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.
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| Apparently they're a Finnish company... |
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.
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