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If I had to pinpoint the worst aspect of the meteorologically schizophrenic Northeast it would have to be the rapid change between the sweatshirt and shirtless seasons. Every year, many of us are caught off guard and scramble to lose the blubber that is physiologically essential to surviving the harsh winter. Running, I have been told, is the fastest way to lose this and I do it as much as I can.
That being said, running sucks. It's boring as hell. When I was rowing crew the one thing that I could not master was the skill of staring at the back of another guy's head while repeating the same motion over and over. "O'Brien, keep your fucking head in the boat" was my nickname on the team. And we were rowing on Lake Quinsigamond in Worcester. Imagine if there was actually scenery worth watching.
I realized I had to pursue other avenues of calorie burning. Playing pick-up hockey seemed like a good idea. Initially. I'm not sure why I thought this was a good idea. I haven't played in over a year. "It's just like riding a bike" someone said. No, no it is not. It's like riding a unicycle through an obstacle course while trying to hit a golf ball through a moving target the size of a dinner plate. I thought I would give it one last try before hanging up the skates and getting serious about golf.
It turns out I can still play. The first circle around the rink when I crossed over through a turn and my skates stayed under me I knew I would be alright. After a few goals the confidence was sky high; which was the part of my game that was missing back when I played competitively. In high school I never would have tried to take the puck out from behind my own net. But I did, and beat four guys in the process. The last move (in my own mind) was right out of Ovechkin's playbook, putting the puck through the final defenseman's skates and in perfect position to shoot. And I did. About three plexi-glass panels to the right of the net. The boards rattled and I laughed at myself for being so athletic and incompetent in the span of about 9 seconds.
I sat down on the bench near the end. I must have been beet red and soaked in sweat and I popped my helmet off to cool down. The kid to my right did the same. He could not have been more than 12 years old. The faded hockey bag I lugged my equipment in was literally older than him. His name was Conery as far as I could tell from the name on his jersey.
"Who do you play for?" Conery asked.
"Um, nobody."
"I mean, who did you play for in college?"
"I didn't play in college." I said between gulps of air.
"Wow," Conery said, "You could have."
I didn't realize it, but that's what I was playing for. I never really struggled with a sense of belonging but it suddenly occurred to me how much I wanted the approval of these 13 strangers I was playing with and against. I missed having a team even if the team only lasted for 2 hours and our only common bond was that we chose to wear a dark jersey today instead of white or grey. But it felt better than running alone. Thanks, Conery. Good luck next year at Winchendon.
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