| 03.01.04
Adventures at Hockey School: Session Seven –
3, And That’s A Magic Number
Ice hockey school has taught me many things, but none more important
than this: taking a week off sucks. Sure, sure, it builds excitement
for the next practice, but it irks me to think that other people
are playing hockey and I’m not. What can I say, I have
puck envy.
This Monday’s floor hockey game was the first round of
the playoffs, and I’m proud to report that Team Stanley
overcame their own lackadaisical play to rally for a 5-3 win.
I provided two assists, but couldn’t seem to find the
back of the net. So, although I was happy for the victory and
a trip to the semi-finals next week, I was hungry to score.
I mentioned this to Mary-Jo, but I think she might have taken
my comments out of context. Needless to say, I avoided eye contact
with our waitress at the post-game bar.
AJ “King Of The Swiss Summer League” Brandt and
I made sure to get an early jump on our trip to Bensenville,
as the other captains and I had scheduled a team meeting before
practice. Honestly, even though we did have plenty to talk about,
AJ and I really just wanted an excuse to start diagramming things
on the dry erase board in the locker room. I say AJ, because
although the league rules preclude a goalie from being a captain
or alternate, he’s got more hockey knowledge than the
rest of the team combined. Well, that and the fact that he’s
the one who bought me the dry erase markers. But that’s
neither here nor there.
While we were getting dressed, Pete, the league administrator,
came into the locker room with a very valuable box. Inside were
our official game jerseys and socks. I had been waiting for
weeks now to find out what number I would be wearing, as our
team captain had already laid claim to my normal #13. Around
the room, teammates checked out their new jerseys and smiled
approvingly at the numbers they had chosen. A beaming AJ tried
on his #21 for all to see.
Ripping my jersey out of its protective plastic bag, I held
it up for inspection. Name? Spelled correctly. “A”
on the chest? Right where it needed to be. Number? Nine. Now
this I could live with. Nine like Gordie Howe and Bobby Hull.
Nine like Mike Modano and “Rocket” Richard. Or should
I say, Gregory “Rocket” Richard Rolnick? But if
I was to wear a scorer’s number, then I had a lot to prove.
When everyone had arrived we held our team meeting. Using my
new markers, I wrote out our lines and diagrammed where everyone
needed to be on both offense and defense. Once again I was forced
to show dry erase restraint, and suppressed the urge to draw
the puck on my stick at all times, or perhaps, the arc of the
puck off of my stick and into the back of the net.
We took the ice and began our skate-around, occasionally picking
up a puck and trying to slip it past AJ in net. Spotting Coach
Bruce perched on the edge of the Visitor’s bench, I skated
straight at him and just before crashing into the bench, I came
to a dead stop. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to announce
that in between official practice sessions my body and brain
came to a wonderful understanding regarding the cessation of
forward motion while on ice skates. As Bruce nodded approvingly,
I quietly wondered if what he was really thinking was, “about
damn time there, Rolnick.” Now I just need to practice
at gradually increasing speeds…
The next part of practice revolved around a few skating and
stick handling drills, as we moved pucks up and down the length
of the ice. Afterwards, we worked on some passing and a two-on-one
drill, where two teammates tried to come in from center ice,
get around a defender, and score on goal. On my first shift
as a defenseman, I actually managed to steal the puck from the
forward and knock it out of play. From behind me I heard AJ
mutter, “watch out there, Roller, or you’ll be playing
‘D’ by the end of the night.” I made a mental
note to fall down and flail about on my next turn.
Finally, the time had come to scrimmage. We were sharing the
ice with the Cobras this evening, the team we beat in our first
meeting 1-0. Not nearly enough, I thought. Not at all.
After a few shifts of up and down play, I found myself gliding
along the blue line, waiting for my left wing to dump the puck
into the offensive zone. Once he did, I curled behind a defender
at the top of the faceoff circle. Sure enough, a pass came across
and grabbing it, I made a beeline for the net. I slipped past
one Cobra, and pushed the puck around another, going in alone
on net. Sliding the puck to my forehand, I got the goalie to
commit, then went backhand, flipping the puck in over his shoulder.
1-0, Phantoms.
A few shifts later, I broke free on a breakaway and once again
went mano-a-goalie. Yet again, I got the gullible goaltender
to commit early, but instead of a backhanded shot, I slid the
puck to my forehand and threw it around the sprawling nincompoop.
2-0, Phantoms.
The Cobras got back in the game when Bruce jumped into the play,
and assisted on a two-on-one, with a lucky Cobra beating AJ
five-hole. However, it wasn’t too long after when the
Phantoms struck again, as one of our defensemen charged in to
score.
With a minute to go in the game, the Cobras decided to pull
their goalie. How they were going to score two goals in a minute,
I’ll never know, but I smelled a hat trick. Well, I smelled
something. Taking a nice feed from my defensemen at our blue
line, I began to charge towards the Cobras zone. At the red
line, a Cobra tried to impede my forward progress by latching
onto my right arm. With seconds remaining, I shook him off like
a Hari Krishna at the airport, and shot the puck into the awaiting,
goalie-free, net. HAT TRICK, BABY!
We’ve scheduled a pickup game against the Icemen this
Friday, and even though I say this in the face of normal hockey
modesty, or acknowledgement of the lessons of Greek tragedy,
I’m looking forward to shaming their goalie like Martha
Stewart at a day traders convention.
As AJ and I cruised home, we rehashed the night’s events,
and tried to figure out all of the hockey players who ever wore
9 or 21 on their back.
And, yes, the seat warmers capped off the evening perfectly. |