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I topped out at glory-starved Div II college hockey where the post-game/practice beer source was the most challenging issue to gameplan. I did, however, play with some actually really good guys at the prep level in the DC area, so it's a welcome miracle that I didn't endure or witness abuse from the politico 1%ers bankrolling my classmates' DUI habits. My own father, a genuinely good guy, is still pretty vague on most of the rules of the sport, so he made it out to every game to shout amusingly generic support. While focused in the heat of play I was never aware of his cheering outside of one particular attempt to check an opponent. As a 6'2" 180 pound 17 year old I usually had size in my advantage, but physics won out when I shouldered an off-season left tackle who had to be tipping 275. As I literally flew through the air toward my own net I heard my dad's distinctive voice: "Oh wow!" followed by his guffaws as the laughter spread through the other spectators. It's one of my fondest memories of high school. On the other hand, we imported some coaches in the style of "Iron" Mike Keenan from the rural backwaters of Saskatchewan over the years. One major-junior washout we borrowed from the Canadian embassy spotted real potential in our freshman goaltender when he saved some of his 90mph slapshots during a show-off session. He spent the season hammering terrifying missiles at the kid when he wasn't berating him to skate faster in our sprints; I suppose the extra pads weren't a good excuse for a lack of speed. I can be pretty confident this coach succeeded in removing fag passes from our game along with tendencies to act like fuckin' pussies when we had our bell rung. Not clear if he can take credit for that goaltender quitting the team and running away from home later on; adolescence is a complicated time, eh.
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Sep 14, 2016 15:14
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| # ¿ May 11, 2024 07:51 |
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