Hockey Cures All Ills

Chapter 1: Cigars and Bourbon Cigar and Bourbon Night 2017, with Raconteur “Then sing something.” The first time he said it, I thought he was joking. He was not the first person I had ever met that I had told about my singing background, but he was certainly the first who had demanded that I demonstrate it on the spot. I could see he was looking at me intently, expectantly. He was serious. And so was I. He had been talking a bit about his early days playing hockey professionally in Quebec when I asked him if he spoke French. He said he did. I said I could sing in French, which is how we landed here. I may have had more scotch than I realized, but I took another swig to smooth my somewhat dry throat. I leaned in as if telling him a secret, and I sang the first verse and chorus of Pink Martini’s “Sympathique,” a song I have always loved. He wasn’t the only one who heard me, but I thought he was likely the only one who understood the lyrics and their dark take on love. He raised his eyebrows, “Very good,” he said. “Did I get the pronunciation right?” “You did.” I drank more scotch in relief and the group that formed around us now switched the subject back to hockey. A few other attendees let me know that the fellow who listened to my song ran a local hockey program, and he was at the event with a few of the adult players he coached. An exuberant bunch, these players encouraged me to join them when I mentioned that I, too, was learning to play. The age-range of their group appealed to me—other older adults new to playing hockey. I found that information encouraging and something to consider, although their rink was not close to my current apartment in Merrifield, Va. We were on the roof of the W Hotel in Washington at an annual charity event where fans could smoke cigars and sip whiskey with former Washington Capitals players. One of the adult newbies there was chatting with a younger man who would be playing in the Capitals alumni game the next day. Earlier in the evening, I had learned that two roster spots for this annual charity event had been auctioned off to fans. An idea began to form in my mind as I chatted with the winner. In many ways, the thought was preposterous. But, my mind kept circling back to it, given that the winner was somewhat new to the sport and I was surrounded by others who were learning as well. The love for hockey was palpable with this group. It was contagious, although I had caught that love for hockey well before now. I turned to the coach, a former pro who also would be playing in the event. “You need a woman out there next year,” I said. “It should be you.” He said it without missing a beat, without hesitation. I thought at first he was joking—I had been very honest about my hockey level and inability. I thought he was messing with me. But, I looked at him. He had the same look on his face as when he had asked me to sing. No joking smirk. No wink and a nod. He was sincere. I was thrown, although I did my best to hide it. I had known this man for maybe 15 minutes, and already he had challenged me twice to show what I could do, to be excellent, to back up my words and boozy bravado with actions. Maybe he would be the right coach for this crazy goal. “OK,” I said. I downed the rest of my scotch and wondered what a year could do. Chapter 2: Rock ‘n’ Roll All smiles after my first scrimmage ever, July 2014, Kettler Capitals Iceplex If timelines held, I would need to be ready by the end of June 2018 to play in the 2018 Capitals Alumni Summer Classic. I had no time to waste. At this point in 2017, when it came to hockey, I truly was starting over. Although I took my first adult hockey classes in Kettler’s Learn to Play program in summer 2014, I had stopped those classes by February 2015. An increased workload followed by a family health scare necessitated some major life changes that severely cut into ice time for me.

The first hockey game I ever saw was an early morning adult league game at Kettler Capitals Iceplex--now Medstar Capitals Iceplex. I ran into someone I used to know. In the second part of the podcast, "In the Locker Room," I suggest some hockey programs adult learners might want to try and recommend hockey documentaries from the Russian perspective. I also discuss how combining wisdom from William Blake and Ted Lindsay can take you far as an adult hockey player.

With the possible exception of the 1980 Miracle on Ice, I knew nothing about hockey when I saw my first game in 2013. I discuss that nothing in this latest re-imagining. Additionally, follow me to the locker room to learn more about Try Hockey for Free Day, Paul Newman, AFI Silver Theater in Silver Spring, and what Sleater-Kinney has in common with adult hockey newbies.

As an avid podcast listener, I decided it might be fun to offer recorded versions of the blog posts. You'll find many of these recordings on the shorter side, vignettes, if you will. That may change as the project evolves. Episode One is ready. You can read the original here. Drop me a line. In the episode, I describe a few ways you can find me if you don't feel like using the Contact form on the blog.

I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath. After the van stopped leaning on its driver side tires and decided on upright, I breathed. I was the wrong way off the snowy road—the direction from which I had traveled visible through the windshield instead of the rear-view mirror. My hands shook as I processed that the van had nearly flipped onto the driver side, and I tried to figure out how I could have sped off the road in a blur when I had only been going about 15 miles an hour. And, I truly had been. I was a barely 16-year-old who had never wanted her license in the first place. Driving terrified me in every way, and this recent adventure, which had come despite my doing everything I was supposed to do, only confirmed for me that I had no business behind any wheel bigger than a bicycle’s. With temperatures in the teens, ​my dad and two grandpas worked to ​replace ​the tires ​that a snowbank had stripped from the rims.​ ​Q​uietly and with uncharacteristic calm​, they​ ​identified​ the culprit—black ice. I watched them for a while, ​numbed and ​silently ​freaked out from the suddenness of the entire situation, and vowed many, many things. Namely, I was no longer driving in the winter, and I did not. It was spring before my parents let me back behind the wheel, and I was totally fine with that. Ecstatic, if truth be told. And, I vowed that the first chance I could, I would get the hell out of Ohio and never have anything to do with snow or cold again. It would be a few years before I moved to Washington, DC—I would be out of college and grad school and married—but at that time, one of DC’s chief draws was the charming way it shut down with the slightest whisper of snow or ice. These were my people, I thought. They also hated winter and decided they just would not deal with it. I could support this attitude wholeheartedly. I saw no reason to soldier on as everyone must in the Midwest. Here, people had decided they were ill-equipped, and they had organized around that concept. After so much Midwestern can-do, I happily embraced this codified laziness. Ah, but you can never hide from your nature. I was a snow baby—as my parents, bewildered at my vehement hatred of winter and snow and especially ice, above all ice and its invisible and sudden treachery, always pointed out. It snowed the November day they brought me home from the hospital. In response I pointed out that winter was really the only season that killed people routinely and without warning. Winter was dead to me. I could give all the credit to my change of heart to hockey, but a critical first-step that opened me to hockey had been underway years before I saw my first game. A certain blue-eyed lady gently led me back to where I started without my even knowing it, her pure snow joy transformed her in every way: hound dog without snow, super husky with it. Her dance, her abandon, her wild run down snow-shut streets, her sing-song howl, with ears forward, nose up to read every creature who was dancing or shivering unseen. Had I a sled to connect her to me, she would take me anywhere. As it was, she took me home, in the snow, the question of who rescued whom never far from my mind or heart. https://www.hockeycuresallills.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/Pure-Snow-Joy.mp4