My life as a Hockey Player

I know all sorts of things happen when you enter your forties. For one thing, there is no way you can remotely claim to be in any other period of life than middle age. I started to low light my hair, made sure I got annual mammograms and began wondering if I really ever had a waist. My rather predictable PMS shifted into something better referred to as free floating hostility. And of course I was in that pleasant state of realizing that neither my career nor family was close to perfect. In other words, I was ripe for a “middle age crisis”. I could have found a cabana boy, had breast implants or gotten a tattoo, but I didn’t. Instead, I took up ice hockey.

During my moments of free floating hostility I had on more than one occasion remarked that I would love to learn to play hockey if I could slam my boss/husband/guy who cut me off in traffic/lady at the DMV into the boards. And while the idea of exercise appealed to me, I never thought about getting it on the ice.

Now understand, that I grew up out West, in an area lacking in water and rich in mountains. Skiing was one thing, but I had only been on ice skates twice in my life. I skated once when I was 8 and once in college, where I clung desperately to the outer wall of the rink as my ankles took on a life of their own.

So why hockey? I really don’t know. I had not one, but two roommates in college who played the sport. For close to twenty years, I thought they were weird. I’ll be honest here, I grew up before Title IX, in Utah, in an all girl family and I thought girls (forget younger or older women) who played team sports were …… well…. Unfeminine….not ladylike….and let’s face it, June Cleaver was no athlete.

I never played a sport in my life.

I moved to Rochester, New York in the mid nineties, and for those of you who have never had the pleasure of visiting Rochester between November and April, you may not understand why we say that in Rochester there are only two seasons: Winter and Road repair. The winters are long, cold, snowy and sometimes dreary. Ice Hockey is big around here. My son began playing hockey within a year of moving here. For six months of the year, I was at an ice rink twice a week with him. This is what I liked: the game was incredibly intense and aggressive. It was also short and sweet. For those of you who have sat through little league season, you can appreciate why I liked 50 minute games.

I wish I could tell you that I spent that time at the ice rink intently watching my son play, learning the rules of the game and following his team’s progress. The reality is that most of the time I spent chasing after my young daughter who had a propensity to eat anything she found on the ice arena floor.

One January morning, just shy of my 42nd birthday, I was at the ice rink, waiting for my son, watching my two year old consume popcorn she had discovered under one of the tables by the snack bar. (My rule to this day is anything that doesn’t have hair on it is ok.) I glanced up at the bulletin board and noticed a small flyer with the words “Beginner Adult Hockey Classes”, and I thought “Hmmmmm”.

Admittedly, there was no beam of light from the heavens calling me to the ice, but as soon as I got home, I called to inquire about the class, telling them that I was in my forties and didn’t know how to skate. As it turned out the guy who ran the class also gave 30 minute private lessons, which seemed more reasonable. I signed up for a lesson later that day, and borrowed my son’s skates. My husband, daughter and in-laws all came to watch. My son would have sooner died. He stayed home with his head under a pillow.

The instructor had to show me how to put on ice skates, and after 30 minutes I had made it around the rink 3 times with him by my side ready to catch me before I fell, fractured my hip or got a concussion. My family cheered me on, and I was totally pleased with myself. Who said you had to be a kid to learn something new? My middle age crisis started to foment.

The skating instructor called me up the next day to see if I wanted to sign up for his class. In retrospect, I should have realized that he was starting a new business and was looking for students, but at the time it never occurred to me. After all he had seen me skate, and he invited me to join his class. That was all the encouragement I needed. It never occurred to me that he was so desperate that he would recruit a middle aged woman who had virtually never been on the ice. If he had impersonated Mario Lemieux and asked me to join the Pittsburgh Penguins, I probably would have believed him. I signed up for the course then and there over the phone.

Now before I go on, I have to point out in my excitement, I assumed that learning to play hockey and learning to skate were the same thing. You would have thought that the equipment I needed should have been a clue. I was able to borrow my son’s skates, shin guards, elbow bow pads, gloves, shoulder pads, garter (Who would have ever thought that hockey players wear garter belts?) and socks. But I had to buy a helmet, pants, neck guard, protector (a female jock strap of sorts) and mouth guard. I am still not sure which seemed worse, the smell of my son’s equipment or the actual quantity of items I would have to wear. My son and neighbor wrote down the order that I needed to put the equipment on. I even practiced getting dressed at home. Twice.

I got to the rink very early, and eventually waddled out of the dressing room into the rink, as the other “beginner” students were getting on the ice. At that point I began to sense a clear distinction between learning to skate and learning to play hockey. These guys were actually HOPPING on to the ice and skating off like the wind. Clearly they had not needed lessons in how to put on ice skates.

That was the moment when I almost passed out. I know no other way to describe it. I remember thinking “I am going to die. Either I am going to slip and kill myself or I am going to die of utter humiliation.” Then I remembered my Grandmother. When she was 41 she decided to learn to play the viola. I grew up listening to her play quartets every Wednesday when I stayed with her in the summer as a child. She played the viola well into her 80s, and while she may have been no Isaac Stern, she had a great time. Then I thought “Damn it. I am 41 years old, and I can make an ass of myself any way I want”.

And I did.

About one month into it, I played in my first hockey game, which my husband dutifully videotaped and continues to this day to show people. The best part of the video is the commentary between my husband, Brian, who was filming and my neighbor, Steve. “Which one is she?” “Look over there. She’s the one who’s not moving. Oh wait. She’s the one going in circles.” “Oh, she’s down….Oh Man…”

I wasn’t exactly “a natural” at the sport, having neither played any sport ever before or possessing anything that remotely could be referred to as Hand – Eye coordination. At one point during that first season, the coach finally sighed heavily and pointed up the ice, saying “This way GOOD” and then down the ice “This way BAD”. That worked for me.

I suppose what I lacked in talent I made up for with determination and enthusiasm (two traits that seem to be of significant embarrassment to my children). I went to class every Sunday evening and no matter how clumsy or frustrated I felt, I always went back. During the week, I even convinced unsuspecting colleagues to skate with me during the lunch hour. Practice, Practice, Practice. By the end of the first season, there was not a part of my body that hadn’t felt the full impact of the ice is some way, means or form. But I could skate, stop, turn, go backwards and crossover. Puck handling was a bit of a challenge, but I learned which direction on the ice was “GOOD” and that helped. I improved. A lot.

The following fall, I joined a newly formed team called the Demons which said as much about the team’s generosity toward novices as it did about the overall level of the team. The Demons were the team with Personality. At the end of our first season, we were 0 for 20. But we had a great time, played hard and gelled as a team. Moreover, the entire team mastered the unwritten yet fundamental rules of hockey. Number one: No Crying. (Bitching, Whining and complaining were, of course, acceptable.)Rule number two: Hockey players are required to use obscenities to describe anything they want to happen in the sport, as in screaming “If you want a fucking goal, just shoot the fucking puck in the fucking net”. As you can imagine, this is a fantastic outlet for any woman with PMS. The last rule involved the generous consumption of beer to the exclusion of all other beverages. Early on in the season we went to a bar after a game, and several members of the team unwittingly ordered fruit based alcoholic beverages – you know the ones that come with small paper umbrellas in them. Our coach was dumbfounded. He looked at us and proclaimed very clearly “If you are going to play hockey, you better drink fucking beer.”

At the end of the first season, the team gave out awards to each team member. I got an award for “The team member with the prettiest name”. Not exactly the Stanly Cup, but I was playing hockey and loving it.

I actually played for six years in all. Each season was different. We all improved and new players and teams joined the women’s league. Best of all both Girls Hockey and Women’s hockey really took off. Seven years ago, it was all middle aged Moms and generic run of the mill lesbians who played like women. Now, there is an entire generation of ass kicking competitive hot babe hockey players old enough to be my daughters and some young run of the mill lesbians who play like men. In 2004, there were even two young women from Rochester on the US Olympic Hockey Team.

Men’s hockey leagues are divided by ability, so you can play with people with similar skill levels. In women’s hockey the only distinction is age: Under 19 and over 19, so every year the Women’s league has become more competitive. I, on the other hand, have not. Don’t get me wrong. I play to win, but hockey was my cabana boy and last year I decided it was time to move on. No regrets. I traded in my hockey skates for a skin suit and speed skates. Speed skating is the hardest thing I have ever done, and I love it. And I never ever would have had the guts to do it, if I hadn’t thrown caution and humility to the wind and played hockey.

I really think women of all ages owe it to themselves to play a sport. And here’s why: I’m in better shape now than when I was in my thirties. And I am braver. Anything physical used to intimidate me. Instead of an observer, I am now a participant. When I was younger, I would take my kids to the pool and watch them swim. Now I swim with them. Ditto for volley ball, basketball, white water paddling and sledding. I even tried snow boarding. And finally and most importantly –I don’t skate for anyone but me, and it brings me great joy. If that’s not the answer to a mid life crisis, what is?