I saw my first hockey game, and everything changed.
As an avid podcast listener, I decided it might be fun to offer recorded versions of the blog posts.
You’ll find many of these recordings on the shorter side, vignettes, if you will. That may change as the project evolves.
Episode One is ready. You can read the original here.
Drop me a line. In the episode, I describe a few ways you can find me if you don’t feel like using the Contact form on the blog.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 5:26 — 7.5MB)
In the summer, a glorious thing happens for the new skater who is no longer laboring under any illusions about the length and sharpness of her hockey learning curve: ice time opens up. Although I had expected some difficulty at my first stick and puck, I had been stunned by my instantly evaporating skating skills when faced with gear and stick. From that reality jolt I saw a very long list of skills I did not have, most of which I had no correct terminology to describe: that puck thing, that dance stop thing, that stick push thing.
But I could describe one thing: my skating was slow and tentative, featuring lots of sliding around and falling down instead of intentional or controlled stops, my presence a mixture of furrowed brow, terrified exclamation, and maniacal laughter. I would laugh even harder when others sprayed ice with their skates and suggested I could do the same. Generally, I looked over my shoulder to make sure they were talking to me. They clearly had me confused with someone who had a clue and some ability. I knew I needed to be better, and I knew someone who could help.
My regular skating partner Motocross also sought more summer ice time, but for very different reasons. Having been on skates most of his life, usually and preferably as a goalie, he had a current goal more to do with burning off energy than with mastering mysterious basics. At those early morning public skates, we cut an odd ice partnership—his effortlessness, my clumsiness; his detailed explanations, my flustered questions; his fluid executions, my tortured imitations.
Every so often he had to tear away from me to fly at an appropriate speed. I couldn’t fault him and loved to watch him, his smoothness as inspiring as it was baffling, no misplaced edge, no unnecessary effort, no obvious calculation. His conversation with the ice was deep and longstanding; mine was a shallow cocktail party chat punctuated by bickering.
I learned something every time we skated together, and today would be no different. I told him all about the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat from my first stick and puck, and he showed me things to practice based on what I said and what he saw. Our conversation that day centered on stopping, as it usually did. His advice and demonstration were always helpful and clear, even if my ability to capitalize on his expertise might have made him think otherwise. I found out “that dance stop thing” is known as a t-stop; that was the only thing I figured out about it that day.
Skaters speeding into various jumps dominated center ice; Motocross and I mingled in the next informal ring with those who had clear goals and some ability to achieve them; and the newest and most terrified clung to the boards and, much to my relief, flailed more than I did.
We were continuing to discuss the t-stop when suddenly Motocross yelled, “Look out!” and zipped forward. I turned and saw her back racing toward me. Possessing no zip, I tried to dig my skates in and brace myself for impact. It was a bad idea because you can’t really brace when you can’t really stop.
But, oh yes, I did stop—after I flew through the air. Several concerned citizens helped me upright, and I saw the skate guard sternly talking to the distracted diva and accidental instigator. She apologized, I was okay, no real harm and no intentional foul. (Note to newbies: I have never been flattened by a hockey skater or a child at a public skate, but I have been clobbered twice, and only twice, by distracted backward-flying figure skaters.)
Motocross is a hockey player, so after he made sure I was okay, he did not mince words. “You did that all wrong back there.”
I know I glared. I was bruised in body and pride from being bested in an unprovoked attack by a figure skater. I was the victim here. What the heck kind of pep talk was this?
“What do you mean?”
“Look,” he softened a bit. “I know you weren’t fast enough to get past her. But, in case this ever happens again, don’t just prepare yourself to take it.”
My brow remained furrowed.
He continued, “She was in the wrong, and you just let her take you out. Trust me, if she had come at me, I would not have been the one who went flying. You have to send that energy coming at you back to her. Don’t just take it.”
He was right. In so many ways. You can always count on a goalie, who surveys the entire expanse of ice, to see the bigger picture.
Had I known hockey involved garters, I would have signed up years ago, if only for the beautiful incongruity of all those sharp edges and armor-like accoutrements offset by a throw-back item more likely to evoke a hitchhiking Claudette Colbert than Ranger great Rod Gilbert. But these bland, utilitarian hockey garters are needed to hold up your socks, which go over your shin pads. The alternative is a newer Velcro socks/shorts combination, a disappointing choice made by a distressing number of people. Honestly, where is the fun in that? I intended to fully embrace this exceedingly amusing contradiction, especially as garters were the only things besides the gloves and skates that I had tried on before.
Oh, there were so many things to figure out on that Saturday in the Rockville Total Hockey. Because I had help, it was way less stressful and far more successful than my previous gear near-meltdown. Within an hour or two, I had everything I needed in the right size and configuration:
Amazingly enough, I even knew how to put it all on. Whether I would remember how to do so when I went to the rink at some vague point in the future was another question for another day.
On this day, I had answers for gear success:
Anyone who skates knows that you have to learn to fall. To learn it first is best, but to learn at some point is necessary.
My first time in hockey skates at Fort Dupont Ice Arena was all about falling, something I had been doing for months in other contexts.
Raised Lutheran in the Midwest, I became convinced of my fragility. I was taught to fear the many things that could break me—love, death, divorce, mistakes, disappointment, judgment, imperfection, loss.
“Don’t break your arm,” they all said when I told them I would learn how to skate.
They should have said, “Don’t break your heart.”
But I would have ignored both.
I had made a decision that fear would no longer dictate what I did or didn’t do. I had a new philosophy: “Caution, meet wind.”
So skating and hockey found me at the perfect time.
Skating required me to do two things I don’t like to do: fall and stop. Sometimes suddenly, sometimes deliberately. But I was determined to learn how to do both—and when each needs doing.
So, when it all fell apart, and I had no one to show me what I needed to learn, I took a little break from the ice, put away my skates until October.
In this picture, I am afraid, but I am focused. My mind is racing, my thoughts on repeat: Ican’tstopIcan’tstopIcan’tstopI’mgoingsofastandIstillcan’tstopI’mgoingtodieIdon’tknowhowtostop
howdoIstopI’mgoingtodieunlessIfigureouthowtostophowcanIgosofastwhenIdon’tknowhowtostop.
Caution, meet wind.