By Jim Hagarty
2006
I’m not one to hand out advice and, to my everlasting grief certainly not one to take any. But I just have to pass this little suggestion along, for what it’s worth. If any of you can benefit from it, then all my suffering will not have been in vain.
Here goes:
If you haven’t played hockey in 25 years or more, you might not want to make a habit of practising with a team of rambunctious 10-year-olds. Just a thought. My proper place in the arena is watching from the warmth of the heated spectators’ area, sitting on the wooden bleachers and gobbling down chocolate bars. But with his season only two games away from being over, the boy whose goalie equipment I lug back and forth from home to rink twice a week suggested I come back out on the ice like I did when he was younger. My excuse all season had been that there were already enough dads out there.
But this week, the team was short. So, after the boys had left the dressing room, I dragged out my 30-year-old skates and strapped them on as best I could. I pulled my Toronto Maple Leafs jersey over my head, squeezed my poor head into a helmet three sizes too small, picked up the new hockey stick I got for Christmas, and wobbled out onto the ice.
At first, all seemed well, as I skated aimlessly up and down the ice, trying to avoid any actual responsibilities for training. I was there just for show, nothing more. To fulfill a request from a son for whom the words “public humiliation” do not yet carry any meaning. In fact, all was going quite nicely, as I studiously avoided any involvement in the actual practice while appearing, nevertheless, more than ready for anything.
One time I was asked by the head coach to play defence for a drill but I begged off and stayed on the sidelines, looking good. Asked a second time, I could no longer escape.
The job laid out for the two coaches and I was to try to score on the whole team without letting them shoot the puck out over the blue line. The three of us against the 10 of them. Besides not knowing where to go or what to do, I was surrounded by crafty young players who looked a lot more skilled up close than they sometimes do from the stands. In fact, they seemed downright good.
I stood in front of the net, and missed the passes. Managed to be in the wrong places at the wrong times. And making a heroic attempt to keep the puck from exiting the zone, my skates caught as I skated backwards and I landed flat on my back. When I landed on my back as a kid on the ponds, it was not such a big deal. But a few too many of those chocolate bars in the bleachers has strengthened the pull of gravity and made landing on the ice a much more painful event.
After checking to see if I was alive, everyone resumed playing. A few moments later, I was looking up at the lights again as I lay flat out for a second time. Again I had been backing up when it happened. I think I fell a third time, but my brains have been a bit jangled since Monday, so it’s hard to remember.
Back in the dressing room, I explained to the young players that my old skates had only three forward gears and no reverse, which is why I always fell when I was trying to skate backwards. At least I had the satisfaction of knowing that a few of them fell for that.
As I type, my left hand is throbbing, my arm is aching. My back is coming around. With any luck, my pride will follow.
