shots, but the Gold team got a few off. We managed to clear the puck a few times, but they kept coming back. Luckily, our team had the goalie, and he shut the door. We trudged off the ice with bruised and battered egos, but nothing on the scoreboard.

SHIFT FOUR: We again changed on the fly, this time at Okie's orders (he kept the shifts shorter. We didn't have as many gym class heroes skating six-minute shifts once he arrived). As I skated out there, the Gold team had cleared their zone, so I went to retrieve the puck in our end. I had a forechecker on me, and briefly looked over my shoulder to see that I had a teammate behind me. I drew the forechecker in and backhanded the puck off the boards backwards to my teammate, a move I'd made SO MANY TIMES in the NHL video game series. (See? They're a learning tool, ma!)

The puck soon ended up back in our zone, but this time I was at the red line. Seeing my defenseman going back alone to get it and with no one near me, I hung out by the red line and looked for an outlet. I got one, and soon found myself carrying the puck in a 2-on-1. I drew the defenseman towards me, and tried to sneak a pass under his stick to my teammate. Fail. My first assist would have to wait.

SHIFT FIVE: The puck was in our defensive end as I skated on to the ice, and I positioned myself along the wing to make myself available to the defensemen. One of our d-men spotted me, and sent the puck my way. The Gold team's defenseman decided to pinch down and harass me, so I (without even thinking) backhanded the puck off the boards around him, where it found the stick of my linemate, in stride. I must have done something right, because Okie yelled "GREAT PLAY, GREAT PLAY!" from the bench. To say that I was beaming would be an understatement.

I hustled back up the ice to try to turn the 2-on-1 into a 3-on-1, and ended up finding the puck on my stick in the right faceoff circle. I fired it on goal, and hit the outside of the post (about a half-inch off the ice...LASER BEAM!). Our line kept up the pressure, and thinking myself the next Mark Recchi, I camped out in front of the net. A forward managed to corral the puck and lose his man, and flipped it to me at the top of the crease. It was in the air, but it was there for me: my first goal, sporting glory, chants from the adoring empty seats fans...but I missed. The puck glanced off of my stick and went wide, and my shift ended shortly after. Foiled again!

SHIFT SEVEN: By this time, by legs were getting heavy. And wouldn't you know it, right at the beginning of my shift, I found myself trailing a 2-on-1. I skated hard to try to get back and discourage or disrupt the pass, but it ended up sneaking through. Luckily, our goalie stood tall, and I avoided having a "minus" on the scoresheet.

Later in this shift, I correctly guessed that a puck would get chipped past a Gold defenseman, and found myself alone at the redline. I was skating up, anticipating my Teal pal to keep carrying the puck, but instead it came at me. I reached out to corral the puck with my stick, visions of my first career breakaway and subsequent YouTube fame filling my head, and while doing this I looked up to make sure no one was in front of me. Bad move. The puck got in too tight, and I couldn't corral it with my stick. I ended up slowing down and forgoing the breakaway to instead dump the puck in. When I got back to the bench, Okie had a lesson for me.

"You had that breakaway," he said. "But you don't just have your stick out there. Remember that. Use your feet. When the puck is in tight like that, kick it forward and you don't have to break your stride."

I was nodding like a bobblehead the whole time, still mad at myself for missing the opportunity. I guess the endorsement deals will have to wait.

SHIFT EIGHT: Our team was comfortably ahead at this point, something like 6-3. It was another standard shift, with back-and-forth play and some good pressure applied by our line. Eventually, the puck worked its way in front of the net, and one of my linemates batted it in. PLUS-ONE! PLUS-ONE! PLUS-ONE! I offered my teammate a celebratory glove-bump to thank him for getting me on the scoresheet.

LAST SHIFT: By the time we got back on the ice, the game was essentially over. Our shift lasted maybe 50 seconds, and then the final buzzer sounded. Teal 8, Gold 3. VICTORY!

In the locker room after the game, I coincidentally found myself seated next to the Leveler. He introduced himself (I don't remember his name...oh God, the post-concussion symptoms are here already!) and offered another apology, saying "sorry man, I didn't mean to get you there. I was trying to get the puck, I can't stop."

"Don't worry about it, man," I said, while thinking about what tie I'd wear to my concussion-caused retirement press conference. "I can't stop either. In fact, you hitting me probably helped me stop successfully."

The guy on my right said, "oh, that was you that got hit?" I nodded yes, and he offered "that was a pretty good collision. But you got right up."

I didn't score, didn't get an assist, and wasn't named the game's first star (I think the refs should've gotten it for putting up with that gong show), but I'd taken a lick and gotten up.

Better than nothing.

Week Two (Oct. 23)

At the end of last week's session, we were told that our second session would be in Canton, not at UMass-Boston. For selfish reasons, I internally decried this move as being horrendously unfair and borderline torturous, as UMass-Boston is on my way home from work and is a mere ten-minute drive from my house. My life is hard.

All week, I waited to hear from the clinic people with directions to the new place. None came. Finally, at 4 PM on Tuesday, I decided that no directions were coming. After some frustrating dead ends on the league's website, I managed to find my team and the new location, the Canton SportsPlex. Canton isn't really that far from me, but getting down the Expressway to Rt. 24 is a crap shoot no matter what time of night it is.

Lo and behold, I got to around Columbia Road/Gallivan Boulevard (the exit I SHOULD have been getting off at...no, I'm not bitter) before I hit traffic. That traffic lasted until around Pope John Paul II park, meaning a stretch that should have taken three minutes took over 15. Great.

I think this is India, but it may as well be the Expressway.

Behind schedule, I pulled off 24 in Stoughton/Canton at the exit before BJ's. I'd been to that BJ's plenty of times with my parents, but this time I was solo: instead of shopping for wholesale groceries, I was heading for wholesale hockey fun. (Fun, in this case, is being used as an acronym for "Falling Until Numb.")

Being from the city, I get uneasy when I don't see streetlights. Thankfully, the road to the SportsPlex is a narrow, winding, two-lane road devoid of any kind of late or signs of humanity. I felt like I was part of some B-grade horror movie, driving to my untimely doom in the middle of suburbia.

Considering my skating skills, I guess that comparison isn't entirely inaccurate.

I pulled up to the rink, running a bit late, and found my way inside. I was rushing to get dressed, and could hear them starting the clinic without me. Because I was rushing, I spent the rest of the session feeling like I was missing something. More than once, I looked down to make sure I was, in fact, wearing my hockey pants. Phew.

There were a few other guys getting dressed in the locker room, so I wasn't the only late one. As an older guy was leaving to head to the ice, he said, "I don't know if you heard the coaches, but they said to not leave your valuables up here."

Don't leave your wallets here? In Canton? They hadn't given us this warning at UMass, which is in the hellacious warzone known as Dorchester. Weird.

Rather than lug my bag down to the side of the rink, I, being such a daredevil, left my stuff there. Have fun stealing my tiny-limit credit card, thieves of Canton.

As I hobbled down the flight of stairs to the rink (stupid design, architects), new skates clacking away, I came to the door of the rink. The coaches had already started a drill, having the players skate backwards around the perimeter of the rink, with the puck. Some of us are great at this, some are OK, and some are downright bad. I'm actually a lot better at skating backwards than I thought I'd be, so I was ready for this drill.

The only problem? It had already started, so the perimeter of the rink was crowded with backwards-skating hockey players focused more on the puck at their feet than anyone behind them. It's kind of like watching someone back out of their driveway with a large object in the backseat, blocking the rearview mirror. It has an element of, "welp, I'm coming out, so you better move" to it.

Trying to join this drill was similar to merging onto the highway, which is pretty much a professional sport in Massachusetts. I stood and waited...waited...waited for an opening, then BAM- jumped right in. No fender benders, no rear-ending: I'd merged successfully.

The drill went OK, with my skating backwards slightly less coach bus-esque than the week before. Feeling good about myself, the coaches ordered us into the next drill: 2-on-0's.

This week, the coaches added a little twist: if you missed the net on the drill, you had to do ten pushups. The first trip down, I was on the shooting side. Myself and my partner did pretty well, making crisp passes, and it was my time to shoot. Channeling my inner Steven Stamkos, I prepared to unleash a wicked wrister into the top corner- oh God, it's going wide, no, no. Thankfully, the goalie reached out and blocked it. I've never been so happy to have a shot NOT go in the net. Pushups averted.

The next few times down were similarly uneventful, with my blazing (read: feeble) wrist shots getting turned aside regularly. At some point in the drill, the coaches ordered us to speed up without the puck so we wouldn't get left behind. After hearing this, I heeded their words, dug in, and was moving pretty well. I got to about the attacking blue line before I remembered a horrifying fact:

I still can't stop.

Thankfully, I've never been in a car when its breaks failed, but I imagine the horror is somewhat similar, albeit on a smaller and far less dangerous scale: you know you need to stop, and stop soon, but you simply can't do it.

During the first few rushes, I'd simply slow down and then turn back up the boards, heading back up ice without needing to stop. However, this time I had a real head of steam and was in the inside lane (there were two sets of two lines, meaning each 2-on-0 occurred on half of the ice) and had my partner in front of me.

Uh oh. Impact imminent. I tried dragging my back skate, tried doing the "snow plow" stop I'd seen on YouTube (yes, I did some research), both to no avail. Finally, I turned a little, which managed to slow me down a bit, but still hit the boards with a decent amount of force. I didn't fall down, but there was some damage:

R.I.P. damage-free gloves, Oct. 23, 2012

Yup. I crashed so hard into the boards that the finger of my glove got wedged between the glass and one of the metal stanchions. My first "injury."

The coaches ended the drill shortly after, and, as if sensing my vulnerability, moved on:

"Alright, everyone to the endline, five lines," one hollered. "We're gonna do some stopping."

Uh...no we're not, coach.

It was the same drill as last week: skate up the ice until you hear the whistle, then stop, facing the right side of the rink. You got in two or three stops, depending on how long the coach waited to blow the whistle.

Or, if you're me, you got in two or three pirouettes and a couple of graceful trips to your knees.

After the third attempt, one of the coaches pulled me aside (second week in a row, woo!).

"You're using your back foot too much," he said. "You gotta use that front foot, all the weight on your front foot. Lift the back foot if you have to."

I nodded in agreement with everything he was saying. I watched a few more groups head up the ice, then joined in for one last go.

Three stops, in order: skid. Spin. Fall.

The "Dan learns to play hockey" hat trick!

I'm going to hear "right up, right up!" in my sleep for a while now. But, to my credit (pats self on back), I did get "right up" every time, covered in enough ice shavings to make a couple dozen snow cones.

Mercifully, the drill ended shortly thereafter. The coaches gathered everyone at one end and said, "good, good, you're all making progress. Now everyone knows how to stop, OK? So we don't want to see people bumping into people, or hitting the goalie, or hitting the boards."

I assume I was being excluded from that "everyone" group. Either that, or the coach is a liar.

We ended the clinic with crossover drills, which sounded bad at first. However, to my surprise I skated through them pretty well. The drill involves skating in figure-8's around both faceoff circles, the center circle, and then both circles at the other end.

An MSPaint explanation of the crossover drill, complete with bonus smiley face.

The point is to work on crossing your feet over as you take strides. The coaches told us to keep the strides short, to not lift our legs too much, and to make sure we bend our knees.

I actually wasn't bad at this. I mean, I'm no Tyler Seguin on my skates, but I can move pretty well. It's the stopping that's the problem.

After four different sets of crossovers (two trips up and down the ice), the coaches called us together to end the night. The coaches offered some words of encouragement, and then asked people to raise a hand if they wanted to play a game next week.

I kept my hand down, thinking he meant a game against another team, something I know I'm probably not ready for (turns out he meant a split-squad scrimmage, where we'd play each other). However, majority rules, and most people voted for a game.

That's right: next week I should be playing in an actual game, inability to stop and all.

Get the popcorn ready.

Skid. Spin. Fall. Repeat.

Buying Equipment

After weeks (literally) of both internal and external deliberations, I decided to sign up for the hockey clinic the Friday before it started. Seeing as I work every day but Saturday, that gave me one day to get all of the equipment I needed.

I knew two places where I could get equipment: Pure Hockey in Braintree and Play It Again Sports, whose nearest location is in Dedham. I'd been to Pure Hockey before with my cousin to buy him new sticks, usually as birthday gifts. That place is to hockey people what Micro Center is to nerds. The only thing at Pure Hockey higher than the average player's excitement level upon entering is their prices.

I had a rough idea of what I needed to buy, but knew that if I went it alone, I'd get suckered into buying the newest and most expensive...everything. I'd be that guy, that plug who showed up with all of the newest gear but couldn't stand on his skates. No one likes that guy.

So what did I do? Called in an expert: my 14-year-old cousin.

He's been playing hockey for years now, and I'd mentioned the idea of learning to play to him before. His response was similar to that of an underachieving child telling his parents he's going to be a brain surgeon: stifling laughter on the inside masked by a thin layer of "oh...that's great" support.

Conor was kind enough to come with me (and didn't even want me to buy him lunch or anything...what a guy), and we headed first to Play It Again in Dedham. My poor debit card must have felt like it was being marched to the executioner, as I knew the only dents bigger than the ones I was about to put in my wallet were the various dents I'd leave in the boards every time I crashed into them.

Play It Again is a used sports store, and that's the first thing I noticed: it smelled like everything had been used very, very recently. Conor led the way, and we got started.

"Do you need any help finding something?" asked a clerk, as I looked at a pair of elbow pads like they contained some kind of alien language.

"No, I'm good," I lied, not wanting this salesperson to saddle me with expensive gear. I asked Conor if what I had in my hand were decent elbow pads, and, surprisingly, he said they were. Score one for me.

The rest of the shopping experience went like this: Conor would show me the senior section of some piece of equipment I needed, he'd show me an example, and I'd then sift through the racks of gear looking for the cheapest possible option. For every single item.

How bad was it? I bought hockey pants that were made by someone named Tackla. I've watched hockey all my life and know all of the brands, and I'd never heard of this company. They sound like they spent most of their time making either nails or office supplies, and decided last-minute to make hockey pants instead.

Apparently they're a Finnish company...

I knew I needed a certain kind of protection specifically for men too, but had been wary of buying such an item at a used goods store. I'm cheap, but I'm not that cheap.

Luckily, my more experienced sidekick showed me the way, and I ended up a pair of the most obnoxiously orange shorts I could find that took care of everything I needed.

Conor found me a bag that was only $15 (smart kid), and we headed to the register. I had gotten almost everything: shoulder pads, shin pads, elbow pads, a jock, socks, and a bag to put it all in.

How much of a "this is so much money" daze was I in? I gave the poor sales guy the bag last. After he'd already bagged the rest of the gear.

Oops.

We then headed to Pure Hockey to finish off the shopping, looking for a stick, gloves, mouthguard, and helmet.

Full disclosure: I've got a big head. I've always had a big head. In fact, I think my head has been the same size since I was about eight years old. I kind of looked like Chicken Little as a kid. Conor and I were browsing the helmets, and I found one that suited me (it was the cheapest!) I tried on the large, and Conor burst into laughter. It didn't fit.

Tried on the XL. It was incredibly snug. At this point, I was resigned to the fact that I'd probably have to ask one of the staff members if they had a spare trash barrel they could attach a strap to and sell me, but Conor pointed out that the helmet is adjustable, and slides to fit the biggest of domes. Phew.

The gloves were next, an easy selection: Pure Hockey actually has a decent selection of discounted gloves. I snagged a pair of black Bauers that didn't scream "I'M CHEAP!"

Finally, it was time for my weapon: a stick. I browsed the wooden ones first, upon which Conor reached for a stick and immediately got a splinter. "That's why you stay away from wooden sticks," he said.

Point taken.

As we browsed the rest of the sticks, some of which cost almost as much as I make in a week, I was reminded of a startling fact: I'm tall.

Conor told me, in his infinite wisdom, that the stick should go up to your nose (ideally). I couldn't find a stick that went past my chin. Unaware that I'd stumbled into Pure Hockey for Midgets, I started looking less at color and price and more at length. Finally, we stumbled upon an entire aisle of sticks for giants, and I found a decent looking Sher-wood composite twig that Conor approved of (after making sure I got one with a good curve).

After we browsed the discount mouthguards (two bucks! Can't go wrong!), I grabbed a decent one and we got out of there. It had taken about two hours, cost me more money than I'd like to admit, and made me wonder why I was such a tall, big-headed freak, but we got what I needed.

For those considering picking up hockey: make sure you bring an expert with you.

My Jersey

Just call me the Baby Blue Bergeron...

If you imagined me looking like a 6'5" skating piece of cotton candy, I hope you're proud of yourself.

Week One (Oct. 16)

I headed to UMass Boston for the first week of the clinic last night, going right from work. I had all my gear, a big dent in my bank account, and was good to go.

I learned to skate at UMass and at the Devine Rink in Dorchester, but I hadn't actually been to UMass' rink in probably ten years. Not surprisingly, it looked the exact same as I remembered. There was a men's/beer league game going on when I got there, featuring a team with baby blue jerseys sporting a black Calgary Flames "C" on the front and the word "Clams" in the C's opening.

Welcome to Boston hockey leagues.

I went to check in with the guy running the league, and was told to grab a jersey. I picked one out of the pile (baby blue was the only color left), and realized I was off to a good start: I'd randomly picked the number of my favorite NHLer, Patrice Bergeron (#37).

I was told to dress in what apparently passes for locker rooms at UMass: cinderblock walls at each end of the rink, lined with metal benches. State funding!

Looking around the room, there were four or five other guys getting ready. No one was really talking, and each person had at least 15 years on me. Shortly after I sat down, the Clams filed in. It got crowded quickly, and the Clams discussed their 8-1 defeat.

"Well that f'ing sucked, boys. We couldn't even get out of our zone."

"Man, those guys tried really hard. That's probably why we lost. Wait, that makes us sound really shitty..."

"You see that guy out there that thought he was Ovechkin? He needs to tone it down."

I'm dressing amongst this chatter, when the Clam across from me sees me laughing and says, "We're proud of ourselves, can you tell? Does your team talk like this?"

"I've never played before, man," was my reply. "This is my first time."

"First time? Good luck, man," offered the Clam to my left. From across the room came my first chirp, as some guy said "the first thing you need to do is get rid of that helmet."

I had no idea what he was talking about, and was also pissed that a helmet that cost me about 7 hours' pay was getting me chirped. Chirp the crappy used pants I bought, Clam, but leave the helmet out of this. I was a mixture of confused and irritated, thinking "there's no way I'm going to let some guy in a baby blue 'Clams' jersey give me shit about equipment," when he said he was just kidding, and wished me good luck.

Players in gold and baby blue jerseys began to file onto the ice, and I joined them, beginning my journey towards hockey superstardom with a few tentative strides onto the freshly cleaned ice. I got into my stride pretty quickly, and felt pretty good being out there in full gear for the first time. As I took my twirls around the rink, I looked up into the stands to see all of the adoring puck bunnies who came to watch us.

Kidding.

They dumped a bucket of pucks onto the ice, and players scooped them up as they passed by. I didn't dare take one, knowing I'd either drill someone in the face with a wrist shot that went WELL WIDE (to paraphrase Jack Edwards) or would trip over it and break my ankle.

We were called together by the two coaches, Brian and Joe. There are apparently two clinics going on at once: one for beginners, and one for more advanced players. I was under the impression that they'd split us up, but nope.

We were told to head to the ends of the rink (all of us) to do some skating. My first thought was "they're putting us all together? Uh oh..." The coaches had us do some end-to-end skating, showing us how to properly move our arms forward and back, not side to side.

"I can handle this," I thought. My solution to the not stopping problem? Start slowing down at the opposite blue line. Piece of cake.

I was feeling like a regular Marian Gaborik at this point, flying up the ice. "Alright, line up again. We're going backwards."

The feeling I got was something similar to getting called on by the teacher when you're not paying attention. A mixture of impending doom and embarrassment overtook me, but I gave it a shot. I didn't fall the first few times, and managed to get going at a decent pace. By a decent pace, I mean at a pace similar to that of a coach bus backing up. I was really moving.

At this point, one of the coaches came up to me and asked me when I got my skates.
"About a year ago," I lied.

He said "they're too loose. What size are they?"

"11," I replied, realizing I was probably about to be told to spend more money.

"Is that your shoe size?" he said. After I told him it was, he said "you need knew skates. Your skate size should be a size and a half smaller than your shoe. It's gotta be snug, tight, you shouldn't be able to bend like that. It's throwing your balance off. So take those to Play It Again or something, and get some smaller ones."

Cha-ching, more money out of my pocket.

The drills continued: skating forward with the puck, skating backwards with the puck, and then, my worst nightmare: stopping.

I couldn't stop to save my life. We were told to stop at the lines. If there had been a cliff between the blue and red line, I probably would've been going fast enough to clear the gap and land safely on the other side. I kept trying, kept falling, kept getting up sheepishly, and kept using the end boards to break my speed. Level of success: non-existent.

How bad was I at stopping? Myself and four other people were pulled aside for extra homework, getting further instruction from a coach on how to stop while the rest of the group took a lap or two. The coach said it's about being committed: you can't stop if you're going to do it half-ass. Once I trust myself and get tighter skates, I should be alright. I'll probably fall a couple thousand more times, but hey, it's a learning process.

We did some 2-on-0 passing drills (I got an assist when my partner scored...Art Ross, here I come!), and then were told to line up on the goal line: it was time for Herbies.

After two sets of Herbies (which I skimmed on big time), that was it for the first session.

I hadn't scored and hadn't learned to stop, but I also had managed to skate backwards a bit, made some decent passes, and hadn't thrown my stick at the boards in anger.

Hey, it's something.