Week Five (Nov. 13)

As we were told at the end of Week Four, Week Five would be our second full scrimmage of the "season": no drills, just a game. Unlike the first full-session scrimmage two weeks earlier, however, we would have two goalies, so there probably wouldn't be nine goals scored this time.

I got to the rink a little early, and sat down on a bench to watch the game that was wrapping up. After a few minutes, I walked over to the "locker room," which is actually just a little enclave with metal benches behind a cinder block wall, and found that it was full: a few members of my team were in there, but the rest of the room was filled with gear from the teams playing before us.

Rather than try to sandwich myself in between mountains of awful-smelling gear bags, and decided to just dress next to the rink. I sat down on a bench behind one of the nets to put my stuff on, and had on my skates, socks, shin pads, and pants, when I realized where I was:

The girls' "locker room."

At UMass, there really aren't locker rooms available, so the women who play in the clinic dress outside of the cinder block garrisons used by the men. ("Dress" is used loosely here, as most people show up with their under-gear already on; there's no nudity in getting dressed, that comes later.)

The blond girl next to me said, "So why are you dressing out here with the girls?"

"No room in there, so I just sat down," I said, slowly realizing that I was probably setting myself up for a ribbing at the hands of the other players.

Realizing that my manhood may be at stake, I dressed as quickly as I could, then went off to stand by the glass, stretch, mingle, etc. as the Zamboni left the ice. CRISIS AVERTED, I DIDN'T TURN INTO A GIRL!

However, as is the case whenever one rushes, things felt amiss: my skates weren't tight enough, my elbow pads felt like they were on backwards, my pants kept sliding down. I was filled with the feeling of "do I have everything?", and skated onto the ice wondering if I forgot to turn off the stove, or if I left my garage door open.

I took my twirls up and down the ice, and gathered a puck to stickhandle it and generally look busy. As I was coming down the ice with the puck, I noticed that the goalie wasn't really paying attention, as he was stretching, getting his angles right, and doing other weird stuff that only goalies understand.

So I had two choices: either keep the puck and just stickhandle, or shoot the puck and risk hitting the kid in the face or catching him off guard. When one considers that my wristshot could probably sink an aircraft carrier, it's clear why I was so torn.

A video demonstration of the damage my shot can do.

As I got closer, the goalie slid back into the crease and got down in the butterfly, meaning he was ready for the shot. I took it, didn't score (obviously) and then realized that the reason he wasn't paying attention is because he knew he could just sidle over there whenever and still stop it.

Ouch. That's something like walking into a final exam without even opening a book to study.

With my pride hurting, I headed to the bench. Our coach was, again, looking for volunteers on defense, so I did my best to inspect every square inch of my blade to make sure he knew how busy I was, like reading REALLY HARD in middle school so the teacher doesn't call on you.

Mission accomplished, as I was assigned to play wing on the second line, and the game began.

This game went a bit smoother than the first one, but my line couldn't put the puck in the net. We didn't allow a goal either, and our team's other line had scored twice to give us a 2-1 cushion.

My best chance to score came in the first period, as my team controlled the puck in the offensive zone. I was in one of the corners, and as the puck headed up the wall I went in front of the net (Mark Recchi again!). The puck carrier ended up heading around behind the net, and the puck was knocked off his stick and towards me. I reached out for it, and attempted to pull it to my backhand, where I could've slipped it past the goalie with a defender draped on my back, and celebrated accordingly.

Instead, the goalie reached as well, and while I got the puck past his glove, the knob of his stick hit mine enough to dislodge the puck, and it was swept away from the crease and out of danger.

My line started to put things together in the second period, and I tried to get myself on YouTube with some stellar playmaking. On one rush, I managed to corral the puck at my own blue line and bank it off the boards and out of the zone. Turning on the jets, I raced up ice to try to beat the defenseman to the puck, and could see a linemate all alone on the other side of the zone. "If I can get to the puck, it's an easy breakaway from the blueline in," I thought to myself.

However, the defenseman had a stride or two on me, and, when I realized I wasn't going to beat him to the puck, I reached into my bag of tricks and pulled out an NHL13 play: I dove for the puck.

I laid out, reached with my stick, and whacked the puck towards the middle of the ice, only to have the defenseman tip it with his blade and send it into the corner. FOILED!

I got up and got some praise from my teammates on the bench, giving me kudos for my hustle, when in reality I just forgot that this was real life and not a video game. Oops.

I was involved in another scoring chance later in the second, when I got the puck at the defensive blue line and made a little tap pass back to a linemate who had some good speed going. The defenseman closest to me clearly didn't expect this, because my teammate blew past him and he was left spinning like an old-school MBTA turnstile. I skated hard myself, seeking to turn a 1-on-1 into a 2-on-1, and it worked.

My teammate gave me the puck at the attacking blue line, and then headed for the net. As I gathered the puck and plotted my next move, it crossed my mind that I had skated as fast as I could and was rapidly running out of real estate. If I didn't stop skating, I was about four seconds away from being Luis Mendoza.

I switched from a stride to a glide, and centered the puck, hoping it'd find my teammate's stick in the slot. No such luck, as my pass made its way past the stick and through the legs of the defenseman, but was just out of my teammate's reach.

As I skated back to the bench, our coach had words for both of us.

"You BOTH stopped skating! You gotta keep skating, or the defenseman's just gonna play the puck! You," he said to my teammate, "stopped skating at the blue line! He made a great pass to where you would've been if you hadn't slowed down, you gotta keep going!"

Great pass? Good for me.

As the teams lined up for a faceoff later in the period, one of the referees stopped by our bench.

"Boy, you must have a lot of faith in these guys to be out here without a cage," he said to me, the only player in the clinic without a shield or a cage.

"No," I said. "I just figure I'm tall enough that their wild sticks won't reach me."

"Yeah, I never used to wear a shield," he replied as play started up again. "Then a couple weeks ago I almost caught a stick in the eye and changed my mind. I'm getting a visor next week."

Yikes. Might be time to head back to Pure Hockey...

We went into the third period up 2-1, and my line still hadn't scored. As we were preparing to take our shift with around 7 minutes left in the game, we got on the board as one of my linemates collected a pass from a defenseman, the other joined him on the rush, and he put a rebound past the goalie to make it 3-1.

Two-goal lead, late third...just don't screw up, right?

WRONG.

I was hanging out in the neutral zone, anticipating the puck being chipped out by the other team, and it was. I skated back to retrieve it, and heard my goalie yelling at me, something to the effect of "you got time, you got time," meaning there was no forechecker on my tail.

I gathered the puck and looked for my options: there were two opposing players along the wall, I didn't know who was behind me, and I saw one teammate at the top of the slot, by himself. I KNOW that you should never clear the puck in the middle of the zone, so what did I do?

Sent it to my teammate in the slot. STUPID. As you may be able to guess, the puck skittered off his stick directly to a member of the other team, who then took it in on goal and scored before I could recover. I felt like this guy:

I then slammed my stick on the ice and bellowed the appropriate expletives to show my teammates how sorry I was. I probably should've given the goalie a tap on the pads and said "my bad" or something, but instead I just stewed and looked upset so no one could accuse me of being not sorry.

We lined up for the ensuing faceoff, which was won by our team. I ended up with the puck, and dumped it into the zone, then chased after it. An opposing defender got it, but I put pressure on him, as I've learned that putting any pressure on anyone with the puck in this clinic will lead to a turnover 99 times out of a hundred. I got the puck back, and sent it back around the net to a teammate, who went back to the point.

I decided to make my way to the front of the net again (probably not the smartest place for me to go when I don't have a visor, but I guess I'm living dangerously), stumbling between a defender and the goalie, all while trying desperately to not knock the goalie over, when suddenly a heard a "clink" and some cheers.

We scored. My teammate fired the puck from the slot right past the screened goalie, who was probably wondering why this 6 ft. 4 inch guy in a teal jersey who looks like Bambi on ice was trying to skate in front of him. I wasn't credited with the goal, but it felt good to do the dirty work necessary to get the puck in the back of the net.

After the goal, our coach, with time winding down, told our center to play defense, leaving just a two man forecheck. We won the faceoff, and I dumped the puck in. I went in after it and ended up blocking a clearing attempt and sending it in further, just trying to kill off the last few seconds.

With around 6 seconds left, the opposing team started carrying the puck out of their zone. I was tired, so I half-heartedly skated after them, looking at the clock.

"5...4...3...2...1..." and the game ended without the other team getting a shot off. 4-2 victory for Team Teal, and my undefeated streak continues...

Week Four (Nov. 6)

Something big happened on November 6th: no not the Presidential election. That happens every four years. This was a once-in-a-lifetime moment: the one-month anniversary of my hockey-playing odyssey.

I got to the rink late due to (what else is new?) traffic on the Expressway, and had apparently missed my celebratory one-month cake and ice cream. Weird. Drills had already started, and one of the coaches, still getting ready himself, said "you're late."

"Yeah, traffic," I muttered, feeling like I was late for sixth-grade math class.

"You're gonna have to skate laps," he said as he headed out the door.

After a pause, he laughed and said, "nah, just kidding," which was good, because the only lap I would've made was back to the highway and home.

I tried to dress quickly, which isn't easy with hockey. As is the case when rushing, something was missing. In this case, the thing missing was correctly tied skates. They were tied, but not nearly tightly enough. I decided to wing it anyways, and headed down the stairs (weird, I know) to the ice.

The coaches had started us off with some more backwards-skating drills, and by the time I got down there they were already done. I drifted down to the other end of the ice, employing my best "late to class in college so I hide in the back" sneakiness, and made it down in time for 2-on-0 drills.

We paired off, and headed down the ice. I managed to end up being the shot-taker twice, and, of course, didn't score either time. Soon, however, I found myself on the wrong end of some odd numbers, and was paired with one of the coaches.

This is like being paired with your teacher for an in-class assignment, in that you're not going to have any excuse for doing it wrong, and that everyone else is watching you. To my own surprise, I held my own, and my coach, being the generous man that he is, deferred the shot to me. That means I got to get stoned by the goalie in front of the whole clinic, so that's nice.

After the 2-on-0's, we started a skating drill we'd never done before. We were told to pair off, and I ended up with a kid named Bobby who is around my age and had actually skated on my line a few times during the scrimmage. He's a nice kid, more advanced than most of us, so maybe he wasn't the best partner for a drill where we had to skate backwards while towing our partner, and skate forwards while pushing him (and while he made every effort to make the pushing harder).

The drill resembled a football drill using tackling dummies, and I actually did OK pushing him down. He gave me words of encouragement and some tips, and I told him I'd do my best to not get in his way when we switched roles.

Yeah, that didn't work out.

I ended up looking like an old man trying to stop a car from pulling out of a space: both hands on the hood, pretty much holding on for dear life, knowing I'm going to get steam-rolled.

Bobby, to his infinite credit, eased up a bit, and told me how to better position my skates. What a saint. Mercifully, the drill ended soon after. I was one more run away from looking like the bad guy at the end of Roger Rabbit.

Next up was a stickhandling drill, in which we had to backhand the puck around some cones, skate in on the goalie, and shoot. Fun stuff. After a couple of twirls up and down, I still hadn't scored. Thinking myself a regular sniper, I was shooting my laser-beam squirt gun wrister from the hashmarks; when my coach saw this, he was indignant, and insisted that I shoot from the slot, closer to the net. I think it's because that way I can hear the goalie laughing when he saves it. Post here, pad there...still without a goal.

The last drill of the day was something like "the weave" of basketball practice fame: three players lined up, one with the puck. The player with the puck passed it to someone, then skated to the spot he passed it. The one who received the puck was supposed to adjust his/her positioning accordingly, pass it to the next person, and so on.

The coaches asked for volunteers who knew how to do the drill. Predictably, the first time one of the volunteers made a pass, two skaters crashed into each other like something out of America's Funniest Videos. Eventually, however, they got the hang of it, and the rest of us fell into line.

A VERY technical and scientific illustration of the drill I'm talking about.

After a few runs, the coaches broke us up into teams and we got to scrimmage, with a twist: one-minute shifts only. The coaches blew the whistle every 60 seconds, and we had to shuffle on and off the ice as directed. (One would think that this would make it easier, but truthfully it just made everyone more winded: short shifts also equaled short respites on the bench.)

I was skating at forward again, and had a few decent opportunities. My best chance was one that never really materialized: I followed one of the more hot-doggish players in the clinic up the ice, and that player went into the corner carrying the puck. The opposing defenseman followed, and I posted up at the top of the crease, doing my best Mark Recchi: stick on the ice, hairline slowly receding. I called for the puck, wide open, ready to bang it home...but the player kept skating, going around the net, into the other corner, and flipping a weak, bad-angle shot that the goalie easily turned aside. 

Needless to say, I wasn't happy, feeling that my glory had been stolen from me by a puck-hog. THE NERVE!

A few shifts later, my team made a bad change, and we got caught going the wrong way. I tried my best to backcheck, but couldn't help but remember that I can't stop, so maybe going full-steam towards my own goalie isn't the best idea after all. I had a front row seat to watch my goalie make a save, only to have a member of the opposition bang the puck into the vacant net. My first minus. :(((((((((((((((((((((((((

The scrimmage was short, and ended as a 2-1 win for my team. That's two wins for team blue/teal/whatever now. I could get used to that. We're supposed to have a full scrimmage next session, and then play another rookie team after that. 

Playing against a real team? Now that's going to be a real three-ring circus.

Week Three (Oct. 30)

Most of the scares and screams may have been saved for Halloween, but there was an extremely scary sight at UMass-Boston the night before the big holiday: me playing in an actual hockey game.

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 empty seats fans...but I missed. The puck glanced off of my stick and went wide, and my shift ended shortly after. Foiled again!

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.

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.