Tentative Player Takes the Assist, Scores One for the Home TeamBy Marci Adilman Kayne ©2005
I’m a do-it-yourselfer. But not the kind that can rebuild machines or tackle a home remodeling project. I truly like doing things myself—I don’t ask for help with household chores, my work as an editor is usually a one-person job, and my favorite sport, figure skating, needs nobody’s assistance. Trouble is, that type of existence doesn’t work too well in a marriage, as my husband reminded me one day: There’s no “I” in the word “team.”
So I wasn’t going to win MVP in the game of marriage. Relying on him, or anyone, for help was just not in my nature. Plus, I had never been a member of any team in my life. I didn’t even watch team sports until my kids’ soccer or baseball games, and I looked at their enjoyment of being part of a group as a very foreign concept. My husband had been playing ice hockey on a men’s league for years, so that left me as the deficient one not having experienced the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat.
All this talk of team building took an interesting turn two years ago when I kept pulling my calf muscle in my skating classes. One more Waltz jump or sit spin could easily have put me on the bench permanently with a pulled ligament or at worst, a torn Achilles tendon. So that was the end of one solitary aspect of my life. I suppose I’d just be going on more power walks with headphones to get my exercise.
Zooming into “Mr. Fixit” mode, it didn’t take long for my husband to suggest I take up hockey like him.
“Come on, you’d be great! You already can skate—that’s half the battle,” he coaxed. Of course, I looked at him incredulously. Then he made the hilarious suggestion that we’d “do it together.” He was crazy if he thought I, a lifelong Peggy Fleming wannabe, would touch a hockey stick with a 10-foot pole. Surely he jested. He persisted in telling me I should give it a shot (pun intended), and reminded me that two neighborhood women we knew had been playing for years and I should call them.
I acquiesced and asked one of the women, an old friend, how to Lutz-jump my way into women’s hockey. After hanging up the phone, I couldn’t believe what I had done. My friend could not have been more encouraging and enthusiastic, but I felt strange, even sick. I had always scoffed at the testosterone-dominated sport of hockey. All I ever saw when I gave half a glance to a game my husband was watching were men with sticks shoving each other against the boards or pummeling an opponent who, of course, was begging to have the crap beaten out of him. I just had to hope women’s hockey was slightly more civil.
My first step toward my future endeavor was to see the team practice. I watched the action from the stands, kind of hiding myself, since I still felt a strong allegiance to my beloved figure skating and thought I’d be laughed out of the rink if someone saw me watching hockey. Who was I kidding anyway? I’m a 40-ish girly girl without a competitive bone in my body. Will becoming a card-carrying USA Hockey member really help me become a better wife? It was worth a try to get me to curtail my long-time solo gig. I had to stay the course.
My friend saw me watching from the ice and quickly coerced me into suiting up and getting on the ice the next week. Another neighborhood woman who had played on the team but had since quit gave me her equipment. She wouldn’t take a dime for this huge bag of pads, jerseys, and various hockey paraphernalia—hundreds of dollars of necessities to play the game. I had been initiated into the sisterhood of hockey with open arms and I began to feel this odd sensation that others were helping me out. My husband joyfully contributed to the effort by helping me shop for the centerpiece of my ensemble: my hockey skates. Is this what it’s like being a part of a team? I wondered, I hoped.
The next week, I was ready to hit the ice. My shoulders would never be the same as I hauled my equipment bag, large enough to easily hold a 10-year-old, through the doors of the rink. I tried not to look like a novice as I trudged toward the locker room. As I walked through the door to change and meet my new teammates, I felt like I had just been converted to another religion without my consent. This challenge I accepted was upon me—it was go time and I had to move along.
The sound of Velcro being affixed filled the air along with laughter, storytelling, and complaints about husbands or boyfriends, peppered with words not exactly seen on my kids’ spelling worksheets. The aromas were flying in every direction, depending where I stood. Next to one girl, I was pleased to smell baby powder. Next to another, less fastidious about her personal hygiene, I could only wonder what scent would be wafting about her person after an hour on the ice. I was in a locker room for the first time since high school, only this time I wasn’t changing into my royal blue gym suit. I was about to change into a new person.
It was a good thing I arrived an hour before practice began; figuring out the order I should logically put on the pads, socks, “female groin protection device,” and skates took a good 30 minutes. Thankfully, my friend generously gave of her time to show me what got put on where and why. What a project! And, if you accidentally laced up your skates after you’ve put on the shin guards and big legwarmer-type socks but before you get on the giant padded shorts with suspenders (picture Pinocchio), well, the bad news is you’ll have to start over again.
That preparation time alone almost deterred me from playing since I was used to just putting on spandex pants and lacing up my figure skates to be athletic. But I began to look at suiting up differently. Those minutes in the locker room with women from all walks of life, body piercing preferences, and tattooing tastes have meant something to me. I was no longer the competitive figure skater looking to be better than the rest. I was now a valuable cog of an entourage of powerful female hockey players—the Frozen Snappers—who gladly considered me one of them. To this day, I’m actually still trying to digest that.
Stepping on the ice for the first time in hockey skates was a sight to see. Forgetting that hockey skates don’t have toe picks, I promptly fell flat on my face three times within my first five minutes of attempting to skate like a normal player. I then knew what all that padding was for, and thank goodness I had it on. Worrying about a 50-mph flying puck was to be the least of my concerns that night; I had to concentrate on skating and breathing.
My ego took a nosedive that night. Falling and performing poorly on an ice rink has always equaled supreme failure in my mind, and I left the ice at the end of practice feeling dejected and numb, physically and mentally. I was certain all the girls there were rolling their eyes thinking what a moron I was to try their sport. In reality, I couldn’t have been more wrong. My fellow players were very complimentary toward my skating ability and said for a first-timer, I did great. I was truly touched by the camaraderie and knew I had to give hockey some time.
My husband was the most excited, to see me get into his beloved sport. He knew the great experiences that lay ahead for me if I stuck with the game, and he was all too happy to share them with me. At all my games, he has been in the stands cheering for me every minute of every shift. We even brought our coupledom to a new level that summer when we took a coed skills clinic together.
As I got more practices and games to my credit, I became less of a crazy puck-chasing people-pleaser trying to make that big NHL play and more like the right wing offensive linewoman that my teammates were counting on. I learned to pass the puck to an open Snapper who wasn’t being chased down by an opponent. I yelled like a high school cheerleader as one of my teammates had a lucky breakaway. I even learned how to jump over the boards when my shift was changing—thereby letting the team know I was going to do my best for them without wasting a second. Being around this fantastic group of women made me want to give all I’ve got, in the name of team spirit; my fears of failure and looking like an idiot were resurfaced into oblivion by a passing Zamboni.
Off the ice, I’ve embraced the team approach as best as I can. As every good coach instructs his team to “take it one game at a time,” that philosophy can work for a marriage too. If I take what I’ve learned from playing hockey and stay out of my self-imposed marital penalty box, I’ll score one for the team and keep the Lone Ranger off the roster for good.