Special Podcast Episode: A Crazy Goal
Chapter 1: Cigars and Bourbon
Cigar and Bourbon Night 2017, with Raconteur
“Then sing something.”
The first time he said it, I
thought he was joking. He was not the first person I had ever met that I had
told about my singing background, but he was certainly the first who had
demanded that I demonstrate it on the spot.
I could see he was looking at
me intently, expectantly.
He was serious.
And so was I. He had been
talking a bit about his early days playing hockey professionally in Quebec when
I asked him if he spoke French. He said he did. I said I could sing in French,
which is how we landed here.
I may have had more scotch
than I realized, but I took another swig to smooth my somewhat dry throat. I
leaned in as if telling him a secret, and I sang the first verse and chorus of
Pink Martini’s “Sympathique,” a song I have always loved. He wasn’t the only
one who heard me, but I thought he was likely the only one who understood the
lyrics and their dark take on love. He raised his eyebrows, “Very good,” he
said.
“Did I get the pronunciation
right?”
“You did.”
I drank more scotch in relief and the group that formed around us now switched the subject back to hockey. A few other attendees let me know that the fellow who listened to my song ran a local hockey program, and he was at the event with a few of the adult players he coached. An exuberant bunch, these players encouraged me to join them when I mentioned that I, too, was learning to play. The age-range of their group appealed to me—other older adults new to playing hockey. I found that information encouraging and something to consider, although their rink was not close to my current apartment in Merrifield, Va.
We were on the roof of the W
Hotel in Washington at an annual charity event where fans could smoke cigars
and sip whiskey with former Washington Capitals players. One of the adult
newbies there was chatting with a younger man who would be playing in the
Capitals alumni game the next day. Earlier in the evening, I had learned that two
roster spots for this annual charity event had been auctioned off to fans.
An idea began to form in my
mind as I chatted with the winner. In many ways, the thought was preposterous.
But, my mind kept circling back to it, given that the winner was somewhat new
to the sport and I was surrounded by others who were learning as well. The love
for hockey was palpable with this group. It was contagious, although I had
caught that love for hockey well before now.
I turned to the coach, a
former pro who also would be playing in the event. “You need a woman out there
next year,” I said.
“It should be you.” He said it
without missing a beat, without hesitation. I thought at first he was joking—I
had been very honest about my hockey level and inability. I thought he was
messing with me.
But, I looked at him. He had
the same look on his face as when he had asked me to sing. No joking smirk. No
wink and a nod. He was sincere.
I was thrown, although I did
my best to hide it. I had known this man for maybe 15 minutes, and already he
had challenged me twice to show what I could do, to be excellent, to back up my
words and boozy bravado with actions. Maybe he would be the right coach for
this crazy goal.
“OK,” I said. I downed the
rest of my scotch and wondered what a year could do.
Chapter 2: Rock ‘n’ Roll
All smiles after my first scrimmage ever, July 2014, Kettler Capitals Iceplex
If timelines held, I would need to be ready by the end of June 2018 to play in the 2018 Capitals Alumni Summer Classic. I had no time to waste. At this point in 2017, when it came to hockey, I truly was starting over.
Although I took my first adult
hockey classes in Kettler’s Learn to Play program in summer 2014, I had stopped
those classes by February 2015. An increased workload followed by a family
health scare necessitated some major life changes that severely cut into ice
time for me. I watched hockey as much as ever, but my own efforts were limited
to sporadic skills classes in the DC area and Ohio.
My father had been diagnosed
with multiple myeloma, and the condition made it difficult for him to travel more
than 3 hours away. Because I generally work remotely, I decided to sell my
Takoma Park house of 18 years, buy a house closer to my parents in Ohio, and
rent something small in Virginia for my work there. As the dust settled from
these transitions, I had by spring 2017 found a newbie scrimmage league in Ohio
and a rink to practice skating nearby in Fairfax.
But, I was feeling that
two-year hiatus acutely on July 31 as I walked into the adult program
discovered during conversation at the Cigar and Bourbon event. I had done a
full scrimmage maybe seven times in my life. Generally, I preferred skills
classes because there was no team for me to disappoint with my ineptitude. I
was relieved to find out that nobody kept score during these scrimmages. And I
was extremely happy to see a few familiar faces from the event that had
inspired my crazy idea.
Once on the ice, I followed
the strategy that I had followed from my days as a basketball player—get open
on offense and get in the way on defense. I added recent advice from my Ohio hockey
coach to stay on whatever side I had chosen, to be a left or right winger and
stick with that on both sides of the ice. Skill levels varied, although the
friendliness of those on the ice did not.
Unlike other scrimmages and pick-up opportunities, we played here while rink speakers blared. It helped so much. Lots of classic rock I had not heard in a while, many songs I knew well, that I could get lost in between the 1:30 shifts designated by buzzer. The coach played with us, which also helped. Zipping among the players, he helped set up plays and added some structure to the confusion of the new.
On my last shift, I skated to Led
Zeppelin’s “Rock n Roll,” a song I love until I need a break from it. On that
night, it was perfect, and I took it as a sign that my crazy plan might not be
impossible.
I was stretching on the wall
after the game, when the Coach came over. “You were better than I thought you’d
be.” In any other context, I might have taken offense at this assessment. But
that night, I thought someone had awarded me the Pulitzer Prize.
Chapter 3: Stick-To-It-Tiveness
After I survived that initial
session, I soon found myself at the rink two, three, even four days a week.
When ice time allowed, the Coach added adult skills classes, and I did my best
to make every one. I had no time to lose. Despite the time lapse, I had been
playing hockey for maybe a year, if you add up my previous sporadic skills
class attendance and current efforts. The more I learned, the more I saw how
much I didn’t know or how much I had misconstrued.
For instance, because of varying
advice related to using my inside edges for power, I had mistakenly spent much
of the summer skating only on my inside edges. It’s a common mistake and
one I often see in new skaters. My hockey coach in Ohio had been working with
me to get the glide back as well as any stride length. (He had taken to calling
me “Short Stride.”) Skating had been my strength—or so I thought–but now it
required endless tweaks.
My relationship with my stick
was worse. If anyone bumped me or if I fell, my stick flew out of my hands and
across the ice. I was growing adept as the loose-stick scramble. Exasperated one
night, I asked the coach what I was doing wrong.
“If your stick is flying out
of your hands that means your grip needs to be stronger.”
“But, aren’t you trying to
have ‘soft hands’? “I asked, “I try not to clench the stick too much.”
“Yes,” he said. “But soft
hands doesn’t mean soft grip. It means soft arms and shoulders.”
From that point forward,
scrimmages got much better for me and less amusing for others.
As I resolved each
misunderstanding and worked on improving each basic skill, I ultimately wasn’t
surprised that I would take a hit in a scrimmage before I would score a goal. It
was mid-October toward the end of one of our Wednesday night scrimmages. Slowly
but steadily, my confidence had been growing, and I was trying to be more
aggressive about stealing pucks.
An opponent was coming toward
me. I planted myself in front of him, trying to gauge when I could dart around
to take the puck. Generally, the better players just scooted around me, and I
ended up having to chase them down. This time, he didn’t do so, and I thought I
had a chance to swipe the biscuit. But as I went for it, I realized at the last
split second that he was moving directly at me, his head down, eyes on the puck.
He did not see me. It flashed through my mind: I’m about to get hit by a train.
And, I did. Because it
happened so fast, it would take a video review to see that at the last second
he had tried to adjust to avoid me and had instead slammed me full-on, his
stick going up across my throat, which left me hoarse for the rest of that
night and for several days after.
It goes without saying that he
was beyond apologetic, and all nearby were extremely concerned as they helped
me up. As I sat on the bench before the last shift in the game, I asked my
teammate if it were possible to break your throat. He wasn’t sure, but we concluded
that a broken throat was probably serious and obvious and because I seemed
okay, it probably wasn’t broken. Such conversations happen on hockey benches
more than you would imagine among people without medical degrees to support
their assertions.
So, I got on the ice for my
last shift—all 130 pounds of me, despite my brief flattening by an opponent
almost twice my size.
I hung around afterward as we
usually did, talking about the game, watching and discussing the hit, seeing
myself bounce off the ice from the force of it, listening as my voice grew
closer and closer to “Bette Davis Eyes” hoarseness.
After seeing t
