The working class hockey player

Last weekend I played my first hockey game in two years. Sure, I’ve played shinny and pick-up a few times, and skated on some outdoor rinks in Canmore the last two winters, but for the first time in a couple years, I joined one of the rec teams.

Looking around the dressing room, at age 26, it’s fair to say I was the youngest lacing up the skates, as most of the guys around me were either balding, grey, or had at least a couple years on me.

Out on the ice without time to do one lap of the rink, I sat on the short bench of players, made some introductions and waited for my turn to hop on. Two shifts in, I had already scored. I’ve still got it, I thought. Maybe I should have chosen the commercial league?

A couple more shifts, a couple more passes with my line mates and another goal. By the end of the season I’ll be skating circles around these guys.

Next shift. Those skates that I’ve been wearing since I was 18 are really pretty tight – size five for an eight and a half shoe. Maybe I should have listened to the skate sharpener when he told me I might need a new pair soon.

Next shift. The legs are starting to burn, the feet are killing me, and I am definitely at a loss of breath. I come to the bench and loosen my skates.

Next shift. My linemate sends me a pass that leads to a long rush. I think I’m going to puke.

Next shift. I’ve now sent several passes to the other winger more than 10 feet ahead of him, and on the back check I am useless. Thank God they flood the ice halfway through the game.

No flood. I tell one of the guys I might not make it through the game. He tells me I’ve only got 35 minutes to go. Fantastic. I spit some mixture of water, saliva and something else to my feet as I gasp for air.

By now all the greybeards are skating circles around me, I’ve loosened my skates so much that if they weren’t three sizes too small I could kick them off, and I think my plus/minus stats are in the negative.

By the end of the game my lungs have opened up, I’ve forgotten about my feet, and as we approach the 90th minute I’m feeling alright. I look around at the sweaty guys on my bench who have outplayed me and think, this beats watching the NHL on a plasma screen with a beer on the couch, (there will be beer in the locker room anyway). This is what real Canadian hockey is about. These are working class guys, and while some might not be as quick as they once were, you know they were great players in their day. And don’t be fooled, they’ve still got quick hands and can make a goalie look like a pylon on any given play.

No one is in the stands. Wives and girlfriends don’t even come for support. But they don’t care, this is their 90 minutes to be a kid again. And I’m here to tell you, 90 minutes of skating hard (although by the end of this night, it doesn’t look like we are skating that hard) takes some stamina and strength at any age.

As I leave the rink and walk to my car, I feel as though I’ve been hit by a truck. My legs hurt, I feel like I’m going to hack up a lung, and my hands still smell like my hockey gloves – that smell that lingers another eight hours after you’ve showered.

What a fun night in Jasper. I’ll be out next time, with my size five skates that are just perfect.