Two Minutes Of Shame

Field Trip: Hokejs Bez Alus Ir Dailslidosana!

2007-05-11T11:40:00.000-07:00

OK, I've got a ton of catching up to do, and I've got 2 points through 6 games this season, but in the meantime check this out.

Jen and I got the chance to watch Latvia v. Switzerland in the IIHF World Championships in a local (Irish) pub in Riga our last day in Latvia. The local brewery, Aldaris, had some promo people in the pub wandering around painting people with the Latvian flag and stencils of their unimpeachable tagline:

Hokejs Bez Alus Ir Dailslidosana!
(Hockey Without Beer Equals Figure Skating!)

Awesome.

So, they took our picture, and lo and behold, it ended up on their website.

Unfortunately, Latvia lost 2-1 to Switzerland. But Latvia hockey fans, being the most boisterous in Europe, still wandered Riga, happily drunk.

Prieka!

Do You Believe In Miracles?

2007-03-18T08:35:00.000-07:00

"Yes, yes I do believe in miracles." -- Vladislav Tretiak, Do You Believe in Miracles? The Story of the 1980 U.S. Hockey Team

So do I. Because on March 16, 2007, a full 6 months after I began skating at Chelsea Piers, and almost 20 games after I joined the Blue Bombers, a miracle occurred.

I scored a goal.

I was starting to believe that a goal, for me, was like Bigfoot: I want to believe it exists, but I'm sure that I'll never see it in my lifetime. I'm not sure how I actually got on the schnide, but it seemed that getting off was going to be about as easy as getting off of the 3 train at 18th street. I'd had a few legitimate chances, with an emphasis on "few", but I'd blown open net looks from crisp passes, steering them wide. And with our dismal start, I wasn't the only one having a hard time finding the net.

It didn't look good on Friday night either. Playing the Hornets, a decent upper-middle D6 team, we were experiencing our classic 2nd period meltdown. Founding Bomber Scott found the net in the 2nd, but we were still down 5-1 late in the 3rd. I'd been playing a pretty decent game, despite the fact that it was an 11:30pm game, there was 5 inches of snow and sleet on the ground, and I'd taken a cab to the rink because I'd given up on the C train after waiting 15 minutes on the platform. I was open for passes on the left wing, and I even handled some of them. Got off two long shots from the top of the left circle, one of which ended up in the netting above the end boards.

But late in the game, I was resigning myself to another point-less night. Scott reminds me of Phil from Gang Green in some ways: he makes a living hanging around the far post, getting rebounds. That's how he scored our lone goal. As a team, we're not great at crashing the net looking to scoop up junk. We get too many one-man breakaways or shots that arrive before the cavalry shows up in front of the net. One of the Wednesday night coaches told us that 90% of the goals in the NHL aren't those long, pretty wrist shots or slap shots. They're mostly rebounds or deflections. Guess I had this in the back of my mind with less than 4 minutes left in the game.

We were making a go of it late, despite being down by 4 goals. A couple of rushes on my shift, a couple of good shots from the other side of the ice. Suddenly, I find myself camped on the left side of the slot, no one's marked me, and a deflection comes spinning out into the slot. It's coming slowly, because the puck's on its side, spinning like a quarter. The goalie's still leaning the other way, but as I slap at the puck, he dives wildly back across the goal mouth. Miraculously, I got the puck up (and at such close range), and the goalie still got some body on it. I think it clipped his jersey between his arm and torso before settling in the back of the net, waist-high.

It was almost anti-climactic. I mean, we were down 4 goals with as many minutes to go. I didn't celebrate much, just raised my stick over my head solemnly, and tapped a few gloves on the way to the bench. Once there, I mostly muttered "Finally!" to Scott and Karel.

They scored another goal before it was all over. With that, our + / - was -18 after 4 games.

But I'm off the schnide.

G: 1
A: 0
PM: 0

Introducing: Biff McDouche

2007-03-08T07:25:00.000-08:00

This guy seems to be a recurring theme, so I figured I'd run with it.

I really dig the Wednesday clinic, and while it can't replicate the camaraderie of OIC's Thursday skate, it makes up for it in the quality of instruction.

And then there's Biff McDouche.

Seriously, I've never quite seen a guy who's so painfully unaware of himself. Sure, there was that Asian guy who used to hog the puck and yell at newbies who fucked up drills in the Sunday Buttcrackofdawn skate at OIC. But Biff takes that cringing misanthropy to a whole new level. Must be the Canadian in him.

Turns out I'd only begun to scratch the surface in cataloguing Biff's coterie of hockey transgressions. In addition to being a cloying eager-beaver who shoots out of turn during warm ups, I've witnessed the following jaw-dropping acts of endearment:

Asking Alana how her Valentine's Day was made me cringe out loud.
In spite of his clumsy flirting with Alana, he disregards her advice to wait until the Zamboni doors are closed to come out on the ice for warm ups (Alana feels that this is more respectful to the Zamboni guy). Biff sits on the railing next to the door, almost visibly oscillating with anticipation. Invariably, he's the first guy on the ice. The Zamboni guy's barely had time to dismount and shut the doors. Biff gets in almost two full loops before anyone else gets on the ice. Atta boy.
Talk about taking the drills too seriously. I've seen Biff fully elbow a guy off the puck on the boards during a 3-on-3 drill. He yells "pass the fucking puck!" during the horseshoe. When he's going out of turn.
He's notorious about winging the puck the full length of the ice, "playfully" trying to hit the skate of one of the instructors in a classic "Look at me! Look at me!" ploy for attention. The problem is, he invariably does this in the middle of drills or when the ice is chockablock with skaters warming up. It's only a matter of time before some poor newbie, unsteady as a newborn fawn, steps on the puck and goes careening into the boards. Or someone more experienced does, and clowns this guy in return.
Last week, during a full-ice scrimmage, I sat on the bench next to a guy who fully intended to line Biff up. Biff was getting chippy. In a scrimmage. I got a lot of backstory on Biff from this guy.

Apparently, Biff has a collection of cringe-worthy sweaters that he used to wear to the clinic with douchetastic slogans on them like you'd find on cafepress (although I do like the "Mo Wanchuk's Dating Service" one). Stuff like "I Have A Big Stick". Enough said.
While Biff certainly talks a good game -- at one point, while I was on the ice on D, Biff came down the right wing, blindly passed to no one in the slot (although Nick, one of the instructors, was in the vicinity) and screamed "go to the fucking net!" -- and would have you believe he's in D3, he actually plays for a D7 team.
He's also renowned for...wait for it...never coming off of the ice in games and scrimmages.

He enthusiastically, and inexplicably, led the warm up stretch last night. He beamed like the teacher's pet who just wrecked the grading curve. Most of us were looking at each other, shaking our heads, as he tried to lead us through a loose series of 5 second stretches.
He wears the old LA Kings gold-and-purple sweater and socks.

Every clinic needs its Biff. If only to remind us that, no matter how badly we suck, we're not Biff.

Don't Stop The Bleedin': Blast 8, Blue Bombers 0

2007-03-05T18:37:00.000-08:00

(With apologies to Steven Perry...)

Holy shit. Two games in, and we're -15. Completely shut out for the second time, but this time by a good team. The Blast has a creepily similar name and logo to my inaugural team in Oakland, the Arctic Blast. But that's where the similarities end.

The Blast don't belong in D6. They are a far superior team, stacked with talent borrowed even from D1, reminding me of the similar complaints of ringers at OIC. They play team hockey, like they've practiced it.

And they are chippy little bitches. While I certainly contemplated getting a penalty just to break up the monotony and get on the scorecard, these guys easily racked up 6 or more penalties. I lost count. Not that the power plays helped us any, but they were taking chippy little penalties. I've still got scratches and a bruise from getting hooked on the wrist between my glove and elbow pad as I was loading up for a rare shot.

They dominated, and I can't imagine it was that fun for them. I played a decent game, at least, got a couple of (wide...grrr...) shots off, caught and made a decent pass or two, stuffed their best player on a forecheck. But it's still no fun getting pummelled like that. And I can't fathom the mentality of a D1 player who's got nothing better to do than skate circles around a bunch of beer-leaguers on a Friday night.

I started thinking about whether the rink even cared. I imagine the economics of the leagues in NYC are much different that at OIC, which is struggling. There were almost 80 people at evals. There are something like 100 teams at Chelsea Piers right now. There's no shortage of people clamoring to play. So what does the rink care if a team folds because members are pissed about ringers? Andre might have cared, because OIC has a hard time filling the ice. And in a "pot calling the kettle black" turn, the Gulls, a top team in D6, complained to us about the ringers on the Blast.

In any case, we haven't scored a goal for over 6 periods. And I haven't scored a goal in almost a year.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

Getting Off On The Wrong Skate: Los Guapos 7, Blue Bombers 0

2007-02-24T12:38:00.000-08:00

And so the Spring season begins at Chelsea Piers. Certainly picking up where we left off. Despite a relatively full roster and low-impact eval recruiting session, the Blue Bombers are still looking for their stride. And the net.

Not sure why we can't score. We had a full bench, stacked with our best players. Los Guapos picked off the best of last season's New York Mac, including one fast dude who definitely didn't belong in D6, but they weren't far and away better than us.

This was a completely unremarkable game. Except for the 7 goals they racked up in the second and third periods. Shades of Gang Green, we played a solid first period, and stayed with Los Guapos the entire period. Then, the first goal opened the floodgates, which didn't close until the Zamboni doors opened at the end.

I think I got a shot or two off, but overall, I felt like I was watching the game more than skating in it. Passes bounced off my stick like my hands were stone. My teammates could always blame rustiness or lack of feel on the ice on the 4 week layoff between seasons. But I'd been skating in the Wednesday clinic, so my excuse consisted of having gotten three days of snowboarding in the previous weekend on top of skating in the clinic.

Not much there.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

The Other Side Of The Glass Is Half Full

2007-02-09T13:30:00.000-08:00

It's Evaluation Time again!

Luckily, this time, I'm on the other side of the glass: I'm watching, evaluating, judging, mocking, selecting. Not skating.

Just before the Spring 2007 season kicks off at Chelsea Piers, I attended the evaluation skate with Carrie, our captain, and teammates Eric and Brian (who were also scouting for their Division 5 team, Homer's Heroes).

Skating in the eval session is nerve-wracking enough, especially considering the fact that when I skated for evals, it was only my second time on the ice at CP. Needless to say, it was much less stressful this time to stand there with a pad and pen while the skaters did all of the hard work.

So, as we casually milled around beside the rink, with a subtle air of superiority, some 70+ skaters (I recall around 60 in my session) warmed up and got ready to impress us.

I was there mainly for support. I figured Carrie and Eric would do all of the selection, and I'd collar guys as they came off of the ice to lure them into the rarified air of D6 hockey. Besides, I didn't want to compare notes with Carrie and find out that our eye for quality rec-league hockey skill diverged significantly. In addition, Carrie had done some serious recruiting in the off-season. Turns out we only really needed one or two skaters, and therefore we could afford to be picky.

We kept simple lists: a column for Yes and a column for No. We jotted down the numbers on the laminated cards pinned to everyone's jerseys based on skill and propensity to fit into D6. The obvious choices -- fast skaters, obvious skill players, good shots -- were about as likely to make our cut as the guys who tripped over the blue lines. There would simply be too much competition for the upper tier of player, so why bother? Turns out my list was pretty compatible with Carrie's, and overlapped where it counted. I recognized a couple of folks from my Wednesday clinic, but not the kinds I'd stick my neck out and try to recruit.

After sitting around cracking jokes at the skaters' expense -- including our current goalie Dominic, who was looking for more ice time on an additional team -- the water break came. I boasted that the drills they ran during my eval session were harder -- where the fuck was the skate-on-one-blade-and-kick-the-other-leg-up-to-the-outstretched-stick drill? -- and we agreed to divide and conquer based on the top 5 or so on our lists. Being the betting guy that I am, I guessed that the guys I was slated to corner would "want to skate in D3 or D4".

And I was right. It wasn't like these guys were superstars. Sure, we could be picky, and were therefore targeting better players, but it was almost as humiliating to get the pseudo-reverse-rejection as it was to skate in a fishbowl with hopes that a team would pick you up. The interchange would go something like this:

Me: Hey, I'm John.
Them: Hey, I'm [redacted].
Me: So, what division are you looking to skate in?
Them: D3 or D4. [I fucking knew it!] What division are you guys in?
Me: [cocky] We're a strong D6 team [And by "strong", I mean we went 5-12 last season.], and we've got some solid D3, D2 players on our team [Great coaching, Carrie!]. We only need, like, one guy, so we're looking for another star.
Them: [looking around] Um, yeah, OK, I see.
[uncomfortable pause]
Me: Yeah, so, I'll tell you what. Here's my captain's contact info, her name is Carrie. Give us a holler if you're interested. [Voice and body language projecting: "You know, when you can't get on a team above D5, you egotistic fuck."]
Them: OK, cool.

And so it went. As it turns out, Carrie and Brian were more successful in their pursuits while I was cannon fodder. I like to think that by covering the D3 wannabes on our list, I freed them up to pursue more realistic finds. Turns out, we picked up one guy on our list...who was ranked as a 3 by the rink. Carrie's contention is that the rink is much more generous with their rankings, and notorious about inflating the rankings they send out to team captains after evals. She noted that out of our list of Nos, the rink ranked "a 4/5, two 5s, 2 5/6s, 9 out of 13 6s, and 7 out of 9 7s."

Naturally, I joked "I shudder to think of how they ranked me."

Carrie's response? A 6.

Ahem.

But, she continued, "You're not a ringer, but you're solid, and besides, everyone on the team likes you. Personality matters."

I'll take it.

TMOS Field Trip: Red Wings 4, Rangers 3

2007-02-06T08:27:00.000-08:00

It may be a little-known fact that I was born in Detroit. While I haven't been back there since I left at the tender age of 5 (do the math, that was almost 32 years ago), I carry my Detroit origins with me to this day.
Case in point: my allegiance to the Detroit Red Wings.

One of the first sports teams I can recall as a youngster -- along with the Michigan Wolverines -- when I awoke one morning to find an old school felt pennant and hockey puck from a Wings game my parents had gone to when we lived in Detroit. I still have the puck.

So it's a little odd that it's taken me almost 37 years to see the Wings play live. I finally got that opportunity Monday night, at Madison Square Garden, "The World's Most Famous Arena" of all places. (What, no one's heard of the Coliseum in Rome, perhaps?)

My co-worker splits a set of Rangers season tickets at MSG. I'm the lucky recipient of his cast-offs, and I explicitly asked about the Wings game before the season began. I only found out I'd scored the tickets last week, and was excited not only of the prospect of seeing the Wings play in New York, but of enjoying a fine premium beer (served with a pretzel stick in the hollow handle of the mug) after my month-long hiatus on the wagon.

Jen and I met at MSG, and I got the rare chance to wear my Wings hat and sweater to a game. An opponent's game. In New York. Turns out there were plenty of Wings fans in attendance, and frankly, New Yorkers don't really care much about Western Conference teams. They reserve their ire for fans of the Sabres, Islanders, Devils and especially the Flyers. Oh, and their own team.

I'd seen a couple of games at MSG already this season, including a loss to the Sabres, a loss to the Flyers, and a loss to the Senators. And while I genuinely like the Rangers for an Eastern Conference team -- they've got ex-Red Wing star Brendan Shanahan, constantly-drunk Latvian standout Sandis Ozolinsh and minors-fixture Lithuanian Darius Kasparitis -- I was hoping they wouldn't break my unlucky streak with the Wings.

It didn't look good from the outset. Hasek, old as Methuselah yet solid this season for the Wings, coughed up two early goals, just 13 seconds apart in the first 2:31 of the game. The first was a nifty shot from the right circle by -- you guessed it -- former teammate Shanahan. The second occured when Hasek strayed from the net to play a puck, mishandled it, and left a wide-open net for Michael Nylander. "Great", I thought, "the Rangers decide to actually play hockey the one and only time the Wings are in town this season."

Pavel Datsyuk, glaring omission from the All-Star team, got the Wings on the board 7+ minutes in, but the 1-goal disadvatage didn't make it through the period. Marcel Hossa made it 3-1 on a power play goal, almost identical to the shot that Shanny netted in the opening minutes. That's the way the game would stay for another 26 minutes or so: after a scoreless 2nd period, the Rangers were still up 3-1.

But, as I cracked to the guy behind me, "that's why they play 3 periods." Henrik Lundqvist repayed the Wings for Hasek's miscues: mishandling a rebound that Jiri Hudler converted to make it 3-2 just 2:31 into the 3rd. The smattering of Wings fans broke the silence of the Garden, and Detroit started pulling away in terms of outshooting the Rangers. Another mistake by Lundqvist gave Robert Lang an easy walk-in shot that evened the score at 3-3 with about 9 minutes left. The crowd was disintegrating into booing the Rangers, something that I've seen in each of my trips to the Garden. It got worse when Henrik Zetterberg put a nifty shot in on a power play to go ahead for the first time in the game with 7:30 or so left to play. The boos rained down. The fans have no patience for the Rangers. Even when the Rangers pulled Lundqvist in a 4-3 game with a minute left, people were streaming to the exits.

Exciting finish, and one that favored the Wings fans. Especially a guy who got to see his "hometown" play team for the first time. In New York.

Making the "O" Face: Blue Bombers 1, Bombers 4

2007-01-21T11:24:00.000-08:00

There's one thing that's sure different about playing hockey in New York: I can't score.

With the 19-Jan-07 final-game loss to the cellar-dwelling Bombers (they were 3-12-1 at the time), I finished the first season of my beer-league career without a goal. Yeah, I had 2 assists and 8 penalty minutes, but not a single goal. A big fat O-fer.

Hell, even in my first season -- then with the dysfunctional Arctic Blast -- in 2003, I was able to find the net. The next season in Oakland, my 2nd season playing organized ice hockey, I scored in my first game with Gang Green...against my old team, the Arctic Blast. Eventually, I'd go on to have a double-digit goal season with Gang Green, including my first hat trick against Kwijibo. Even as a defenseman with Gang Green I was good for a handful of goals a season, tossing something ugly in from the blue line.

Not so out here. Sure, I've had a few chances. But by and large, I haven't had that many decent chances, usually resorting to flinging the puck at the net -- Colin and Jessica always taught us to "pass the puck off the goalie" in the offensive zone -- and hoping for a rebound for a teammate. And while the legit chances have been few and far in between, I still cringe while replaying them in my head: steering the puck just wide, goalie leaning the other way. Ugh.

Our final game this season was no different, although I was in less of a position to score. Carrie had sent an email soliciting feedback on the team, and being the shy guy that I am, I replied with a polite, verbose treatment of how an outsider (me, the new guy) viewed the dynamics of the team. It mostly revolved around how our stellar players were on D, and how I thought that this kept our best scorers out of scoring position while also exposing us when they rushed into the play. Somewhere in there, I may have volunteered the play defense again, despite my meltdown early in the season, in an effort to get more firepower up front.

Carrie ended up starting me on D for this last game, which was a shot in the arm for me. The pressure was off on many fronts: we were already eliminated from the playoffs, we were playing the last-place team, and I'd gotten more comfortable playing with the Blue Bombers and in a league in New York. To me, it was a vote of confidence from the team, in spite of the fact that the game meant absolutely nothing. In the end, I played a composed, confident, and capable game on D for 2 periods.

Then, Scotty, one of our wings, went down with a leg injury. With a short bench, we elected to go with 3 defensemen, and I got tapped to move up to wing. I like to think that I'm versitile enough to play any position (well, save center, which I don't like as much), and was happy to comply. By this time, we were getting dominated on the scoreboard. We weren't being outskated or outplayed, just outscored. Which sucked. So, with less than 3 minutes left, Brian and I rushed into the offensive zone. He set up in the left corner, our center favoring the near post, and I rotated back to the slot towards the far post. Wide open, Brian saw me and centered the puck crisply. Wide open, I was ready to shoot. Wide open, I took my eyes off the puck to clock where the goalie was, and the pass hit my blade while my hands were much too stiff. The puck dribbled off to the right, I never got the shot off. Cursing, I chased the puck, looked up, and fired a centering pass back into the slot. Eric, our center, got a shot off, but that was about it.

Story of my (offensive) season.

The Old Skool

2007-01-17T12:28:00.000-08:00

Check out what Gail dug up and sent along.

It's the old crew from Oakland Ice, circa February 13, 2003. Gail's on the far right, and your author is on the far left (maroon Latvia jersey). Several of the usual suspects can be identified, raptly enjoying Emery's instruction: John Darlington, Tony Johnson (before a ruptured disk ended his burgeoning hockey career), Marty Haulena, Phil Accardo, Rob Fife, Mike Van Bruntski, Suzanne Robles, Eric Carino, Alan and Glen Macomber.

Pretty cool. I think the only person I know at tonight's Instructional Session is this dude Jamie, who, curiously enough, I recognized from the Thursday skate in Oakland from a year or so ago.

I'm Very Coachable

2007-01-11T13:31:00.000-08:00

With the 13-week Winter Instructional session in full swing, it's time to pause and reflect a little bit on the personalities that make these 80-minute sessions so memorable.

Thankfully, gold-medalist Alana Blahoski took over Fall session about two weeks in. Previously, Jim Bugenhagen, the hockey director at Chelsea Piers, had been running the clinic.

Now, nothing against Jim, he seems like a pretty decent guy. But damn, he made Eric look mild-mannered in comparison. Lots of hollering, red-faced, as we did drills. The worst sort of coaching cliches possible, including making people who showed up late for a paid session skate the length of the rink.

And when people half-assed or fucked up a drill? Gems like "Don't waste my time out here! If you're not going to skate, get off the ice! Do not waste my time!" Um, yeah, Jim. I'm paying about $30 for you to be out here, so I'll lollygag my ass up and down the ice all I want, and you just have to sit there and suck it.

Not really the kind of quality coaching experience I was looking for.

Anyway, Alana and the crew are much more mellow without sacrificing the desire to have us skate hard, focus on mechanics, and improve. Along with Patrick and Nick, they run an efficient and engaging session. Typically, we'll divide up into three groups, one in each zone. Alana is very focused on skating mechanics -- through her guidance, I've stopped lacing my skates all the way to the top grommet and I lace them much looser. This alows a scary freedom of movement that makes me think I'm going to break my ankles, yet at the same time noticably improves my skating. Her skating drills are demanding: lots of edge work, impossible shit like standing with one skate on a puck (!!) and trying to use the other skate to propel you in a straight line, trying 180-degree turns...with the inside knee on the ice. But I can see a method in her mad drills, and appreciate any improvement that I realize in my skating.

At the other end of the ice, Patrick will focus on game situation drills: 1-on-1s, shooting, cycling the puck, tip drills. He's a good coach -- not sure of his background -- and motivates without trying to intimidate. In the neutral zone with Nick, we get a steady diet of passing and stick handling drills. Every 15 minutes or so our group of 15 skaters rotates through the stations, rounding out our little clinic. Beyond warmups for the first 10 minutes or so, the sessions can be pretty mechanical and less aerobic than I'd like, although last night's skate was pretty tiring.

While I'm on the topic of warm-ups, let's discuss that one guy that is in every clinic. You know the guy:

The intense guy that always jumps to the front of the line for drills like he knows exactly what he's doing...and then fucks the drill up.
The guy that, once his turn at the drill is over, screws around with the puck in front of the net or in the corner, interfering with the drills, impeding skaters from completing the drill, shooting on the empty net (often missing and hitting people waiting in line). And not in the Greg Rock kinda way.
The guy that, during shooting warmups before the session starts, ignores the goalie and just about anyone else on the ice, shoots out of turn when the goalie isn't looking, rushes in on a 1-on-0 out of turn when the goalie's not ready, then celebrates his "goal" and generally behaves like a gnat on the ice.
The guy that tries, just a little too hard, to be buddy-buddy with the coaches and staff, resulting in uncomfortable cringing from anyone unfortunate enough to overhear some vaguely double-entendred comment directed at Alana.
The guy that thinks he's better than most of the other skaters on the ice, and skates with that perception on his sleeve, in spite of all real evidence of his skating skills displaying quite the contrary.

Yeah, that guy. I don't know his name, but I've heard he's Canadian. Figures.

The Streak Lives (And Dies): Blue Bombers 6, Avengers 1

2007-01-06T11:24:00.000-08:00

Playing hockey under pressure certainly didn't do the Blue Bombers any good.

While waiting for our 11:30pm game to start, we watched our cellar-dwelling compatriots the Blizzard and the Marlins square off to settle a 5-5 tie on OT. And when the Blizzard deke'd the Marlins goalie for a nifty little backhand, our playoff hopes evaporated. We were officially, mathematically, eliminated from the playoffs, sparing us from having one extra game in the season and being slaughtered by an undefeated teal with a 88 +/- goal average.

With the pressure off (if you could call it pressure), the game took on a more casual air. While the Avengers were in last place, the bottom 4 teams in the league are remarkably comparable. Especially since I can't tell any of the teams apart anyway.

But we pretty much dictated the pace of the game, and went up 3-0 quickly. Naturally, any team that I play on makes a 3 goal lead a nail biter, but we managed to maintain control and avoid a 2nd period collapse. I had a prime opportunity to score on a breakaway, but failed to even get a shot off when I tried a move just above the crease.

Overall, I feel like I played a solid game: I was catching passes in the neutral zone on breakouts, was helping advance the puck, was forechecking and forcing the Avengers to make bad passes. And in spite of not being able to take advantage of scoring opportunities, I did come away from the game with a point. Breaking in on the right side, a defenseman forced me towards the corner. Just before the goal line, I took a peak and saw my wing partner driving down the slot. I quickly unloaded the puck, hitting him for a perfect one-timer that caught the goalie leaning to my side. First point in exactly 3 months (10/6).

Topped everything off with a ticky-tack roughing call -- their defenseman, off balance, collided with me while I was charging the net, and I sent him into the goalie. Just nice to get on the scorecard.

G: 0
A: 1
PM: 2

East v. West: OIC and CP

2007-01-04T15:39:00.000-08:00

You know, it's the little differences -- like le Big-Mac -- that you notice the most. And skating in New York City, aside from, you know, skating in New York City, differs in some subtle ways.

With both the Instructional Session and the Fall Season in full swing, I'm starting to notice -- and appreciate -- these differences in the same way I appreciate the difference between being stuck in traffic on the Bay Bridge and getting shoved into a downtown 3 train by a mass of seething humanity. Both suck, in their own charming, bowel-churning, ways.

So, here are some subtle differences from my experiences skating at Oakland Ice and Chelsea Piers:

Instructors
OIC: Emery Lykins. Terrific dude, pooka-shell rocker, horse-shoe-drill aficionado.

CP: Alana Blahoski. She's "women's hockey hot". Resume includes 1998 Women's Olympic Team Gold Medalist and 2006 Torino Assistant Coach. Great coach, by the way, and I've learned a ton of subtle skating techniques just in the last few months.

Locker Room
OIC: While OIC locker rooms are subterranean death-traps that make your gear almost smell palatable, the sense of camaraderie is palpable. Teams at least all congregate together to commiserate over strategy, hangovers, mishaps from the last game, how chippy the other team is, or to debate what is overflowing out of the toilet. Beers are staples pre- and post-game, if only to dull the pain of a loss, loss of your valuables, or the stench.

CP: Chelsea Piers has two classes of locker room: The Elite style, with full-sized lockers and a pro-style set up (the Rangers practice at CP sometimes, and college teams regularly play there); and the more prole locker rooms like the one I occupy, dubbed for the Red Wings (naturally). There are 5 of these locker rooms, and lockers run you $480 a year. Which, I can tell you, is more than worth it, sparing me the hassle of lugging my gear to/from my apartment and attempting to air it out in said apartment. As for the camaraderie in the locker room, see below.

Facilities
OIC: I'm hoping that Emery gets his dream of installing a sports bar above the bleachers between the NHL and Olympic ice. IT would make up for the disintegrating blue lines and sand in the creases.

CP: Pretty tricky when they can add "Season's Greetings" to the ice surface on both East and West rinks during the holidays. There's also a bowling alley and micro-brewery on the adjacent piers. No bleachers on the West rink, however, which requires anyone stupid enough to come out and watch the Keystone cop beer league antics to stand beside the glass.

Ambiance
OIC: Nothing could beat smelling Glen's beer-soaked gear bag, or the naked-fest that is the Kwijibo locker room experience.

CP: Again, lockers are first come, first served. And not co-ed. So, you end up changing in front of your locker, likely with members of the other team right next to you, or guys coming off the ice from the previous game. It's pretty crowded and hectic, and more intimidating when you don't know anyone (is the guy next to me on my team or not?). But on Wednesdays, for the clinic, I get the treat of changing at the same time as the New York Cyclones. And not the Mites, either. I get the high school kids, full of East Coast accents, bad jokes, and bravado. It's actually pretty entertaining, with a dozen kids making the same Jew, black, short-dick jokes. They're from pretty diverse backgrounds: some take cabs home to the UWS, some the train to Brooklyn, some up to Washington Heights. I've even gotten familiar with several of the characters in this crew:

Henry -- The loud, trying-too-hard-to-fit-in, obnoxious one in the group. Quick to instigate, quick to get a little beat-down. Tries to force the joke that just went out of style, often to hilarious results.
Robert -- Black kid who is the target of harmless high school racism, yet secretly the street cred touchstone everyone emulates.
Nunez -- The Hispanic with cred. Quick-witted, along with Robert, the source of the "your mama" style jokes with an edge.
Liebowitz -- Sorta like the Timmy Lupus of the bunch. Skinny, slight, but I think everyone likes him.
Zach -- Half-black, half-Jewish, rumored to be Halle Berry's son. At least that's what the jokes in the locker room have lead me to believe.

Post-Hockey Boozer
OIC: Nothing beats the atmosphere of drinking beer in a downtown Oakland parking lot to the serenade of gunfire and sydeshows. I miss Fast Eddie.

CP: While the 'Piers boasts a bowling alley and brew pub, most of the post-game imbibing takes place down 23rd street at The Half King. This is a cool, cozy pub with excellent bar food and drink selections. The waitstaff is universally sassy -- one waitress endlessly gave a teammate shit for ordering a "chick beer" to the point that she brought him a Shirley Temple -- but friendly to locals like us. They remember "the usual" -- Jamison's on the rocks and Magner's cider in a bottle for our co-captain -- and let us stow our hockey gear up front. Not a bad place to chill after those 8:30pm Friday games. Or (shudder) the 11:30pm games.

It's still not the same as skating at OIC, but it's skating, and that's what counts.

What's This "Winning" Thing? Blue Bombers 4, Jaguars 3

2006-12-30T08:39:00.000-08:00

Holy shit. Is that a "W" I see? I mean, it's been 2 months since the Blue Bombers came out on the right side of the score, and that was a 3-0 win in October. We'd dropped 6 games in the intervening weeks, mercifully broken up by holidays.

We were in the driver's seat for most of this game before the inevitable comeback (them) and collapse (us) in the 2nd period. Just like the good 'ole Gang Green collapses of 2nd periods past. Again, I'm flirting with the net. Karel, one of our fleet-footed defensemen, breaks in with me on a 2-on-1 in the second. He fires the puck into the slot as I rush in, and I steer the puck wide of the net. On net, it's a sure goal, since the goalie was leaning his way. Dammit.

But with the game tied in the 3rd, with 5 minutes left, our captain Carrie declared to no one in particular in the bench that we needed to win this game to remain in mathematical contention for a playoff spot. An OTL wouldn't cut it.

It was like she was calling her shot. 3.5 minutes later, my line is on the ice. Karel makes and rush, and skates the puck out of our zone, and another forward and I rush up with him. Karel skates the puck down into the left corner: I take up position in the mid-slot favoring the far post while the other wing Craig is in the high slot near the far circle.

Bang-bang: Karel pivots, fires the puck into the slot, Craig and I are ready. No need. The puck ricochets off of a defenseman's skate and 5-holes the goalie. And like that, we're up 4-3 with about a minute left.

Mathematically, and all, we're still in it.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

Back To Business As Usual

2006-12-23T10:42:00.000-08:00

You knew that the streak had to end. Not that it was much of a streak, but going 3-2 over a 5 game stretch was something I hadn't seen in, like, ever. At least not at Chelsea Piers.

1-Dec-06
Hornets 5
Blue Bombers 3

After a 3-week layoff over the holidays, the Blue Bombers faced a tough Hornets team (read: a team with a winning record). Apparently, the team was pretty short, and finished the game with only 7 skaters after an injury and someone getting tossed. They came close to winning, getting edged 5-3. I wouldn't know, since I was back in San Francisco, ~~binge-drinking for 17 hours~~ enjoying Big Game.

8-Dec-06
Blue Bombers 1
Blast 9

Just happy to be playing again after almost a month's layoff, the holiday schedule didn't net any Blue Bombers victories for Christmas. Part of it had to do with playing at 11:30pm on the Fridays before Christmas and New Year's, respectively, but that's just equivocating, isn't it? Especially since we won before New Year's.

Another team with a winning record, and we got creamed. We were pretty short, but I still had at least two scoring chances that I squandered.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

15-Dec-06
Blizzard 4
Blue Bombers 0

The scoring drought -- for me and for the team as a whole -- continues. The Blizzard are a middle-of-the-pack team, and we should be able to beat them. Or at least score. We've got a lot of firepower on this team, I just don't think we know how to harness it properly. We get the occasional rush, but it's a one-man affair. No coordination, not a lot of passing, no one is able to catch up and try for a rebound.

Whatever, I ain't the captain.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

22-Dec-06
Blue Bombers 3
NY Lions 7

11:30pm the night before I'm supposed to fly to see my folks for Christmas. In fact, I tailored my travel plans just so I could play a midnight D6 game against a top-tier team. What an ~~inspiration~~ idiot.

But at least my scoring chances are of better quality. One of our defensemen, Karel, and I started a nifty 2-on-1 rush that ended with him hitting me in front of the crease and me steering the shot wide on a decidedly open net. I'm getting more of these 2-on-1 and 2-on-2 chances, and dammit, I better start finding the back of the net on them. Seriously, I should have 3 goals by now.

Last game of 2006, and I'm feeling better about my position at wing. I'm getting more involved in the play, I'm setting up an outlet for the breakout, and it seems that teammates are finding each other on the ice with more profficiency. That, and a MetroCard, will get you on the subway.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

When Going 2-2 Feels Like A Winning Streak

2006-11-13T13:18:00.000-08:00

Since starting off the season 1-5, it was clear that this Blue Bombers team was a bit of a head-scratch for my veteran teammates. Seems that last season, the Blue Bombers went 12-5 en route to a 2nd round playoff exit. Amazing how much my presence can turn a team around, eh?

After winning our first game, we seemed to have found some sort of rhythm, going 2-2 thereafter:

20-October-06
Gulls 9
Blue Bombers 1

Mercifully, I missed this game to head home for my mother's 65th birthday party. I can think of a lot of things I'd rather do that lose to an undefeated team in an 11:30pm game. Going to the dentist might be one.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

27-October-06
Blue Bombers 3
Marlins 0

That's two winning games in a row for me. Yes, it's all about me. Despite the fact that I had no points, I got off a couple of decent shots and had a legit scoring opportunity that I just couldn't capitalize on.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

3-November-06
Blue Bombers 3
NewYorkMac 2

OK, now it's officially a streak. We've won 3 of our last 4 games, and that's three in a row for me. I'm settling back in at wing, but frustrated at the fact that I can't seem to buy a point. Loose pucks clatter in front of the net, and a split second late, I can't lift it over the goalie's pads.

I also earn my first solid penalty. Sprinting to a loose puck along the NewYorkMac blueline at the boards, I positively paste the onrushing wing. It was a 50-50 puck, but in the end I check him into the boards, unintentionally of course. He crumbles on top of me, pissed and cursing at me for ruining what would clearly have been the highlight of his recreational hockey career. He adds a few cross checks to the back of my head as he gets up, and of course I charge after him as he tries to join the play in our end. I see that the ref's arm is up, and I'm nailed, but we continue to jaw our way down the ice. The ref mutters something about how I should get 4 minutes for checking, instead of the 2 minutes for interference that I collect. This somehow makes me feel even better. They don't score on the resulting power play.

I apologize to the guy after the game, telling him I didn't mean to level him, that I thought I had a chance at the puck, that I'm not as fast as I think I am. He admits that it was a pretty good hit. This makes me feel better yet.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 2

10-November-06
Los Guapos 4
Blue Bombers 1

Reality comes crashing back in, and we lose in unspectacular fashion. Again, I'm worth a few shots and a quality pass or two, but I didn't really feel like I was in this game.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

In fact, I've noticed that I'll get yanked on penalty kills or on power plays. Carrie or Eric will sub someone for me on special teams, even if I've got fresh legs and just came out on the ice. A nagging doubt comes creeping back in that hearkens back to the dark days of defense. And it kind of pisses me off, because it's not like anyone else is playing that great. Our GF/GA average is among the worst in the league, befitting our record, and it's no one's fault, really. I like our goalie, Dominic, and he's stopping way more shots than the scores are indicating. Our defensemen are solid, if a little offensively heavy-handed, but we still can't score, and we still give up goals.

It may not be my fault, that much is clear, but I'm just as capable as killing a penalty as anyone.

Regardless, the early 8:30pm game affords us some quality time at the Half King, and given that this is our last game in almost a month -- all of our Bye weeks are coming over the holidays -- we get a good-sized team turnout. As I hang out more and get to know the team more, I like them, and I do fit in. A couple of guys just turned 40 (although I would have put them in their early-30s), a couple of guys work in financial services together, a key player is coming back after an injury from last year, etc. It's a funny thing about New York. The reputation for standoffishness isn't really deserved. Once you find commonality with people here -- whether it's having dogs, or living in California, or playing hockey -- the barriers we're all forced to throw up on the subway and the sidewalk are lowered to accommodate the commonality.

But I still want some commonality in the form of points, dammit.

Lucky Friday the 13th: Blue Bombers 5, Avengers 3

2006-10-16T12:32:00.000-07:00

Ding, dong, the Witch is dead!

The spectre of an 0-5 start is gone, vanguished by a convincing 5-3 win over the Avengers. On Friday the 13th, which I've always considered luckier than, say, Friday the 22nd.

I'd sort of forgotten what it was like to play wing, having played the better part of my last two seasons at D in Oakland. One of the things I liked about playing D was that you were involved in almost every play in your end, you had no choice. Wings can disappear, go unnoticed. Good ones will reappear next to the far post or on the blueline at the boards while breaking in. I can recall entire games where I touched the puck less than 5 times, and several shifts where I felt like I was skating aimlessly in another game entirely while the puck careened everywhere but my quadrant of the ice. Those were some of the most frustrating games: plenty of ice time, but you never really felt like you contributed -- good or bad -- at all. But D has to participate. When D disappears, you notice.

As I've said, we've got some solid players on our team: guys that can go end-to-end, can unload slapshots from the blueline that find the upper stick-side corner, can skate circles around the rest of us. But for some reason, this hasn't been translating into goals. I've attributed it (perhaps sour-grapes'edly) to the fact that the skilled players were trying to do it all themselves: Mark, a talented you guy who moved back to D from wing, would go coast-to-coast and maybe not get the shot off, leaving a breakaway going back our direction with no one covering his D slot. Hell, he gave up breakaways in the same manner that I did when I was on D, whether pinching or occasionally mishandling the puck. But his skill and production likely made up for that.

So I was at least determined to show that I belonged on the ice with these guys. Like I said, I'm certainly not the best guy out there, but I'm not the worst either. I picked up the puck in the neutral zone early in the 1st and went in mainly unopposed for a breakaway. Got the shot off, which was steered wide by the goalie. Later in the game, I got another solid moving slap shot off just over the blue line that caused a decent rebound and scoring chance that we couldn't convert. I'm good for at least a couple of shots on goal per game.

I like to think that I contributed, somehow, to the win. This being an 8:30pm game, Jen had snuck in to watch the second half of the game after going out to dinner with friends. Eager to celebrate our first victory, Jen and I headed over to the Half King. I was assuming that the rest of the team would follow, but I never saw anyone turn up. But Jen and I celebrated enough for everyone, trust me.

At Least It Wasn't My Fault: NY Lions 11, Blue Bombers 5

2006-10-08T09:32:00.000-07:00

OK, so maybe it wasn't my excruciatingly tentative defensive skills that were in question. Not completely, anyway.

This pasting, courtesy of the NY Lions, was mostly the result of needing to find a sub goalie minutes before the game. I guess our sub had shown up, but inexplicably without equipment, which was about as useful as tits on a bull. So our captain scrambled, and came up with...this guy. Allegedly, he'd played goalie before, if "having gear" qualifies as experience.

But other than that? I was probably as qualified, although I lack that certain, special, batshit insane quality (no offense, Liz and Elaine!) that many goalies possess.

And so it was a shooting gallery. On both ends. I mean, we combined for 16 goals out there, but it was a joke. We all knew it, so we relaxed and had at least a modicum of fun with it. They were scoring at will, from just about anywhere: slot, point, blueline. A slapshot had a better than 50-50 chance of finding the back of the net, and while our D was scrambling to sweep garbage out from in front of the crease from the inevitable rebounds, they weren't miracle-workers.

At least I was playing wing, and as such, felt a little removed from (and absolved of) the carnage going on below our defensive hash marks. After a couple of games of D where I just could not get comfortable, Carrie moved me up to wing. Sure, it stung a little. I felt like I'd stumbled coming out of the starting gate, never got comfortable playing D in a better league with people I didn't know. My first game at wing, Carrie was very cool about it: "I was really impressed with you out there, you had a great game." It eased the sting a bit, but I wore the fact that I played D as a badge of honor in Oakland. Wing was where you minimized the impact of lesser players.

But in the midst of the laugher, I managed to get the second assist on a legit bang-bang hockey play. Matt, one of our better players and highest scorers, was playing D. He rushed deep into the NY Lions zone, with me in tow at right wing. The puck was forced into the corner, and caromed around the boards to me just above the right faceoff dot on the boards. As a defenseman rushed to me, I coralled the puck, took a quick look, and noticed Matt stationed below the goal line to the near side of the net. Instead of forcing it into the crease or slot, I one-timed the puck back to Matt in deep, and he one-timed it to our center, Curtis, who was streaking down the slot. Curtis proceeded to one-time it into the net...bang-bang-bang.

It felt pretty good, and was finally something I could point to that would salve the wounds of not cutting it as a defenseman in the first few games.

In addition, since this was a relatively early game, I finally made it out with the team for beers. The loss was so comic that it didn't matter, and joining a couple of folks -- Scotty, Karel, Carrie, Eric -- at the Half King was the icebreaker I was looking for. When you're friends with people, all playing together and hanging out together, the beer-league nature of the games becomes more evident, and everyone loosens up. In getting to know my teammates -- substantial Buffalo contingent -- I'm hoping to gain their confidence. Mine too.

G: 0
A: 1
PM: 0

Swiss Cheese: Blast 7, Blue Bombers 4

2006-09-23T15:09:00.000-07:00

And then, depression set in.

You know, thanks to my old (tor)mentors back at OIC, I fancied myself at least a decent defenseman: I can pivot (mostly) without falling, picked up skating backwards and crossovers quicker than most at my level of (in)experience, and could hang in Bronze and Silver B.

With this game, the god damn plane has crashed into the mountain.

11 goals.

On a single shift, I personally contributed to 3 goals against us:

Got caught pinching in the neutral zone, got beaten, gave up a breakaway.
In offensive zone, wing passed back to me on the point, I mishandled it (putting it mildly), gave up a breakaway.
Caught edge on our blue line, gave up a breakaway.

Not bad for 1:30 shift. I can think of at least two other goals that resulted from shoddy play, decision-making, or effort on my part.

I've never felt so humiliated. I barely know these guys, and here I am, looking over to the bench trying to get some sort of sympathetic response. On the last goal of Satan's Shift, I yell "Get me the fuck off the ice!" and skate off.

Sitting on the bench, it's like I'm pitching a no-hitter: no one wants to talk to you, but it's not because they don't want to interrupt the magic that's unraveling before their eyes. I assume it's because we don't know each other, and they have no idea what to say. I'm doing my best to act casual. Don't bang your stick in disgust, don't examine your laces for signs of grommet wear. It's not working.

I skate the rest of the game like I'm skating on broken glass: tense, eyes darting around, tentative. I'm at the red line when the puck's in the offensive corner, I back up as soon as one of the Blast so much as looks at our net. It sucks, my confidence is shot.

A couple of guys in my locker room -- Damian and our goalie, Dominic -- are friendly about it after the game. "Don't let it get to you, it's no big deal." "Hell, I let in all of those goals, it happens, everyone has crap games, don't let it get in your head." I try to shake it off, and that's about all I can muster.

Outside, after changing, I lamely offer to buy beers for everyone, owing to the fact that I had such a mind-numbingly awful game. The offer is met unenthusiastically.

Carrie, our captain, says, "I'm thinking of moving you up to wing." Icewater runs down my back. I paid, so they can't cut me. But damn, it's October, and I'm already worried about getting asked back for next season.

Oh, did I mention that this is the first game Jen came to see?

G:0
A: 0
PM: 0

The Late Blow: Hornets 6, Blue Bombers 3

2006-09-17T11:23:00.000-07:00

There's something about playing hockey at 11:30pm on Fridays. I'd informed Jen about it before I joined the Blue Bombers. Not that I was asking permission, but I wanted to make sure it didn't put a dent in our social life or any activities she had in mind in the future. After all, when something cool comes up on a Friday night, I can always skip hockey.

But starting off the season with two 11:30pm Friday games was kind of brutal. For one, it sucks waiting around until 10:30pm when I have to head for the subway. Especially on a Friday, when all you want to do is get your drink on after work. And for two, when all you want to do is get your drink on after work, it sucks having to put the throttle on the cocktails with dinner, even if it's in front of the TV. When you're the new guy, you don't want to show up hammered to the games. At least not during the first half of the season. Wait until they get to know you. And you've already disappointed them beyond caring.

For this particular game, my buddy Sean was in town. I figured there was plenty of time to get some cultural activities in before the game, so we decided to hit the MoMA early, and then catch the legendary Jimmy Scott at the Iridium Jazz Club before I had to head to the rink. Now that's what I call an eventful evening.

I managed to limit myself to a martini and a beer while listening to Jimmy Scott croon, and the timing was perfect. We caught the early show, which gave me plenty of time to get home, collect my shit, and head to the rink.

That was just about where the fun ended. Not a great game, by any stretch, and I was still feeling out of sorts on D. No rhythm, sorta panicky. And as your confidence erodes, it just starts getting worse. A couple of times I coughed up the puck -- whether by pinching or by making a bad judgment -- that led to breakaways that were mercifully turned aside by our goalie. There were bang-bang plays in front of the net that weren't really anyone's fault, but still managed to widen the crack in my confidence. It didn't feel good at all, but I tried to play it off.

Then, I got tagged with a couple of penalties. It shouldn't have been a surprise, what with the first game's penalty-fest, but it certainly didn't help with my confidence or my perception of my perception in the team's eyes. The first one was a weak little roughing call in the low slot. Basically, I was backing into the guy to force him out of the goal mouth and he tumbled backwards on his ass. The second was an interference call in the corner, where both of us were racing for the puck, and I was left standing. No idea. Anyway, the long and short of it is that no goals resulted from me being in the box. Small solace, and I'm not sure anyone noticed anyway.

After the game, I again felt more comfortable scramming to meet Sean and Jen back up in my 'hood at the Emerald Inn. Amazing how a couple of Stellas with friendly faces at 3:30am can help soothe a fragile ego.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 4

And So It Begins: Jaguars 5, Blue Bombers 1

2006-09-09T09:06:00.000-07:00

Being a new kid sucks.

At least when I started skating at OIC, I had company. John Darlington, in what I later mistook as a drunken dare after a Cal game, had mentioned wanting to take up ice hockey. Being born in Detroit, I felt that I had been neglecting my birthright for 30-odd years by not playing hockey, but I chalked it up to living in non-hockey climes like Texas, LA, and Atlanta. So John, Tony Johnson, and I started skating in the Thursday clinic.

Flopping around on the ice in front of strangers, wearing snowboarding pants and rented skates, is much more tolerable when there are 3 of you. Flopping around on the ice in your first full-fledged game in New York City is hard enough. Doing it on your own is harder.

I barely know these people, and they seem pretty tight. Carrie, our captain, has been running the team for a few years with a core group of people. Another newbie and I bond out of necessity: Ginny, another defenseman from Minnesota, is new to the Blue Bombers as well.

To be fair, I didn't play a horrible game. But it's faster here, and teams are more unified and cohesive. They've been playing together longer, and I'm new on a team that seems to have a lot of new folks. We've got some fast guys up front, with serious puck-handling skills, but we can't seem to score. And on defense, I'm a jangle of nerves: I'm tight, twitchy, and overplaying stuff. I do a decent job of using my D partner as an outlet, but I'm not getting the puck up to start breakouts, and I'm certainly not QB'ing plays like I should be.

And to be more charitable, the refs were calling one of the most absurdly tight games I've ever witnessed. Apparently, all captains got email before the season with the "We Really Mean It This Time" warning that the refs were going to be calling a much tighter game. This was in line with USA Hockey's release of their New Standard of Play, meant to emulate new NHL rules and reward skill while penalizing interference, hooking, and tripping. The net result? I think between us and the Jaguars, we combined for 19 penalties. Yep, that's right, 19. And according to Chelsea Piers rules, after something like 10 penalties in a game, the clock goes to running time to punish us further for making the game run late with all of the penalties. I think there were a total of 2 goals of the combined 6 that were scored with any team at full strength. It was mostly 4-on-4s or 4-on-3s. Absurd.

There was an odd sense of not belonging. I didn't play well enough to stand out, and me and my team don't know each other that well. My nervous habit of cracking jokes on the bench gets some reception, but it's tough going. It's almost 1am by the time I get changed after the 11:30pm Friday game. Afterwards, I linger about looking for teammates to come out of the various locker rooms, wondering if they go grab beers later. I'm standing around awkwardly, uncomfortable, out of place. Finally, I decide to leave to avoid looking like (more of) an idiot.

The next day, I get an email from Carrie saying they had missed me drinking, and that they had headed over to The Half King afterwards. So, at lease alcohol is the great social lubricant.

G: 0
A: 0
PM: 0

East v. West

2006-08-30T15:25:00.000-07:00

So, I'm finally skating out here at Chelsea Piers.

I started skating in the Instructional Session, which is the moral equivalent to the Thursday night skate at OIC. Well, with a few notable differences:

It's a fixed 12-week session, and you sign-up/pay in advance. No dropping in, and I was lucky enough to sign up a few months back, before it sold out. Miss a session, tough luck.
It, like everything in NYC, is a little "pricey". OIC: $12/session. Chelsea Piers: about $31/session. Almost like paying for a season in advance.
This does not include cab fare to/from my apartment ($12 each way), because I'm still on the waiting list for a locker at the rink. And airing out my wet gear in my NYC apartment sucks just as much as the idea of hauling it 4 crosstown blocks from the closest subway station.
Each session is 90 minutes, so you're getting extra ice time for your money. Basically the same idea as the Thursday night skate at OIC: skating drills, puck-handling drills, shooting, passing, etc.
That's where the similarities end. The session is coached by three guys with marked East Coast twangs. The skate is pretty...regimented. Let me put it this way: these guys make Eric look like Emery. Wait, no. They make Eric look like Johnnie. Lots of barking of instructions and Herb Brooks-esque motivational yelling. Very little leaning on the net shooting the shit with the goalies, or little kids playing grab-ass at the other end of the ice, or Emery flirting with girls through the glass. It's a workout, without the considerable charm of OIC.
It's pretty freaky skating over the Hudson River, with the skyline, GW Bridge, and Jersey outside the friggin' windows.

And it's a good thing I skated in this session last Wednesday to get rid of 2 months worth of cobwebs on my gear (and legs). Sure, I'd been running and biking in Central Park in the intervening weeks, but that doesn't replicate stopping on the blue line or one-footed-gliding-while-kicking-your-skate-up-to-touch-your-stick...backwards. All of which I needed to prepare for last Thursday's...

...Evaluation Session.

Yep, a day later, with my gear still sorta damp despite running a fan at it all night and day, I show up again for the Evaluation Session to see if I can get into the Fall League.

I've never really experienced anything quite like this.

You show up at 8pm, sign in, pay your $25, and fill out a form that lists your contact details and previous hockey experience. They hand you a plastic, laminated number that you pin to your jersey (I got #39).

Out on the ice, there are roughly 60+ skaters, everyone with a plastic number pinned to them. Off the ice, there are roughly 30 team captains, each with notebooks and pens. As you warm up, you can't help but feeling like you're skating in a fishbowl (which is appropriate, given the fact that you're skating on a pier over the Hudson). The instructors give you the lay of the land on how the session's a-gonna run:

We're going to do skating drills for about 45 minutes. Eight lines, doing two-footed blue line hops, pivots, stops/starts, one-skate gliding, knee-ups, lunges, you name it. Good thing I did this the previous night, and sort of knew what to expect. Nerve-wracking enough to do this in front of 60 complete strangers on the ice, much less in front of team captains that I'm ostensibly supposed to impress. The upshot is that I actually did pretty well during these drills, and screwed up/fell/drew attention to myself less than most.
The whole time, team captains are going to be watching you, taking notes. Evaluating you. There are 9 divisions at CP, about 100 teams. You are told at the beginning of the session: "Just because you are skating in the Evaluation Session does not guarantee that you are going to be placed on a team." So, $25 just buys you scrutinty and a shot at the beer league.
In addition to being evaluated by team captains, one of the CP staff is evaluating you as well. They will eventually produce a spreadsheet with all of the skaters, their ranking, and what division the CP staff thinks you should skate in. You are warned not to lobby the staff, and any inquiries/entreaties will just get you ignored. This spreadsheet gets sent to the team captains, and they subsequently contact skaters they are interested in. Unless...
...the captains are interested in you tonight. There will be a brief water break, at which time the captains on the other side of the aquarium glass may approach you, based on what they've seen. If you're interested in being approached, you're told to go off the ice and stand around awkwardly like you're at the 8th grade dance (author's embellishment).
More skating, this time your basic 3-guys-skate-to-the-blue-line-and-break-in-with- pucks drill. You'll be glad to know that out here people screw this up just as badly as in Oakland. Except in Oakland, the goalies don't openly mock you for missing the net entirely, which most of us did, due to all of the snow on the ice from skating drills. They were banging the posts after each trio finished, in an effort to show us where the net was. My already suspect shooting skills are pretty rusty.
For dessert, it's 2-on-1 breakouts. Wings are told to go to the end-boards, D to go to the red line opposite the benches. 45 guys go to the end boards, and 15 of us decide to play D fodder. Good choice on my part, except for the requisite catching-of-edge on the pivot my third time through. Still got up, got back into the play, and prevented them from getting a shot off.

No pressure.

So, after the requisite skating drills, the water break comes. I haven't felt this out of my element since wandering into Jimmie's to use the can. I'm trying not to stay in one place as team captains swarm around the obviously better players; trying not to look needy, trying to act casual, trying not to make eye contact. Just like 8th grade. Well, just like when I was 29 at 111 Minna. I casually wander around, drink some water, pretend to adjust my helmet. At one point, a guy walks up to me: "Excuse me." I brighten, prepared to regale him with tales of captaining Gang Green to a winning record and 2nd round playoff exit. Turns out I was in front of his bag, which he needed to retreive. Ahem. Back on the ice.

I'm pretty much resigning myself to skating on Wednesday nights and perhaps taking the advice of the instructors to show up during the first few weeks of league play and see if teams have lost anyone -- basically the sub-whoring that happens at OIC. And then, as we're about to start shooting drills again, this dude taps me on the shoulder:

"Hey, you play D?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Want to play in D6?"
(quickly trying to recall the skill level of D6, and more importantly, when they play) - "What nights do you play?" (Smooth.)
"Fridays."
"Wow." (Did that sound like "Wow, prime ice time!" or "Wow, that ruins my Friday nights.")
"I'm Scott. Blue Bombers. The Captain sent me out here to recruit you."
"Cool, sounds good." (Aloof? Playing hard to get?)

And so we skate the rest of the session, and I'm trying to figure out how this works. I'm comparing it to other similar analogues I've been through recently: the job hunt, the apartment hunt. Never take the first offer? Never take the first apartment you look at? Hold out for another offer? Counter offer? Is there such a thing?

Hey, it's an offer. More than some of these guys/girls are going to get tonight.

After the skate, I head off the ice and get approached by Scott and Carrie, the captain of the Blue Bombers. D6 ("A very competitive D6"), which I'm surmising is equivalent to Bronze A/Silver B. They need D, since they just lost a few defensemen.

Carrie: "We're looking for D. We typically run 15 skaters, depending on the week."
Me: "Yeah, it's tough to put lines together. I used to manage my old team."
C: "Where were you skating before?"
Me: "Oakland. California."
C: (pause, blank stare)
Me: "So, um, yeah, so, you're looking for D?"

They need a $100 deposit to secure a spot on the team, so they know they don't have to recruit any more. Looking around, seeing all of these skaters and captains vying to fill out rosters, it's dizzying. Unbelievably competitive, and I'm just trying to get on a rec league/beer league team. They assure me that they are a cool team (me: "I just want to skate with cool people, be competitive, and drink beer.").

So, I'm now a member of the Blue Bombers (well, I paid my deposit). First game is this Friday night, so I'll let you know how it goes. While I was secretly hoping for D5 -- both for my ego and for the fact that their games are Sunday nights -- I'm actually pretty excited that I a) survived this harrowing process, b) got picked up by a team, c) get to skate in a league, and d) am pretty middle-of-the-pack as far as skill goes in a town/part of the country where hockey is huge. I have OIC to thank for that, I suppose.

And the culture shock of starting over at a new rink certainly colors my narrative. Yeah, it's different, it will never be OIC, but it's cool. Great facility, professionally run, and the skaters seem mellow by NYC standards. Mostly transplants like me, I bet, but nonetheless, I'm looking to recreate the locker-room banter that makes Glen famous.

Old Time Hockey

2006-08-29T21:04:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna start capturing my experience transitioning from being a mid-30s beer-league hockey player in Oakland to braving the East Coast hockey experience at Chelsea Piers in New York City. Still in my mid-30s, still drinking beer.

I'll start out with a post that represented my first experiences skating at Chelsea Piers, and how it compares with good old Oakland Ice Center. I originally sent out an email to the crew back at OIC, so it's fitting that I use it to kick off my second blog. Read on...