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
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.
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