The
following was written by
Hockey East Commissioner
Joe Bertagna.
Rites of Spring:
March approaches. It's a
time when the Rites of
Spring gain headlines.
For many people, it
means getting excited
about spring training
and the pending baseball
season. Though for some
of us, it means the
Yankees made better
off-season deals and the
Red Sox rotation is
still two pitchers
short.
For me, there is another
Rite of Spring. I have
to decide if I've just
finished my last season
of playing hockey. The
decision can wait until
the fall, when that call
comes. But as the
equipment gets hung up
in the basement, there
is that sense that comes
each spring that maybe
this is the last time
for this particular
ritual.
I've been playing goal
for about 36 years and
for the past
two winters, I've found
a great outlet for my
hockey yearnings. No
more adult leagues. No
more "no-check"
tournaments. It's just
the same group of guys,
every Thursday night for
80 minutes at a suburban
private school rink. No
refs. No scoreboard.
Just the white shirts
against the dark. Adult
pond hockey, basically.
What makes this
particularly attractive
is the fact that almost
all of us, whether 31
years old or 51 years
old, played for the same
high school and the same
coach. There's a lot
more going on here than
a weekly skate.
Now, I realize this
means very little to you
readers. I mean,
this isn't Bourque
retiring after winning
the Cup. It's not
Messier finally slowing
down. But in my own
little world, it is
difficult to give up the
one activity that has
basically defined me for
most of my adult
life. Plus, if you
"don't" do something
anymore, it's a short
walk to the realization
that you "can't" do that
something anymore. And
no one wants
to acknowledge that.
This isn't necessarily a
case of stopping because
it isn't fun anymore or
acknowledging failing
skills. Hell, I've
watched my modest skills
eroding for years. I've
responded by a) lowering
my own standards, and b)
finding a different
level of competition.
It's a feeling
that, with the demands
of my job and my family
growing, it might just
be time. In fact, for
some reason I can't
fully explain, it has
been more painful
watching the skills of
others erode. I've seen
mine decline gradually
over a long period of
time. And, to be
honest, I was never a
superstar to begin
with. But watching some
of my friends' skills
go, now that has made me
feel old. There are
certain buddies with
whom I have played,
almost continually,
since youth hockey.
There has been a certain
sense of
comfort watching them
make great plays with
quick hands and uncanny
anticipation.
Suddenly, they can't do
it with the same
regularity. And it
makes me feel that
my world is changing and
I don't like it. Some
nights, I call what I do
"Playing Hockey." Other
nights, I call it
"Standing On Ice While
People Shoot Things At
Me And Hope That
They Hit Me." That
doesn't sound quite as
attractive.
Anyway, I've made a list
of some of the things
I'll never experience
again if I decide to
hang 'em up.
I'll never experience
lugging the oversized
bag of equipment up the
cellar stairs, through
the kitchen, through the
breezeway and out to
the car again. Nor will
I ever experience going
back and picking up the
nine things I knocked
over in the process,
including my two-year
old daughter, Grace.
(That only happened once
and I still think she
could have seen
me coming and moved.)
I'll never again have
that uneasy feeling when
you are more
than halfway to the rink
and you are running late
and you realize you have
absolutely no
recollection of putting
your cup in your
equipment bag.
I won't get dressed for
the first time in
October and discover
that my hockey pants
have somehow shrunk
since the last time I
wore them. I mean, it's
either that or I ... no,
they shrunk. They
definitely shrunk. I'll
miss locker room talk.
Subtle put-downs. Not
so subtle put-downs.
Being 20 years older
than the youngest guy in
the room and not feeling
out of place. Now,
whether they don't feel
I'm out of place is
another story. I can't
control that.
I won't be the first one
in the locker room and
the last one
out. Again. So I like
to talk. What's wrong
with that?
I'll never again stretch
so long that I miss most
of warm-ups. My theory
on warm-ups is this: I
don't play it like a
game so more pucks just
hit me, as opposed to me
going after them. The
ones that just hit you
hurt more. Second, at
this age, I feel I only
have so many saves left.
Why waste them in
warm-ups. So I don't
take many warm-ups.
I'll miss that mental
sequence that unfolds
each year. Week One: "I
have no expectations of
playing well. I just
don't want to get
hurt." Week Three:
"Hey, I'm playing better
than I thought." Week
Five: "Can't any of
these guys cover
anyone? Where the hell
are the back checkers!"
Week Twelve: "I hope
this is almost over. I
just don't want to get
hurt."
I'll certainly miss the
characters. Anyone who
has played adult hockey
knows the types. There's
that one guy who is
better than the rest
but doesn't acknowledge
it. He makes everyone
around him play better
and is unselfish, never
showing everything he
could do. There is that
little guy who buzzes
around and makes you
wonder why he didn't
make it at some
higher level. There is
that guy who wasn't ever
a star when he was
younger but is now
playing better than he
ever has at any other
time in his life. And,
of course, there is The
Mouth. That guy who has
something to say about
everyone, knows exactly
which buttons to push to
get someone's goat, and
usually has one poor
foil who takes the brunt
of his verbal assaults.
Then there are all the
little things. Picking
off a pass. Being
out of position and
watching the shot go
wide. Hearing the sound
of puck hitting post.
Realizing that the puck
that just hit the post
went wide. Playing
against a classmate's
son. Lining up for a
face-off and looking to
see which way the slot
guy shoots. Taping a
new stick.
Playing against a
classmate's daughter.
Replacing a toe strap.
The taste of a beer in a
parking lot at midnight
when it's 15 degrees
out.
I guess I started
thinking about this more
when I realized that
in my last session, I
actually spent more time
drinking beer in the
parking lot than I did
playing on the ice.
(Hey, we rotate three
goalies.) But that also
reminded me that it's
not just the icetime
that attracts us. My
guess is that if the 80
minutes became 40
minutes, many of
us would still show up,
for the locker room, the
reduced ice, and the
parking lot.
It's what we do. It's
who we are. And we
don't ever want to start
a winter without a
schedule on our
refrigerator that is our
very own.
Joe
