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.

The clinic starts tonight...

I was going to write a longer post about this, but work got a little chaotic with that earthquake that just shook the Boston area. An earthquake in Boston the night I start playing hockey...is that a sign?

Anyways, the clinic begins tonight. This will be the first time I've ever taken to the ice in full equipment. It should be interesting. I'll update the blog tomorrow.

Welcome

Thanks for checking out this blog. Whether you’re a Twitter pal, a family member, or a friend, I’m glad you have the morbid curiosity required to see what I put myself through in an attempt to become a hockey player. Kind of like a train wreck, huh? You just can’t look away.

For more information on what this whole project is, check out the “About” page.