Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Slow Motion is a Terrible Thing - Old Man Plays Hockey

It's probably irrational, but when I start a game in goal I am a nervous wreck until the first shot comes at me. It's a matter of Imposter's Syndrome, that I'm terrible and have no right to be dragging my teammates down like an anchor with my sub-par goaltending. Once I can turn that first shot away, though, the miasma of dread evaporates. I feel validated, even if only a smidge, and my confidence increases. The world is a better place, hockey is the bestest sport ever, and I could have played in the NHL if only I'd started 20 years ago. 30 years ago. Okay, 45 years ago.

Of course, all that empowerment feels false if you give up a crappy goal.

Like I did Sunday night.

The first period of the game was a rough one for the Scurvy Dogs. We didn't have our skating legs and it's safe to say we were out shot in the vicinity of 15-2 or so. Still, I was turning aside whatever the defense let get through. I was giving my team the opportunity to win.

Until, you know, I wasn't.

I suppose I could deflect some of the blame on it being a power play goal but no, that would be disingenuous. It was a clean shot from the point, a slapper that never got off the ice. I had a clear view of it, was in good position, and dropped into my 'butterfly' (calling it butterflying implies that I can do sort of a split. I can't, but saying 'dropping into a Vee' sounds dirty). The shot hit dead center on the blade of my stick.

And therein proved the problem. In a rookie mistake, I didn't have my elbow out toward the shooter. It doesn't have to be much, but it can't be back by my shoulder. Which it was.

Which brings us to the slow motion of the title, an accurate description of how the puck looked as it flipped, end over end, in an arc over my right shoulder. It could have hit the crossbar and stayed out but what would the fun have been in that? Ugh. 1-0 on an ugly, ugly goal.

I didn't self-destruct. I made a few saves, gave up one I never saw in the 2nd period and another late in the game when a puck didn't get cleared, and we lost 3-1. I was sad that I put my team in a hole they never got out of - although they did get close - but at the same time I have to think back to last year when I was playing for the Mustangs and it was a moral victory if I kept it under double digits. I know I'm not a great goalie, or even a good one. I know I'm old and my improvement curve is a steep one, to say the least.

But ye gods, I'm having fun. If I can do so without destroying my team's chances when I'm between the pipes, I'm alright with that. Even if I'll never get my hands on a Vezina Trophy.

(look a whole post with no political ranting!)

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

So It Goes

A couple of days ago I picked up Slaughter-house Five and started reading it again. It has been way too long since I've allowed myself to get lost in Vonnegut's prose, and now, as I sit here at 5:30am after what will likely prove to be one of the most disastrous Presidential elections in US History, it seems an oddly prescient choice. Potentially horrible events loom before us. Be nice if the Tralfamadorians could show up right about now.

I'm not even sure what to say at this moment. Do I yell at the media, who are currently standing there looking at the smoking remains of our future with a burnt-out match and an empty can of gasoline in their hands and saying, "Uh, this might be our bad"? Do I rage at the people who value imposing the tenets of their religion over the rights of other people, even though their religion pretty much tells them not to do that? Do I snarl at those who made their 'protest votes' and ask them if their smug sense of superiority will endure when they're choking on the poisoned air of a renewed - I can't even believe this is going to be a thing - coal initiative?

There's no point in any of that, I suppose. But what I can do is this: worry and work.

Worries are going to be as easy to find as leaves in our yards right about now (well, in the Northeast, anyway). GOP POTUS, GOP Senate, GOP House. Last time that happened was the late 20's and it led to the Great Depression. I'm worried for my LGBTQ friends and their rights, which should be as guaranteed as anyone else's. The EPA has always been a thorn in my side with regard to my business, but a necessary one. I shudder to think of what will happen if they're gone. I have friends with pre-existing medical conditions who were essentially given a new lease on life with the ACA - what happens to them now? Hell, my parents both make use of Medicaid/Medicare. All 'entitlement' programs are in Paul Ryan's sights now. Speaking of which, Planned Parenthood - shit. Can you fathom that being gone? Maybe you're fortunate enough to never needed it. Others have and will continue to do so. Millions of others. Will it be gone in a whirlwind of religious righteousness and the need to build . . . battleships?

Frightening stuff, and only the tip of the iceberg. What to do? Right now, this morning as the dust settles? Despair, a little. Go in and hug my wife for a while. Take comfort in my friends and loved ones, who are often the same people.

And then work.

Not 'earn-a-living' work, although that's going to happen, but work at surviving the nightmare that's on the horizon. Help where I can. Be there with support for those who need it. Never, ever, EVER give up hope. Half the people who voted didn't want him. We're not going to go away, not going to go quietly. We survived eight years of W. and while it kills me to see the accomplishments of Obama likely to be eradicated in a matter of months, we can't give up. We cannot let the nation's future be dictated by racists and haters. They've made their voice heard, won this round. We are made of sterner stuff, of nobler intentions, of greater fortitude and stronger hearts. We will be there for one another, suffer the slings and arrows together, endure. Our children are depending on us.

And we will be worthy of their trust. We have to be.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Tick . . . Tick . . . Tick . . . Boom?

Tonight's schedule has me attending martial arts class at 7:30pm. I'll be training with the black belt candidates, who are all teenagers prepping for their test next month. It is not uncommon for a class like this to start with three or four hundred jumping jacks, broken into groups of one hundred by delves into hideous amounts of pushups and/or sit-ups. After that, I have a hockey game scheduled for 10:30pm.

What could possibly go wrong?

One of these days something in my body is going to say 'Enough of this shit' and just stop working. A knee, maybe, or an ankle. My left shoulder feels like it's made out of hamburger and broken glass most mornings, and after a class focused on wheel kicks (the ultimate nemesis to those lacking flexibility such as myself) last night my hips feel like someone was beating them with a rubber hose for a few hours. Between whatever buzzsaw I run into in class tonight and the strain of a game of hockey, tomorrow my groin muscles will likely lodge a loud complaint.

How much longer can this go on? Look, I don't paint myself as any real kind of athlete. I know there are people my age doing triathlons and all sorts of high-impact sports. I managed to wobble through a 5k with my son last weekend, no doubt aided by the few walks he needed to take. Hey, he's 8 and it was nothing but hills and valleys. If you'd told me the kid was going to run sub-12 minute miles in a 5k a few weeks ago I would have raised an eyebrow. Proud of the Boy. He may have found his sports-related Thing. I'm still looking for mine, maybe.

And yet I keep trying, keep pushing it. Why? Part of it could be that I'm in better shape at 48 than I was at 22, as my laughably puffy-faced passport photo would attest to if I were dumb enough to post it here. Could be the joy of playing hockey with two people I consider my brothers, or the abject amazement I feel every single time I somehow manage to keep a puck from going in behind me. Maybe it's just fun.

Question is, what happens when it stops? What do I do, whom do I become after that ACL snaps, after that L3 unaligns? How do I keep the weight off? Will I be able to keep my sanity with NHL '17 as opposed to skating myself? Can dusting off an old copy of Karateka substitute for actual sparring? (No.) Will I try to force my kids to play team sports so I can coach and live through them vicariously? (Also no.) Or will it all be something I'll take in stride (figuratively)?

I'll find out at some point, no doubt of that. Staying uninjured is a rigged game - sooner or later I'm going to lose. I'll keep my foot on the throttle until then, although my acceleration is more Prius than Porsche.

edit: it's Friday morning. I survived, although there is more of me aching than not.I'm pleased with myself until I try to do something crazy like move a muscle. Ow, quit it.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

It's TOTALLY a Winning Streak - Old Man Plays Hockey

Strange things happening on the ice, my friends. After losing 18 games in a row over the Winter and Spring seasons the Scurvy Dogs face the possibility of - nay, they stand in mortal peril of - finishing at .500 for the Summer season. Last night's win, our second in a row (not a misprint), brought us to 3-4 with our final game looming tomorrow night. At the very least we'll match our previous best season of 3-5. The New York Rangers we're not, but it shows improvement. At the very least, we have heart.

To make this unlikely winning streak even more bizarre, we won last night with me in goal. Maybe that sounds a little harsh but I've been covering goal at my Monday night pickup hockey and the past two times I was, well, less than impressive. Much less. So much so that I actually have a unpublished draft of a blogpost in which I started lamenting how poorly I seemed to be playing and wondering, after a year of this, if I should maybe call an end to the experiment (I deemed it too whiny for humans to be exposed to). If I screw up while playing defense then I have Chaz, our regular and much superior goalie, to bail me out. If I screw up while I'm wearing the big pads? Nobody to bail me out then, my friends. And I've hung more pressure on my team to make up for my shortcomings. It's not a great feeling. I was figuring that in the month or so between seasons I'd hit clinic a few times, see if some reps could help me figure out what was going awry. I mean, my lifetime record is 1 and something - 20, maybe? I don't know.

Then last night happened. It's kinda spooky. Wanna know why? Of course you do.

 - both of my wins in goal have been by the score of 5-1 SPOOOOOOKY
 - both of my wins in goal have been on rink 1 at Ice House. I've lost on all 4 rinks there, of course. Still - SPOOOOOKY
 - both of my wins in goal have been as the visiting team SPOOOOOOKY
 - both of my wins have been against teams with seven letters in their names (Raiders/Goonies) SPOOOOOOKY
 - both of my wins have been when I somehow managed not to make dumb mistakes SPOOO - no, that's not spooky as much as it's just common sense.

Last night was just a case of me doing my job as I was not required to put the team on my shoulders and carry them by making ridiculous saves one after the other. My defense did a fantastic job of keeping the shooters wide, giving me clear looks at the shots, and sweeping away rebounds. I just had to do my One Job, and aside from a guy banking in a goal in OFF MY FACE I kept the puck out of the net. It helped that the other team had three or four guys who were the hockey version of Nuke LaLoosh - they could skate like their asses were on fire and my goal was a pond but would have been challenged to put a puck in the ocean while standing on a pier. I made a decent number of saves but watched more shots than I could count sail by wide, which to me is the most amazing thing about playing goal. Someone cranks a shot at you from the blue line, which is 64 feet away, at speeds approaching (in this league) maybe 60, 70mph. If that shot is going to go an inch wide of the post, most times I won't even flinch. It's amazing how our minds can be trained to understand angles and make those calculations before you even know that you needed calculations made. Of course, if you're not in the correct spot to start with then twine is gonna bulge. Last night I had the right combination of proper positioning and luck, like when I was screen during a power play and kicked a leg out just in time to stop a shot I never saw.

One other very nice aspect of our win was that our five goals came from five different scorers. In other words, we didn't just give the puck to our ringer Gary and say, "Here, go score a few times." Cliffie got us on the board with another laser wrist shot and then another Mike (we have three) scored the big goal a couple of minutes after the Goonies had tied it up. I can't speak for other goalies but I find it infinitely more relaxing to play with a lead. If I screw up, well, at worst we're back to tied. If we're already behind, though, now my whiff has put us in a deeper hole. That makes Goalie Kit sad.

I won't be in net tomorrow night, as we're short on numbers and I called in a replacement who happens to be much better than me. 4-4 won't, in all likelihood, get us into the playoffs, but after an 0-10 Spring it's still going to feel pretty good.

Friday, August 12, 2016

Wait, That's One of Our Moves - the Old Man Plays Hockey

It's such an infrequent occurrence - only twice to date during this calendar year - that I feel compelled to mention when the cosmic forces align enough for my hockey team to do the unfathomable and win a game. The other twenty-three games since January were losses: some close, some not-quite-so-close. You would not be remiss in asking if being the Bad News Bears of the Ice House 8W division (we even wear the same colors, although we are not sponsored by Chico's Bail Bonds) can become a little depressing. The answer? No. Yes. Maybe? Maybe. Not really. We have a lot of fun, win or lose. Winning is more fun, though.

The team we played last night usually specializes in chippy play and cheap shots, but for some reason a clean and exciting game of hockey broke out ('exciting' within the realm of lowest-level beer-league hockey. We know what we are). After a scoreless first we took the lead when Cliffie - who has gone from being barely able to stay upright on skates to having perhaps the deadliest wrist shot on the whole damn team - set himself in front of the Hoboken goal and put numerous rebounds back  on net until he slipped one past the goalie while the defense tried in vain to get him off the puck. It was like watching a rottweiler gnawing on a big bone while swatting away a couple of chihuahua puppies until he'd had his fill. Then, a few minutes later, I got to watch us score a goal of the type that I am usually guilty of giving up (for those looking for a tale drenched with more anguish and failure tune in next week, when I'll be in goal twice instead of playing defense with a brick wall of a goalie behind me).

We dumped the puck behind their net and their center picked it up, saw our center approaching, and panicked. They battled for a few seconds before he pushed the puck along the side of the net and told his goalie to cover it.

He, uhm, pushed it a little too hard. The goalie must not have had his foot against the post and the pass became a deflected shot on goal, which became an own goal, which became the winning goal (we added another and won 3-1, but that was the winner. Ouch). Now I can TOTALLY see myself giving up a goal like that, especially the way I've looked in net at open hockey the past few Mondays. Maybe I can give up an even more interesting one on Tuesday or Thursday.

Or. Or. Or maybe, just maybe, I can make a whole bunch of saves instead. Stranger things have happened (and I'm watching the last two episodes of that tonight so no spoilers!).

Saturday, August 6, 2016

How To Get Two Front Row Seats at Hamilton for $20 aka How Kit Won Life For a Day

For me to win seats for Hamilton I had to do a whole lot of things wrong.

Let me explain. And before I explain, let me make a few things clear. I'm going to keep this as spoiler-free as possible in order to keep the out-and-out magic of a live Hamilton performance as a surprise. I have dear friends due to see the show in two weeks and I want their jaws to hang just as much as mine did, for their laughter and their tears to come without warning, even though they're well-versed with the soundtrack. The soundtrack is wonderful. The soundtrack is amazing.

The soundtrack, compared to the live show, is flat and emotionless. Think about how listening to it has affected you and understand that the live performance will absolutely blow that away.

More on that later. Now, where was I? Right, me screwing up.

First off, I shouldn't even have been in town this weekend. A friend of mine made the incredibly generous offer of housing at GenCon. GenCon, for those who don't know, is the biggest gaming convention of the year. I have a pack of friends who gather there annually and man, it sounds wonderful. Getting housing, though, is spoken of through gritted teeth amid curses and growls, so to have it gift-wrapped for me - how could I refuse?

I refused.

Why? Well, my daughter was going to spend almost two weeks at sleep-away camp, with her return date the Friday of this weekend. Which meant I wouldn't be there to pick her up, or see her when she got back, or hear all her stories while they were fresh.

I love my friends. I love spending time with them and drinking with them and losing to them in various sorts of games. But for me, this wasn't even a choice. With regrets I passed on the invitation and, after being alerted to the fact that I'd failed to sign her up for the bus ride home, gave my daughter a few extra hours of camp time while she waited for me to drive up and get her. My first screw-up of the weekend.

Wouldn't be the last.

But don't worry, it all turns out well.

My wife has been battling both ear and sinus infections. Nyquil helps but knocks her out. This became important as she struggled to stay awake until midnight Friday night to make sure she could sign The Boy up for a limited-position program at school - only to discover the website was running on Pacific time. After sleeping for three hours she got up and got him enrolled - then found herself unable to get back to sleep. When I got up at 6am to write she staggered back to bed and, aided by Nyquil, crashed hard. Our plans were to head to the Meadowlands Flea Market at about 9 or so and she figured 3 hours would be plenty of rest.

I'm getting to the Hamilton part. Hang in there.

I entered the lottery like I do every day (sometimes twice) at this site. If you're in the NYC area I strongly recommend you give it a try - it's free, takes about 15 seconds, and hey, I've heard you can win front row seats to Hamilton. Usually I get my 'you're a loser, try again' emails at work on weekdays promptly at 4:01pm, but the weekends are a bit more nebulous as the showtimes vary and include a matinee on Saturdays. Anyway, while we waited for Lola to wake up time ticked by - 9am, 10am, 11am. Finally at 11:30am I rallied the kids and took them into town for smoothies and a visit to the awesome indie kids' bookstore in town (where several of Gareth Hinds' books are on prominent display). I did NOT take my phone with me because it was in the bedroom with the slumbering Lola and I didn't want to chance waking her up. I was also reading instead of screwing around on either my computer or my tablet, which meant I forgot to check at 11am to see my Hamilton  rejection email.

We got back from town around 12:15. Lola was up but our window of opportunity for the flea market had passed, so I headed upstairs to change into crappy clothes suitable for cutting the lawn. I saw my phone and grabbed it to see if I had any emails. I did. One looked like this:

Hamilton 400x116
Dear Christopher-
Congratulations! You have been selected as a winner of the Official Digital Lottery.
Here are the details:
August 6, 2016 2:00 pm
2 ticket(s) at $10 per ticket
Balance due: $20.00
Here’s what happens next:
You have 60 minutes to pay for your tickets online. Major credit cards are accepted. If you do not pay for your tickets within 60 minutes, they will be released.
Click below to pay for your tickets.

You might notice the part under 'Here's what happens next:". It says I had 60 minutes to pay or the tickets would be released. The email was sent at 11am.
It was 12:20 when I saw it.
I admit it, I yelled with frustration. Lola ran up, alarmed, and listen to me curse myself mightily. My daughter, who has lived, breathed, and dreamed about Hamilton  for the past six months understood how badly I had screwed up but, bless her, did her best to hide how devastated she was. I couldn't believe my idiocy. I spluttered uselessly for another minute or two and was about to go cut the goddamn lawn when I said to myself, 'You know, Kit, maybe you ought to check. Just to be sure.'
So I did. I checked on the site and confirmed that indeed I'd been selected (there's a cruel joke site that allows you to prank your friends with a fake winner email. Don't be that guy. Don't). Breathless, I clicked through and was taken to the site where one pays $10 (plus a 2 buck service fee) for tickets that have a current face value of $847. Each. Autofill did all the work and I bit my lip as I hit send.
Spinning arrow. Two, maybe three seconds, but each of those were an eternity. Then, a screen thanking me and telling me to enjoy the show.
Holy shit.
It was now 12:30pm and I needed to be at 46th Street in an hour (I was unsure if we had to be there right at 30 minutes before the show or just in that time window. I wasn't going to take any chances as I'd already screwed up quite enough, thank you). I walked downstairs and said, "Hey Becky, I thought of something we could do this afternoon. Wanna go see Hamilton?"
Oy, the joyous screeching.
If it had been a weeknight show we never would have made it. As it was there was enough traffic to make it pretty damn close and I earned my share of honks, dirty looks, and middle fingers as I wove through cars like a total jerkweed. Those people didn't understand. This was Hamilton. I stuck the car in a $45 garage on 49th and 10th and we hoofed it down to the theater. Now understand I still wasn't sure we were in at this point as I'd signed in after the 60 minute window and I made sure Becky was aware that Daddy might be setting her up for one crushing afternoon. She's a tough one, that kid. Inscrutable. I knew she was excited but if you didn't know her you'd figure by her countenance she was heading to a doctor's appointment or something.
There were huge lines stretching in either direction in front of the theater, penning in the ticket holders. I'm not quite sure why you'd get there early and stand outside if you already had ticket in hand but to each their own. We went to the entrance and were shepherded into the lottery winner line, where we earned an awful lot of sullen/jealous looks. The twenty of us there all wore slightly bemused expressions of the 'is this really happening?' variety. And I STILL didn't know if we were good or not. After an extremely long fifteen minutes we started to get ushered in. I handed my license to the box office dude and endured another endless three seconds before he handed me tickets with a smile.
We were good.
No doubt because I'd responded so late we got the 'worst' of the lottery seats - all the way stage left. Front row, with the stage no more than a foot from our faces. Look:

The orchestra was in front of/below us and we could feel the bass and drums vibrate our seats a bit all show, especially during 'Right Hand Man.' There were several scenes that were played out under a foot from our faces. I could have reached out and grabbed Christopher Jackson's leg during "Meet Me Inside."

I did not.

So, enough backstory, right? How was it, this hoity-toity show that everyone keeps blagging about like it's reinvented theater?

Well, as far as I can tell, it has pretty much reinvented theater. Before kids I saw my share of Broadway shows: The Producers; A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum; Phantom of the Opera (yeah, I know); Cats (not my idea either); Spamalot; How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying; Avenue Q; even the Flying Karamazov Brothers (who were amazing). Not a lot, but not a few, either.

Nothing like this. Nothing like Hamilton.

What to say without ruining it? How can I ruin it, you say, since most of us listen to the soundtrack, watched the Tonys, saw the stuff on Youtube?

It's just different: more visceral, more emotional, more funny. We may not have had many of the originals in our show - Laurens/Philip; Washington; Peggy/Maria Reynolds; and a good number of the incredible ensemble - but it didn't matter. They were all fucking fantastic. They guy taking over for Diggs might not have been able to hold the French accent when he speed-rapped as Lafayette but he killed as Jefferson and damn near stole the show. And back to Washington - holy crap, how did Christopher Jackson not get a Tony? He owned every scene he was in and while his inflections differed from the soundtrack each added a different take, a different intensity. He brought the place down with 'One Last Time.' Brought. It. Down.  The cheering afterward  - not just applause, but outright cheering - lasted for at least 30 seconds. He emoted like a champ. Anthony Ramos is perfectly cast as Laurens/Philip. Just perfect. And King George? I don't - I can't even. Completely changed the way I perceive 'You'll be Back' and no, I'm not going to tell you why. And the Cabinet Battle . . . genius. It plays better than you could imagine. So clever. So much fun.

Is that being spoilery? Maybe. If you want me to get spoilery drop me a private email. Otherwise I'm going to back off here.

As much as I personally wanted to see the show, it didn't hold a candle to how much I wanted for my daughter to get her chance. We came so close to getting tickets in the after-Tonys sale, with the system crashing on Lola while she had 4 tickets in her basket (While I am sad that she and The Boy haven't seen it yet I'm pleased at the money saved). I honestly never thought I'd win this, never be able to get this kid in to see this thing she's so crazy about. She watched most of the show with a huge smile on her face, occasionally whispering along as she has it completely memorized. Her eyes darted everywhere, taking in everything - the staging, the costumes, the unreal choreography (I want to see this again just so I can focus on the ensemble) - and soaking it all in. She's already interested in the theater and had requested taking classes with the local theater this fall but this - this was watching someone falling in love.

This is my daughter. This is my daughter on Hamilton. Any questions?

I could go on at length about how much it meant to me to be able to share this experience with her, but Joe Posnanski has already done a much better job of that than I would (go read that next. He's amazing). I know the tickets are expensive. I know the tickets are hard to find regardless of cost. But try. Do the lottery if it's feasible. See one of the touring productions. Catch a show in Chicago or Boston when they open. It's that good. It's that amazing. And then you too can bore your friends with your Story of Tonight.

Friday, May 13, 2016

Well, She Did Warn Me

 This is about hockey. Eventually.

Look, I'm old. I get it. I don't try to deny it or Grecian Formula my way around it. Part of my acceptance is due to my wife being satisfied with her comfortable old shoe of a husband, but there's an angle that stems from me trying to be, for want of a better phrase, 'young at heart.' For 48 years old I'm a pretty active dude. I work a job that involves a fair amount of physical activity. I coach two teams, and if that doesn't sound like a workout I suggest you try pitching 1.5 hours of batting practice and get back to me. Hockey is hockey, even with me only playing once a week for now (that'll change soon, as my 2 hours of pickup hockey starts up in early June). There's random spurts of running usually associated with being Becky's Run Buddy for Girls on the Run (including 5ks last and this weekend, plus a couple of midweek staggers to try to mitigate the damage done by the five pound bag of Haribo raspberries Lola got me for my birthday) as well.

The biggest change has been my return to a martial arts class. Zack decided he'd had enough after 2.5 years and since a) his contract has a couple of months left that are transferable, and b) I've been eating my heart out watching him and dying to get back out on the mat, I didn't hesitate jumping back in. It's been tough to get to class with softball/baseball (the timing is just off) but when I do - whew. I've played a lot of sports including rugby, which is 80 minutes straight of alternating between jogging, sprinting, and getting your lunch handed to you by a 285 pound prop. That being said, there's nothing like a martial arts workout to kick your ass and make you ache in different and exciting ways. The school I go to has a number of instructors and each brings a different approach to class. One is all about a hard-core workout. One likes grappling. This Wednesday night the instructor wanted to work on kicks - fine. We did a lot with wheel/round kicks, which are my absolute bane. I am not flexible at all, which is a source of constant amusement to my made-out-of-rubber-bands daughter.. To properly chamber a waist-high wheel kick your knee turns so that your kicking leg is parallel with the floor while your heel is near or against your butt. If you're doing it correctly you can put a stack of dishes on top of your thigh and they won't crash to the floor.

Mine would crash to the floor. I suck at wheel kicks, more so now than 15 years ago when I used to regularly use a stretching machine (aka torture device) each night to try to get more flexibility. Still, Miss Pitea (the instructor) told us that we needed to make the microtears in our muscles in order to improve our kicks in the long run. She then added that we'd all feel it tomorrow, especially those of us who are older. She didn't look at me while she said it. She didn't need to. The kid I was working with, an orange belt about my height, turned out to be 13. THIRTEEN. I'm almost 4 of him. Ye gods. That kid  probably got up the next morning and did cartwheels. Screw you, kid whose name I don't remember.

Anyway, I indeed ached in the hip and groin area Thursday morning. It eased as the day went on (as does my shoulder, which feels like it's stuffed with gravel and glass shards when I first wake up) and I felt good about skating at my game Thursday night.

Well, until I actually started skating. Remember back in the beginning I said this was about hockey? Now it's about hockey, sort of.

With Chaz back in goal the Scurvy Dogs have been scaring some teams. No, really! And not just because one of our defensemen is leading the league in penalty minutes ::cough cough Ken K cough cough::. We lost last week 2-1 after tying the game with a minute left and having the other team's superstar uncork a blast that caught top corner with 2 seconds left - TWO SECONDS. This week, missing a few key players, we still had our chances before falling 3-2. Good games, good fun.

My groin, however, felt like someone was beating on it with a rubber mallet which is not kinky or sexy in any manner. At one point in the 3rd period I went to swing my leg over the boards to get on the bench and just flat out rolled a 1 and failed. Took me two tries.My teammates had the good grace not to laugh at me (or just didn't notice). So it seems that I'm not ageless and that my body won't already respond the way I want it to.

That's okay. there's an over-40 league as well.