I grew up in Alaska and can remember being on ice skates only once. I was in junior high, which is a lovely time in one’s life to show everyone else just how uncoordinated a person is, and for gym class we were going to ice skate.
Using the Dorothy Hamill-style skates, it was painfully obvious I would not be confused with Dorothy, Eric Heiden or even Brian Boitano.
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I possessed weak ankles, which allowed me to touch the insides of my knees to the ice while skating. While weebling and wobbling I looked more like Howdy Doody Hamill or Howdy Doody Heiden performing “Wino On Ice.” I quickly gave up ice-skating to Salchow jump into basketball.
Fast-forward several years and my son is now playing Mite hockey in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. In Da U.P. everyone ice skates including little girls, young ladies, older women and grandmas—just about everyone except for one Howdy Doody Hamill.
The mite season was over and only two events remained: the annual pool party and an event I dreaded with my whole existence—the players versus parents hockey game.
“Dad are you going to play in the players versus parents game?”
“Sorry son, ask your mother.”
“She said you’re playing.”
“Then I guess I could play, but I don’t have any hockey gear.”
“Can’t you borrow gear from someone at work?”
“I can ask.”
Two days later I was up to my adenoids in should pads, thigh pads, skates, gloves, helmet, stick, and cup. It wasn’t Lord Stanley’s, but it would work.
I was going to borrow it all from Bob but he was too kind—he gave it all to me. Only one problem—Bob was 6’4” and I was not, meaning the gear fit like…like…like…okay it didn’t fit very well at all.
My ice ensemble was almost complete except for a hockey sweater (my t-shirts are big but not that big). Mrs. Howdy Doody Hamill went to the store and brought me back a jersey.
It was cool!
It was bright!
It was yellow!
I looked like I was auditioning for the part of Big Bird with Sesame Street on Ice.
Game time and players and parents were lacing them up in the locker room.
“You’re going down like a painted clown.”
I recognized my son’s voice and I looked up to see him staring at me.
“Ha!” “I can skate.”
“No you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can. I just have trouble stopping.”
His high-pitched giggle lingered long after the lad left the locker room.
The parents’ coach noticed how slow I progressed around the ice
during warm-ups while clinging to the rail for dear life, so he placed me on the blue line. Actually, I put myself on the blue line when I tripped over my stick.
Before long the puck came toward me and I noticed my son sprinting for the puck. I was not going to let the little snot gobber beat me to the biscuit so I took a couple of strides and that is precisely when the trouble began.
The skates Bob gave me were indeed hockey skates and not Hamill skates. The bad news was that Gordie Howe must have used them as a lad. They were old and had seen a considerable amount of ice time.
In my desire to hurry up I put a great amount of stress on my right skate and alas, the skate could not handle the load. Instead, I blew a tire as my skate blade snapped causing me to go down like a sack of brightly colored, yellow potatoes.
As I slid closer to the puck I noticed Ryan was rapidly gaining.
It had to be a funny sight—a race to the puck between a munchkin actually skating and Big Bird doing the backstroke.
Big Bird Wins!
Big Bird Wins!
I got to the puck just ahead of Ryan, picked it up and chucked it down the ice—causing a breakaway for the parents.
