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.
hHAHAHHAHHAHAHA YOUR LIFE lemme see your jersey
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