A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

"I skate, you skate...we skate."

Occasional commenter "Jax" is a law school compadre of The Wife's, and a member of the Houston Harpies women's hockey team. It was my past involvement as a sometime tackling dummy scrimmage partner of the Harpies that led her to ask me about how she get involved several years back, and it's because of this that I feel certain she subjected me to the torture I experienced yesterday.

Backing up a bit...she sends me an e-mail Friday morning saying that a bunch of players dropped out of the Harpies' scheduled scrimmage on Saturday and would I be interested in participating? Jax is well aware that it's been, oh, at least four years since I was on the ice. And before that, I wasn't exactly known for my mad skillz. I played defense, mostly because I could be relied upon to sacrifice my body in comical ways to stop a goal. And because I couldn't shoot to save my life.

She also mentioned we'd be playing at the Toyota Center, and not in front of an actual audience. That pretty much sealed the deal for me, as I've never been in the Toyota Center and have no interest in embarrassing myself in front of strangers, unless it's in written form.

So I said "sure."

The first order of business was assembling my scattered gear, which had been unceremoniously deposited in the garage when we first moved in to our current house. A good chunk of my equipment was donated by another infrequent commenter, MacinFla, (who actually won't be in Fla much longer, but I digress). It was all intact, if a litle dusty/covered in dead spiders. Guess I need to fumigate.

Got to the Toyota Center around 1:25 where, after a bag search (the female guard balked at examining my cup too closely) I was escorted to the lower level. They crammed about 15 guys into a 10'x10' room (actually the officials' locker room) to get ready. The dudes were pretty friendly, until Tom (Jax's SO) declared a contest to see who could knock me over the most times. Ah, the good-natured camaraderie of beer league sports enthusiasts.

Hockey players wear a crapload of...crap, I guess. You've got your knee/shin guards, socks (running ankle to upper thigh), an honest-to-Gordie garter belt to keep the socks on, hockey pants (mine are at least one size to big, which is always comforting when you haven't worn them in a very long time), skates (CCM Tacks 352s here), elbow pads, jersey, and gloves. Chest pads are optional, and I don't wear them. They're too damn hot (practice sessions are rarely air-conditioned, and even on the ice it can get pretty sweltering), for one thing. Besides, my chest is plenty big already, and I'm not generally in the company of players capable of hitting a slap shot with the potential to stop my heart.

Finally, there's the helmet. I've included a couple pictures of mine, simply because it's impossible to use mere words to describe its awesomeness.

Tom asked if who I had to kill to get such a vintage model with the plexiglas visor (everybody is into that wire mesh these days). I said, "A Swede, but it wasn't that tough."

See, 'cause Jofa's a Swedish company, and...never mind.

I like the dichotomy offered by Ginger Spice + the Misfits. And I think it (Ginger Spice) creeps out some of the younger females.

The sticker also effectively carbon dates my last significant hockey activity to 1998.

Stepping onto the ice that first time was one of those character defining moments where you realize your constant and abject humiliation is at hand, and yet you continue anyway. I managed a few feet without falling, then a few more feet, remembered to keep my knees bent - this is important - then made a few circuits sans incident. Cool. I wasn't going to make anyone forget Sidney Crosby, but It was a start.

The game itself was fine. I'm not the most graceful skater, or the fastest, or necessarily able to pass the puck accurately, but I am still willing to swan dive in the way of a shot. There were three 15-minute periods, and I felt myself getting a bit more relaxed as time passed. The feet stopped hurting, I got my second wind, and by the end of regulation I felt pretty good. I mean, normal workouts don't take the place of competitive sports, but my regular cardio sessions at the gym helped a lot. I'd definitely be willing to do this ag...

The announcer cuts in, "Attention, since we've still got 45 minutes of ice time, we're adding 40 minutes to the game clock and we're just going to play it out."

Mother pusbucket.

I didn't have to skip a shift, but...woof. Few things will make you feel old like trying to chase down some punkass right wing half your age on a fast break. And few things will make you feel young like hooking your stick around the little bastard's ankle and yanking him onto his face. We didn't have time for a zamboni break, so the ice got pretty sloppy towards the end. We did have full use of the Toyota Center's sound effects and music, though whoever was in charge seemed to have a fondness for late 70s-early 80s TV shows, and nothing says "hockey" like MC Hammer and Hanson.

Even so, I'd be happy to do this again. I'll just need to wait until I'm able to walk at more than an arthritic crawl.