I dressed in time to take some warm-up spins, and the first thing I did was try my half-stop from the week before again to make sure it wasn't a fluke. Lo and behold, to my amazement it worked again. I mean, I still couldn't really STOP stop, but it was kind of like skidding in a car on ice, in that it slows me down enough so that when I eventually come to a stop, it isn't as catastrophic.
Hey, who snuck a video camera into practice?
As if sensing my new-found confidence in my half-stop, the coaches lined us up to start practice and decided to really mess with me.
"Alright," one said. "We're gonna start off with 10 minutes or so of skatin' drills, then we're gonna get into passing. You guys need a lot of work on passing."
"Uh oh," I thought to myself. "This is going to get ugly."
And it got ugly indeed, as every drill we did was one that, well, I wasn't very good at: skate to the blue line, stop, come back, other blue line, stop, come back. FAIL. The first time, I told myself I'd try the half-stop, until my coach bellowed "FACE THE OTHER WAY!!!!!" at a kid who had stopped with his right foot.
Fearing that I'd be tossed out of the rink for such insolence, I did my drag-stop sheepishly and headed back.
I'm not sure if it was directed solely at me, but after everyone had gone once, my coach had this to say:
"Some of ya's are still dragging that back foot, that's not gonna work. It's a quick motion, just stop. Quick turn, and then stop!"
I felt like telling him that I find that simple turn and stop about as easy as he probably finds reformatting a hard drive, but I decided I'd avoid getting into a generational argument and give it a try.
Surprisingly enough (and by that, I mean "not at all"), it didn't work, I did some spins, and skated back. But hey, I tried. Mercifully, that drill ended shortly thereafter.
Unmercifully, the next drill was the dreaded "turn and skate backwards in stride" drill, one of my arch enemies. We went up and back four times each, for a total of eight runs. I'd say I nearly fell on six of them, stumbled badly on one, and slowed down enough to make a sort of three-point turn on skates on the eighth. Our coaches implored us to not slow down too much, as that makes it harder, and to commit to the turn and stay light on our feet. ALL WHILE ON SKATES.
Hey, at least I didn't pull a Wides.
The next few drills were a return to similar drills at past practices: 2-on-0s, 2-on-1's, etc. We had a goalie this time, which made the drills more fun, but there are still very few people who can successfully skate, pass, and keep up with their teammate on a 2-on-1, making the drill a sort of gongshow for most of us.
Towards the end of practice, our coaches lined us up according to our color (Teal was underrepresented, for whatever reason, so we got some gold refugees) for some kind of race; I didn't hear what it was called, but most of the other players knew.
Players lined up on opposite posts with their skates behind the goal line, and a coach shot a puck out towards the red line; the players had to skate after it, and whichever team/color got a shot off earned one point. Whichever team lost would have to skate a set of Herbies, and if you got caught cheating or had a false start, you had to do push-ups.
It was pretty fun, as everyone got into it, cheering each other on to go faster, "skate skate skate," etc. I was fourth on our team, and we went 2-1 before me. As I lined up, I looked over at my opponent to find none other than the girl I accidentally buried in the scrimmage the week before. She's quickly becoming my main adversary, it seems. I was focused on getting off to a good start, keeping a good stride, etc. when I felt a tug on my jersey.
"Make sure you don't cheat," a teammate said to me, pulling my toes back behind the line. I felt like a kid on a leash, embarrassed that I needed adult supervision to follow the rules.
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| "Don't cheat now, pal!" |
We ended the practice with a scrimmage, and with only one goalie, we ended up being the ones to shoot on the backwards-facing net again. I thought it'd make more sense to switch halfway through, but the coaches said we'd get to shoot on the goalie next time instead (though I doubt they'll remember).
The scrimmage was a pretty lively affair, as we jumped out to a 2-0 lead, only to see the Gold Team come back with two goals of their own to tie it up. Towards the end, we left the ice and were told that these were the last two shifts.
As the line before us finished up and headed to the locker room, everyone was gassed; the coaches declared "next goal wins," probably as a way to avoid an inevitable heart attack or destroyed groin.
This session already hadn't been so great for me, so ending the game would've been a nice finish. However, as if to tell me "this isn't your week, kid," the hockey gods didn't oblige.
Three times on that last shift I found myself in a good shooting position in the slot. Three times I let a shot go, off the boards and headed towards the net.
All three times it hit the near post and stayed out.
Mercifully, the coaches ended the scrimmage as a tie, leaving us, as a group, tired but grinning from the goofy and fast-paced nature of the competition.
As we headed off the ice, one of the gold players announced that there was a birthday party in one of the locker rooms, as it was his birthday. He passed out cans of Narragansett, to which one of the coaches said sarcastically, "geez, glad to see you got the good stuff for your birthday."
I laughed, happy that someone shared my disdain for 'Gansett. But of course I drank it anyways, reminded that despite the failures to stop and general follies and foibles I encountered this week, a beer never tastes better than it does after hockey.
Even when it's a Narragansett.
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| Blah. |
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