Street Hockey: Recollections from between the pipes

Though I was a grand total of -5 when the "Miracle on Ice" happened, I went out to catch "Miracle" recently, waiting for it to hit the local discount theater so I could ponder it without the bustle of the main theater and give this historical sports event the quiet respect it deserves.

Needless to say, it wasn't long before there were memories bubbling in the back of my mind.

I've always been a baseball player, and I'm a poker player now, but there was a time in my life when I was nothing but a hockey player.

It almost seems like ancient history now - it had to be late elementary school through middle school -- but there was a time between comic books and baseball games when I was defined by that rush of grabbing my stick and found my home in front of the net.

There were games of pick-up street hockey that developed on my street. I couldn't rollerblade, and I'd never played, so I sat on the curb and watched the games go for hours in the afternoon while I wrote. As time went on, I spent less time writing and talking to my friends than I did observing. About all I knew concerning hockey had been gleaned from ESPN, where I'd watch the news shows and sometimes catch the Penguins in the glory days of Mario Lemieux and Jaromir Jagr. I was trying to figure out what the deal was.

The best player in these daily games was a college student who lived up toward the north end of the cul-de-sac. He absolutely dominated the rest of us, who were all just kids. The outcome of a game was pretty much decided by whose side he was on. One night, when the game had long ended and we were both still outside, this guy -- I can't even remember his name now -- pulled me aside and, after the usual small talk, started to teach me how to play hockey.

It went on like this for a while: I'd watch the games in the afternoon and then when the sun went down we'd meet up out in front of his house, grab the net and the gear, and he'd walk me through everything. This guy taught me everything he knew about street hockey. With his obvious superiority over the rest of us, it was kind of like personal lessons with Wayne Gretzky. We'd play on until it was pitch black outside and neither of us could see more than a few feet in front of us, then we'd do it all again the next day.

I went to Target after a few days of these late-night practice sessions and bought my first hockey stick -- a Franklin Street Lightning with the neon yellow blade, the same make and model my teacher wielded. Holding that in my hands, I felt like I'd just pulled the sword out of the stone or something. It was surreal that while baseball spun my world, I was out playing hockey - and I was actually good at it.

Within a week or so of practicing, though we kept up our night sessions, I stepped in as the goalie in my first pick-up game. I wasn't even wearing skates and was using a miniscule set of elbow and knee pads that matched my stick. No helmet, no goalie equipment -- just me, my big stick, and a lot of practice time. It seems ludicrous now, but it worked.

In retrospect it's no surprise to me that I was a natural fit between the pipes even with my limited mobility and the handicap of my disability. I didn't have to go on the offensive. All I had to do was stop the puck -- and in my head, I naturally appended the phrase "by any means necessary."

I'm an aggressive athlete by nature (no matter how weird referring to myself as an athlete is in my head), and I learned that playing street hockey. I came home with so many bruises, cuts, and wounds over my years, not to mention the rare head injury or other damage. None of it ever mattered to me. I'd make a diving stop if I had to. I'd take the puck off my head if I had to. It was all part of the job.

Not much got by me when I was between the pipes -- I was even able to stop the guy who'd trained me in the first place. I gained a certain amount of respect from my cohorts, and came home beaten up and burned out several times a week. Still, the adrenaline rush was amazing. This was different than baseball, which was calming, even cathartic. No, playing street hockey was war - and it was me against the world.

Eventually things died down in the neighborhood. People moved out, including the guy that had taught me my game, and there were less and less of us left to hit the asphalt. A few months later, I was sitting on the curb cradling my stick and thinking back when somebody on his bike landed on it. The blade came loose and it would never see another game, though the stick is still in the closet, a landmark of the summer when that was all there was.

It took me a while to come down from the hero status conferred upon me in that short period. Playing air hockey -- something else I'm undefeated at -- would bring back memories of actually throwing down for all the world to see.

I've gone back to playing baseball, and these days am pretty regular around a poker table, playing mind games and throwing fastballs as hard as I used to stop slap shots. Yet, on days like these, I remember that my new aluminum hockey stick is resting near my bookshelf, ready and waiting if there should ever be a day when I am called between the pipes again.