Play Hard...
Gladiator
June 10, 2007
The email said my hockey team had a playoff game at 10:20 PM Thursday night. I’m an optimist by nature, so to help clarify my health recovery goals and increase motivation I decide to go. I prepare with a three-hour nap. Carefully squeezing into my Honda, I head to the rink. A sitting ovation greets me as I enter the locker room. I proudly show a few of them my 18 inches of surgery scars. It has been about a year since I’ve last played with these guys. As they put on their equipment I think about how I’ve always wanted to time travel…to go back to ancient Rome during the days of the gladiators. The Colosseum packed with screaming fans…filled with bloodlust.
Not being able to do that, I play hockey instead. I love the pre game ritual of the special diet…of slowly stretching the muscles…of carefully putting on each piece of battle gear…shin pads, hip pads, shoulder pads and elbow pads…freshly sharpened skates, gloves and helmet with face shield…hockey socks and pants with suspenders and jersey to cover everything. Oh, and we can’t forget the most important piece…the cup that protects one’s ability to procreate. Going out on the ice without that piece is the reckless equivalent of riding a motorcycle without a helmet…blindfolded.
On the ice, ten thousand years of primitive genetic code bubbles to the surface. Caveman hunter Celtic clan warrior , with tribal war cries…knight in armor, uniformed soldier carrying a musket . It’s the Spartans vs. all of the Greek city states…the Montague’s vs. the Capulet’s…the Hatfield’s vs. the McCoy’s. It’s the gladiator taking on all challengers.
Including myself there are a total of five spectators. I’m standing next to my teams’ bench, as close to the action without actually playing. They lose 6 to 5 as the other team breaks a 5-5 tie in the final two minutes. Disappointment…season over…then the traditional lineup of each team shaking hands at center ice. As our team heads to the locker room, my buddy Matt asks if I’m going to play in the Spring League. I ask, “When does it start”? He says “in two or three weeks”. I think to myself “Dude, three weeks ago, surgeons cut me wide open in front and back taking two ribs out along with a fistful of cancer. I have trouble right now getting in and out of my car”. That’s what I love about hockey players. If you stop a slap shot with the inside of your foot, you hobble off to the bench, suck it up and go out on your next shift. You just shake off the pain. I tell Matt “I don’t think I’ll be ready by then”. Not missing a beat he says “OK we’ll put you on the team as a sub, so that if somebody can’t make it you can fill in for them”. I hear myself say “oh OK”.
Who cares about a little bit of surgery anyway…no big deal. Cancer - schmancer. Maybe I’ll check my equipment this weekend to make sure it’s all in order. Hand me my sword! I’m ready to do battle. Carpe Diem baby!
I hope they don’t think I’m a wuss if I need help lacing up my skates.
The email said my hockey team had a playoff game at 10:20 PM Thursday night. I’m an optimist by nature, so to help clarify my health recovery goals and increase motivation I decide to go. I prepare with a three-hour nap. Carefully squeezing into my Honda, I head to the rink. A sitting ovation greets me as I enter the locker room. I proudly show a few of them my 18 inches of surgery scars. It has been about a year since I’ve last played with these guys. As they put on their equipment I think about how I’ve always wanted to time travel…to go back to ancient Rome during the days of the gladiators. The Colosseum packed with screaming fans…filled with bloodlust.
Not being able to do that, I play hockey instead. I love the pre game ritual of the special diet…of slowly stretching the muscles…of carefully putting on each piece of battle gear…shin pads, hip pads, shoulder pads and elbow pads…freshly sharpened skates, gloves and helmet with face shield…hockey socks and pants with suspenders and jersey to cover everything. Oh, and we can’t forget the most important piece…the cup that protects one’s ability to procreate. Going out on the ice without that piece is the reckless equivalent of riding a motorcycle without a helmet…blindfolded.
On the ice, ten thousand years of primitive genetic code bubbles to the surface. Caveman hunter Celtic clan warrior , with tribal war cries…knight in armor, uniformed soldier carrying a musket . It’s the Spartans vs. all of the Greek city states…the Montague’s vs. the Capulet’s…the Hatfield’s vs. the McCoy’s. It’s the gladiator taking on all challengers.
Including myself there are a total of five spectators. I’m standing next to my teams’ bench, as close to the action without actually playing. They lose 6 to 5 as the other team breaks a 5-5 tie in the final two minutes. Disappointment…season over…then the traditional lineup of each team shaking hands at center ice. As our team heads to the locker room, my buddy Matt asks if I’m going to play in the Spring League. I ask, “When does it start”? He says “in two or three weeks”. I think to myself “Dude, three weeks ago, surgeons cut me wide open in front and back taking two ribs out along with a fistful of cancer. I have trouble right now getting in and out of my car”. That’s what I love about hockey players. If you stop a slap shot with the inside of your foot, you hobble off to the bench, suck it up and go out on your next shift. You just shake off the pain. I tell Matt “I don’t think I’ll be ready by then”. Not missing a beat he says “OK we’ll put you on the team as a sub, so that if somebody can’t make it you can fill in for them”. I hear myself say “oh OK”.
Who cares about a little bit of surgery anyway…no big deal. Cancer - schmancer. Maybe I’ll check my equipment this weekend to make sure it’s all in order. Hand me my sword! I’m ready to do battle. Carpe Diem baby!
I hope they don’t think I’m a wuss if I need help lacing up my skates.
Comment
About
Badge
© 2009 Created by Ming on Ning. Create a Ning Network!
You need to be a member of Center Ice to add comments!
Join this Ning Network