I’m at work, sitting at my desk doing routine desk stuff but the day is anything but routine. My body is buzzing with electrified dread and my stomach is a ball of writhing vipers. It’s game day.
My team in the midst of a solid playoff run despite having entered the post-season in fifth place in our 12-team league. Our Cinderella story could end tonight, however. Whoever loses is done.
Wow, the hockey season has flown by. When I last checked in, winter hadn’t officially begun and the hockey season was relatively young. I had just proven that a middle-aged man can engage in outdoor, hockey-focused training even during harsh winter-like conditions. The table was set for a productive and transformational hockey season.
You’re not supposed to lie down to recover from the exertion of running hard. I’m not sure why, but that’s what I was taught by former coaches and phys-ed teachers. So it’s with a slight pang of guilt that I’m lying on the snow-packed road in my subdivision, panting hard and gazing up at a sky matted with brilliant stars.
Well, I’m approaching 60 days into this thing and I think it’s time to step back and assess how it’s going. For starters, let’s have a look at the rules I laid out in my second blog post and assign some grades.
An ice pack becomes my bosom buddy for the next couple of days. I clutch it to the back of my leg at every opportunity: in the car, at my desk at work, at the kitchen table, on the couch.
The first day after the injury I’m very sore and limpy so I take a break from all forms of training. On the second day the leg feels well enough for some footwork drills but is too sore for any sprinting.
My first two games have revealed that my quickness and speed are lagging behind the other aspects of my conditioning.
I’m in better shape than I have been in years, so I’m able to turn in solid shifts and recover quickly afterward, a dramatic change from how it’s been for a long time.
Hockey games, once they’re over, usually yield just a handful of snapshot memories, with the overall game fading to a blur shortly after its conclusion.
For me, it’s usually a few little plays that I remember: the odd trivial thing that I did well or wish I could try again.
Well, here I am, I’ve closed out my third week of training and have arrived at the eve of the season’s first game. I’ve done all the work I can to be prepared for this first ice session. Today is a scheduled rest day, as I don’t want my leg muscles to be in recovery mode tomorrow night. I want them to be in “go” mode. All I can do now is wait.
So I’m lying face down in the ditch next to the road that goes by my house, and as a passing headlight beam splashes over me, I’m realizing that I’ll be in a real dilly of a pickle if I’m spotted.
This is the scenario I’ve feared since I first started doing late-night road work in my subdivision. I’d rather not be seen running around on the road after dark, not that I’m doing anything wrong, but it may appear that I’m doing something wrong ... or weird at least.
A hockey player spends 45 seconds to a minute on the ice before going off for a rest. In beer league, shifts tend to drift a bit longer. During his shift, the player engages in many short sprints and changes of direction. There are also physical battles for positioning and puck possession, and sudden bursts of explosive movement when shooting.
Well it’s Sunday night in my living room and the fists are just a flying! I’m beating the heck out of some dude named Ben, gleefully draining his morale with brutish pounding to the body and taking delight in launching him airborne with great, violent uppercuts.
I’m almost ready to share a summary of my first few days of toil, but before I do that I want to lay out the ground rules that I've established for this little adventure of mine. I believe that beer league training requires a solid set of rules or the thing could easily take over your life, which runs counter to what beer leaguing is all about. Here’s my list of rules.
I’ve been a hockey player since I was nine years old, not a good hockey player, in the grand scheme of things, but an enthusiastic and somewhat serious one. I played minor hockey up to the midget level but went no further in the competitive ranks. Throughout my 20s, 30s and early 40s I’ve been a once-a-week beer leaguer.
It’s dark and late. My ears are filled with the crunch of my sprinting feet pounding the road’s gravel surface. This is accompanied by the roar of my rapid attempts at air exchange and the furious barking of every dog within half a mile.