Hockey
Submitting to nostalgia, I started to read a little online about the Edmonton Oilers, one of my favorite hockey teams of all time. Wayne Gretzky, of course, dominated the Oilers' line-up during the 80's, but there are many members of that club who I remeber well: Jari Kurri, Mark Messier, Grant Fuhr, Dave Semenko, Andy Moog, and others...
While I fondly remember how much I looked up to those guys while I was a young hockey player, I still feel a pang of sorrow for what I wanted to be, which I'm now convinced is an eternal wound which I will bear for the rest of my life.
I've written about this before; how much I loved hockey, and what an ill-fated affair it was. I had little talent for the game beyond some skill with my feet (I might have done well as a figure skater, if I'd had the courage to transcend my gender). Everything I accomplished was either by luck or sheer effort. Unfortunately, I didn't have the foresight or wisdom to realize that I was staking a major portion of my identity on a losing horse. The game was terrific fun before I hit puberty, but it became a confidence-destroying labor after I reached the upper levels of common players. I had a coach whose name I remember with little love in my last years before high school. It only got worse when I started high school play (though the coach I had my senior year treated me well).
I didn't know any better, so I staked everything I had on hockey. I was a hockey player, and I took immense pride in it. Almost nothing else mattered. The problem is that I was no more than average to slightly above average on my better days, and no one cared about average players who worked hard. It was all about talent, and I really didn't have any. I tried as hard as I could, but it wasn't enough.
I sometimes wonder if I'd still want to be a cop if I hadn't failed so badly as a hockey player. I remember the magic of stepping onto the ice and hearing the roar of the crowd, whether it was real or in my imagination, whether it was at Parade or at Taft. I remember the smell of the ice, the nervous energy in the pit of my stomach that exploded when I heard the zamboni leave the ice, the glorious freedom of the first lap around the rink before a game... I remember how good it felt to hug a teammate after he'd scored a goal that I'd assisted, how it felt to see the puck hit the back of the net.
I remember how angry, how angry I was when I sat four shifts in a row because the coach put his kid in out my place. I remember how much I hated that bastard. I remember how bad I felt about myself. I remember how fourth-rate I felt, like I didn't matter. Why the hell did I even bother to show up? In hindsight, I wish I'd told that motherfucker to kiss my ass and skated out. And then done something else that I was actually good at. I wish I'd never loved hockey so much.
But I do. I'm able to watch it for a little while now, but it's only a matter of time before the old feelings invade. Robert Frost once described good poetry as an "immortal wound"; pehaps I am doomed to my memories of hockey. I do not believe that I will get over the hurt of what I loved. I was a hockey player.
While I fondly remember how much I looked up to those guys while I was a young hockey player, I still feel a pang of sorrow for what I wanted to be, which I'm now convinced is an eternal wound which I will bear for the rest of my life.
I've written about this before; how much I loved hockey, and what an ill-fated affair it was. I had little talent for the game beyond some skill with my feet (I might have done well as a figure skater, if I'd had the courage to transcend my gender). Everything I accomplished was either by luck or sheer effort. Unfortunately, I didn't have the foresight or wisdom to realize that I was staking a major portion of my identity on a losing horse. The game was terrific fun before I hit puberty, but it became a confidence-destroying labor after I reached the upper levels of common players. I had a coach whose name I remember with little love in my last years before high school. It only got worse when I started high school play (though the coach I had my senior year treated me well).
I didn't know any better, so I staked everything I had on hockey. I was a hockey player, and I took immense pride in it. Almost nothing else mattered. The problem is that I was no more than average to slightly above average on my better days, and no one cared about average players who worked hard. It was all about talent, and I really didn't have any. I tried as hard as I could, but it wasn't enough.
I sometimes wonder if I'd still want to be a cop if I hadn't failed so badly as a hockey player. I remember the magic of stepping onto the ice and hearing the roar of the crowd, whether it was real or in my imagination, whether it was at Parade or at Taft. I remember the smell of the ice, the nervous energy in the pit of my stomach that exploded when I heard the zamboni leave the ice, the glorious freedom of the first lap around the rink before a game... I remember how good it felt to hug a teammate after he'd scored a goal that I'd assisted, how it felt to see the puck hit the back of the net.
I remember how angry, how angry I was when I sat four shifts in a row because the coach put his kid in out my place. I remember how much I hated that bastard. I remember how bad I felt about myself. I remember how fourth-rate I felt, like I didn't matter. Why the hell did I even bother to show up? In hindsight, I wish I'd told that motherfucker to kiss my ass and skated out. And then done something else that I was actually good at. I wish I'd never loved hockey so much.
But I do. I'm able to watch it for a little while now, but it's only a matter of time before the old feelings invade. Robert Frost once described good poetry as an "immortal wound"; pehaps I am doomed to my memories of hockey. I do not believe that I will get over the hurt of what I loved. I was a hockey player.