Hockey...A great game
Growing up as a kid in Northern New Jersey, my parent's refused to join the local country club because the had restrictive policies about who could join; i.e. no blacks, Jews or other undesirables. Which, to this day, is something I applauded. Evil, after all, is often times petty, banal and mundane. And we all have to do our part to do the right thing.
But, not belonging to the country club meant, ultimately, that I was unable to learn how to ice skate, so no ice hockey for me. Which is something that makes me a little sad.
In high school, then in college, I became a dedicated club hockey regular. Any opportunity to strap on my fifth generation hockey pants, mis-matched stockings held up by a rusty garter belt, yellowed jersey and sea-brine stinky shoulder pads, topped with a green Jofa helmet was a chance I could not miss. Even now, I can smell the musty odor of sweat stain hockey gear, mouldering away in an overstuffed black duffle bag. Powerful stuff.
It's a strange sensation; underneath the body armor, you're half naked, and skating across an expanse of frozen ice. And yet, you are working so hard to pick up speed, careen after the puck, push it from side to side, make passes, hockey stop, and then do it all over again, that sweat pours off of you, steam literally coalescing in the air around your head. Never before had I had so much fun working so damn hard.
And the thing about a game of hockey is that it barely ever stops. You change lines on the fly. Should you be so lucky as to lay a bone crushing hit on an opponent, ideally against the boards (his lunges compressing "Whoosh!", the glass clattering with the intesity, the satisfaction of skating off as he crumples in pain, going down) the game doesn' stop unless you really hurt them. Like one way ticket to the hospital turn on the flashing lights and siren hurt. Otherwise, it's on with the game.
They say Puckheads are hard. Well, it's true. Those dudes have a massive tolerance for pain. It's not like being a soccer player, where you play to the referee, over emphasize the least phyiscal transgression. No. In Hockey, nobody cares. Nobody wants to know how much that hurt. It's all about taking it. It's like the Marine Corp. There's a healthy dose of masochism involved. Which I can respect.
But, not belonging to the country club meant, ultimately, that I was unable to learn how to ice skate, so no ice hockey for me. Which is something that makes me a little sad.
In high school, then in college, I became a dedicated club hockey regular. Any opportunity to strap on my fifth generation hockey pants, mis-matched stockings held up by a rusty garter belt, yellowed jersey and sea-brine stinky shoulder pads, topped with a green Jofa helmet was a chance I could not miss. Even now, I can smell the musty odor of sweat stain hockey gear, mouldering away in an overstuffed black duffle bag. Powerful stuff.
It's a strange sensation; underneath the body armor, you're half naked, and skating across an expanse of frozen ice. And yet, you are working so hard to pick up speed, careen after the puck, push it from side to side, make passes, hockey stop, and then do it all over again, that sweat pours off of you, steam literally coalescing in the air around your head. Never before had I had so much fun working so damn hard.
And the thing about a game of hockey is that it barely ever stops. You change lines on the fly. Should you be so lucky as to lay a bone crushing hit on an opponent, ideally against the boards (his lunges compressing "Whoosh!", the glass clattering with the intesity, the satisfaction of skating off as he crumples in pain, going down) the game doesn' stop unless you really hurt them. Like one way ticket to the hospital turn on the flashing lights and siren hurt. Otherwise, it's on with the game.
They say Puckheads are hard. Well, it's true. Those dudes have a massive tolerance for pain. It's not like being a soccer player, where you play to the referee, over emphasize the least phyiscal transgression. No. In Hockey, nobody cares. Nobody wants to know how much that hurt. It's all about taking it. It's like the Marine Corp. There's a healthy dose of masochism involved. Which I can respect.
posted by Unknown at 12:46 PM
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