LONDON, UK – The locker room door flew open with such force that the row of players sat nearby literally jumped off the bench they were sitting on. The joking and laughing instantly stopped and a wild eyed man strode into sight catching everyone’s vision with one glare.
“Well that was horse sh*t” he screamed at the rows of face cages, whose eyes widened and grimaced at the unexpected outburst. Almost instantly the man’s lips could no longer hide the forthcoming smile and he broke “Only joking lads, well done”.
I sat in that dark dingy room in Peterborough stunned. I had just played my very first game of competitive Under 12 ice hockey at the age of 11 and my fellow team mates had just destroyed the opposition 31-2 on the road, yet my sweat suit was dry and the tape on my stick still pristine.
Photo by Iva Dlabkova
I had hit the ice around four or five times all game and had registered a grand total of zero points despite hitting the post. It was a victory in which I had realistically played no part and had I not travelled, the game would have ended with exactly the same score line pretty much.
Twenty years later, the scenario played out again albeit with a different score line. The rink was Bristol this time and not Peterborough, but the small space, the shabby paintwork, the mould covered showers, the musty aroma of hockey kit were all present, as was a man addressing the sweaty figures around me.
There were no face cages in this room, only a mix of older players and youth sharing the disappointment of a frustrating draw. Again I had played no part in the game aside from the dubious honour of serving a 5 minute penalty for one of my ejected team mates; my sweats were dry and my tape only bearing the scars of a warm up and a couple of uneventful shifts.
The game had been full of penalties and through circumstance this had left me ‘riding the pine’ that dreaded phrase given to rookies learning their trade and who are just happy to be amongst the big boys.
It was at that point, on that drive back from Bristol that I realised I had come a full circle. Hockey was giving me the nudge that the game was coming to an end for me and I need to make some hard choices. I was offering as much to the side now as I had when I first started playing the game i.e. very little.
Dramatic? Maybe, but no one with any self-respect wants to be part of a team that they are well… not really part of. Deadline had just passed so I resolved to get my head down and see out the season with the intention of dropping a league or giving up the game at league level.
I must add, that in between those two points in time at the salubrious Bristol and Peterborough ice rinks the sport had given me so much. I have played with some great people, travelled to some amazing parts of the world, appeared on TV, met celebrities, accumulated thousands of anecdotes and even managed to write a column on the internet – yes this one!
So why have you signed up for it all again in ENL 1 with Streatham I hear you ask? (well those of you still awake). Well it is pretty simple to be honest. I know I can play better than I have so far in a Redskins jersey, I know I can do a job for the team and I know that if I give up now then I will regret it like all of the others who made the same mistake. The Coach thinks I can do it, so why argue.
Of that Durham under 12 team that went on to be British Champions in 1991 only three of us are still playing league hockey. From the Sunderland Chiefs team I made my senior debut for in 1997 I think only a couple still play and more worryingly, from the Oxford team I played for in ENL South in 2003 only five of us will take to the ice this coming year.
Facebook as ever is a window on the past and is also littered with old players who would give anything to still be playing the game, to still feel the buzz of the locker room, to act like a teenager even though those days are long gone, to play in front of the crowds, the critics and the press.
Some of those ex-players would love to wake up the next morning with a smile on their face thinking of the game the night before and the goals scored, the hits made, covered in bruises they never knew they had, crying with laughter on the bus home with all the guys, watching the same lame movies because no one remembers to bring any for the road trip.
They probably don’t miss spending money on overpriced service station food but probably do miss finding a stick they really like, moaning about the lack of tape, arguing over which tunes to play in the room, spotting a good looking girl in the crowd during warm up, watching guys spit out their chew in empty bottles for hours on end, checking out their hair in the plexi during the national anthem and of course the obligatory 20 minute wait for the showers to warm up in most rinks, and that euphoric feeling when the bus finally turns into the ice rink car park after breezing past the bright street lamps to signal the end of a long day of hockey.
The time will come for me but I don’t yet want to spend my Sunday’s sat in the Harvester where my only action would be body checking some pensioner to the floor as I blaze towards the blue cheese sauce and bacon bits on the salad bar. I don’t want to be sat watching Ant and Dec’s latest game show and then Dale Winton fondling the lottery balls on TV while somewhere nearby there is a hockey match I could be playing in.
I don’t want to stop playing then join a recreational team four years down the line making some self-imposed comeback after watching a game on TV or seeing something to ’bring the bug back’.
So I will be lacing up the skates in September and the circle can wait for closure. If it closes during the season then I will deal with it, if this is the last season I play at this level I will do my very best to enjoy it.
So what is the point of the piece? Well maybe it is simply some reflection or self-indulgence on my part and recognition of how much the sport we often love to hate as players gives us.
So if you spot me looking a bit down this season, or dragging my feet or sounding rather despondent in my writing, just mention Dale Winton’s balls or email me a picture of them and I reckon I may just snap out of whatever is bugging me.
Contact the author david.carr@prohockeynews.com
N.B I was joking about jpegs of Winton, words will suffice
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