At every section the Plexiglass has been smitten by tape-wrapped sticks, body parts and countless contributions from assorted plastic and rubberized gear. While the back and forth action already looked chaotic in this three-quarters size sheet of playing ice, the blade traffic increased noticeably once the Zamboni driver came into view. Keys in hand, he walked in the direction that was contrary to the on-ice traffic, once again making his way to the other end of the rink. Even without really needing to look up, everyone is aware of his movement and what it means. The rolling-up rattle of the metal curtain. Then the wait-in-suspense until the world’s worst game show buzzer sounds, signaling for everyone to push towards the opposite boards and clear the ice.
If you believe that hockey has rituals rivaling a religious practice, then you were aware about each of these details long before your conscious brain ever contemplated the actions.
“TYLER! We’re gonna have to carry our bags to the bathroom!”
Oh children of 2014, you with your gear bags sporting convenient roller wheels. It was just yesterday that my now 32-year-old little brother was lumbering into Falmouth Ice Arena with a gear bag three times the size of his wiry body yet still slung over his shoulder because that was what you do. Part of the ritual. Much has remained the same I can still spot some differences to where we were in the late 1980s.
When we first pulled up to this building, we smirked in the realization that this orphan rink was some 2,000 miles away from where we grew up. As New Englanders with no plan to move south any time in this century, it was safe to say that this would be the only time we’d ever find ourselves occupying space in South Central Texas. But this arena had been charmingly dubbed “The Pond”, and it was the only open rink we could find through exhaustive Internet searches. And since my little bro had been away from home for months while at Air Force training— it effectively meant that he had been out of hockey skates for the longest time in his life post 5-year-old live. This was not natural and necessitated fixing.
“This is the only hour of skate all weekend in Austin,” a woman reports as I point my brother out to her as he gets ready to take to the ice. He’s the only person wearing a Bruins hat and it’s currently on backwards. Most of the folks here sport Dallas Stars gear, naturally. To me, Mike Modano was always a North Star but that was before the team made the big move south back in 1993. It hardly feels like it was that long ago—but again, rink life tends to retain the same structure. It’s as if time stops, and we are all just filing in to take part in the service.
And since it’s the only rink open on this long Fourth of July weekend, the ice is a traffic jam of young and old with all abilities making a mess. One kid is fully outfitted in pads, blocker and glove, but never once do I see him approach the net. Instead hangs at the perimeter and does his best to perform hacky-sack tricks with a puck and a giant rudder-like stick.
John is the only one out there without gloves, and as far as I can see in the swarm of skaters, he is the only one wearing goalie skates and camo bottoms. Again, we came straight from training in order to make the skate time. Between his pants, his NHL Wales conference sweatshirt, and the black helmet he scrounged out of the rink’s Lost and Found bucket, he looks like a homeless man who just showed up after ransacking goodwill. It makes me think of the first pair of goalie pads that he used- they were rink loaners colored an old-timey brown leather and they were stuffed with horse hair. Old Time Hockey.
“You find those pads at the dump?” I remember a fellow hockey kid once asked him. At the time John was pretty chafed by the remark—we were not the family that was handed state of the art equipment until it was something we were committed to. I can imagine, however, that those pads taught him to appreciate the value of new gear. I also remember the night he got his first new glove. It was teal blue in the color of the new (at that time) expansion team the San Jose Sharks. That night, John fell asleep in his bed wearing that glove.
Those years are memories, but in my mind’s eye he is still largely a hockey kid. He still appreciates what it means to do without—and even here in Texas he’s just gone six months without any ice time. The fact that we’re here right now and he’s geared up like someone with no comprehension of coordinating gear feels like an absolute luxury.
In typical spectator fashion, I follow John back and down the length of the ice to watch wherever he is skating. If we were back at home, I’d be plunked at one end of the ice to watch him in net—a practice I learned from my Dad. Since he’s a lifelong goaltender, my brother looks unusually tall and skinny whenever he skates out—sans pads, glove and blocker. And of course right now he’s doing a relatively lousy job of getting shots on net; it’s like Wacky Wednesday as he faces off against a goalie in a round of shooting drills.
The hour comes and goes faster than either of us could have expected. As the Zamboni makes its way onto the surface and starts to run cramped circles, John stays behind as the rest of the folks clear off in search of the rest of their weekend. He’s never been to this rink before, but it is simply his way to stand by the net and help a driver out. Pushing the nets to the side, likely doing it before he realizes—simply because it is a part of his engrained ritual. And perhaps other people can tell that he’s a goalie, despite the lack of gear. Old habits are hard to break as he digs into the back of the net to clear out the remaining pucks that were used for stick time.
Once his unappointed job is finished, he gives the driver the briefest of waves. The driver gives a signal back of thanks, and with that, John goes to return the gear that he borrowed, and he wipes down his blades. They’ll go back into his bag for the remainder of his time in Texas, but the end result isn’t of complete sadness. The next time he laces up, he’ll be back in his element as if no time has passed. For now, it’s just nice to have been afforded the chance to practice in a place so far from home.