hockey@dartmouth, part I

My luggage was so full coming back from break that the handle broke off when my father tried to lift it into the car. New sweaters, a box of cookies, gifts for my friends- all stacked and packed carefully into my bag in a practical application of Tetris. There was one thing, though, that I couldn't take out no matter how much I wanted to lighten the weight -- my father's old hockey skates. A pair of old CCMs, ripped in places, the laces wearing through and the blades long since unsharpened, but I needed them: we needed them! My best friend was going to learn how to skate.

It was freezing the first day we walked down to Occom Pond, the afternoon wind sharp and the sun hazy in the sky. With my skates held loosely in my hands and my stick cutting the space before us in a quick yellow line, I grinned: I remembered the feeling; it was taught, almost, but intrinsic, too, as something that's brought out in you. Walk tall when you carry your equipment, chin up when you set foot on the ice, because this is your sport; here, it's only you, the ice, and the game. I couldn't wait to lace up my skates, to feel the rush of air against my cheeks and the blue, cold fire course through my legs as I took my first few strides.

I played on my high school's boys' ice hockey team; I started because my best friend at the time played, and watching him was magnificent. I've never been one for sports -- the idea of organized recreation seemed repetitive and futile to me compared to the tumultuous, ever-continuing process of the theatre. But as soon as I watched my first game, I fell in love with the sport. There was passion in this, and skill... there was a respect for the art of the thing even in the toughest hits and the easiest goals. Only a few weeks after getting my first pair of skates, I fell and broke my wrist teaching myself to hockey stop. I was undeterred: I returned to the rink every weekend, knowing I didn't need my left arm to be quick on my feet. I joined my high school team the next year and played until I graduated, establishing a streak of serious injuries sustained during every season. I loved my team, my band of brothers; when I was out for the season with a broken leg or a broken tailbone, I still came to every game, holding my crutches in the locker room as we discussed strategy before the game or wearing a helmet and streetclothes just so I could sit on the bench. It was a feeling unlike any other.

Getting our bearings on the pond, the skier in him showed immediately: he was a natural, quick on his feet, eager to learn, intrinsically aware of his edges and his rhythm. We beamed at each other across the pond, the setting sun glaring through the clouds between us, as his feet cut parallel to the ice and snow sprayed about his feet. I taught him all I could, and he picked it up and asked to learn something new, impervious to the cold for his enthusiasm. After an hour or so we walked back to campus, exhausted, freezing, and proud.

Sitting in his room, we wrote up a list of all of our closest friends and sent them a message. We were starting an intramural hockey team.