I play hockey.

I should be more precise. When I say “I play hockey” it must be admitted that I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve played in an organized game and honestly that hand is missing a couple fingers. Maybe part of the thumb too. Okay, two times. I’ve played in two actual hockey games. Both were family scrimmages at the Kiwanis Ice Arena in Saugerties put on by my wife’s team. My wife actually really fully plays hockey, like on a team-type-team. The Saugerties Nightmares. While I may only have two practice games under my hockey belt, I do have some experience in the world of pond hockey. That is almost a completely different skill set, I have come to learn, but still gives me enough background so I can set my sharpened skates out into a proper rink and not look like a complete fool. Or not. Obviously that is subjective and an anonymous survey of the folks I played with might yield a slightly different perspective, something more akin to “well, he really tries.”

In my defense, I do have an excuse for sucking so badly; it’s that I’m really not good. Also, the amount of ice time I’ve had keeps shrinking as the pond has not frozen over these last few winters. The climate change hoax, that those fake studies have proven doesn’t exist, is ruining pond hockey … and probably life as we know it, but mostly pond hockey. As a result of the climate change hoax’s effect, I am now the person at the Ice Arena who spends the highest percentage of time in a prone position on the ice. While it is cool to play in an “ice arena,” because that just sounds badass, it is not as cool to do so on your back. One nice lady on the other team apologized and asked if I was alright every time I fell, which was considerate. But as it was usually right after she deked me so badly that my legs buckled, the apology came with a bit of a sting. (FYI: Deke means “a deceptive movement or feint that induces an opponent to move out of position,” though in my case “out of position” means spread-eagle on the ice.)

Hockey really isn’t a sport you take up in your 50s. I know, I know, I’m only in my early mid-early 50s but still, hockey skills might best be honed when one’s bones can greenstick and you’re getting vaccinated for chicken pox instead of shingles. I’m not saying, I’m just saying. Despite my aching back, bruised ego, and swollen ankle, I have to say that hockey is the most fun sport I’ve ever played. I’m not sure why but even when I first set foot on an icy pond and ended up sprawled out in front of the neighbor kids I kept thinking “this is the best thing ever.”

And it is. Hockey rules. Everything about it is awesome. The jerseys look cool whether they’re over pads or over my somewhat distended belly. In fact, it’s one of the few cases in life where a spare tire seems to make an item of clothing fit better, which is kind of a miracle of physics if you ask me. I now fully understand why some of us six-pack adjacent folks like to wear hockey jerseys all the time. (You could probably read that last sentence two completely different ways and both would be correct. Feel the power of my word-smithing.) Actually, I think they’re supposed to be called sweaters but I’m not using that term, even if it is proper. You wear a sweater when you sit on the Chesterfield and read the newspaper, not when you’re blazing around the ice ripping slapshots at the goalie’s five-hole. (Full disclosure: Nothing I do on the ice could be considered blazing or ripping. I’m more ambling or ungainly, and I can’t really remember which hole is which as far as goalies go so grain of salt.)

Also, the gear is sweet. The pads make everyone look big, strong, and intimidating which is why I was so careful to steer clear of what appeared to be a high school girl at the game. It was hard to tell much about her. ’cause she was blazing around me so quickly and ripping slapshots near my face — that’s one of the dangers of spending so much time lying on the ice — but either way she definitely looked like she could hurt me. The question is whether that was the pads’ doing or not. I say it’s moot. It’s too bad they don’t make really cool pads for my ego ’cause I’d pay top dollar for any help there. What would that even look like? Maybe it’s not actually padding but more of a neural interface that automatically reorients your vision as you fall so you think you’re standing upright and it’s the world that has toppled. Might help my self-esteem in the moment but make me kind of a self-absorbed jerk over time. Orienting one’s self as the center of the universe does tend to have that effect.

Beyond making everyone look big and strong though, the outfits are quite flattering as they do a good job of covering up for those of us with large bellies, sunken chests, and skinny little legs. I was once told that I was shaped like an avocado with chopsticks stuck in the bottom but no one has ever said that to me on the ice!

There’s another reason why hockey is probably the best sport no matter what your age. Despite me being inexperienced, chickensh-t, and basically incapable of staying vertical I was still able to play. A lot of credit may have to go to the nurturing quality of the people I was with and the confidence that great padding gives one, but I was in there, taking shifts with people who actually knew what they were doing. And then, dear reader, I scored a goal. My first legit goal and, Lord, what a thrill. To be fair, the assist my teammate gave me was so perfect that it might be more accurate to say that he scored and I got in the way but regardless a puck went off my stick and into the goal. Said another way, I lit the lamp with a forehanded muffin that went top-shelf.

So there it is. If there are any other terribly slow and terribly unfit hockey wanna-bes out there perhaps we should pool together and start a team so we can all get a taste for the sport. Slowly, of course. We don’t want to strain anything.