a disturbance in the force

resurrecting the famed (in our minds) finesse line for one night.

I have to admit, I felt some butterflies stepping onto the ice with gear for the first time in eight years. I had been on skates exactly twice since my orthopedic surgeon told me to find a new hobby. That was spring 2014, just after my fifth and most recent knee surgery. All on the same knee.

My first skate was that winter. The annual Red-Green game. I didn’t play, a decision reinforced by my best friend Scott’s insistence he would set my gear on fire right there in the rink if I brought it. It may not have been something as dramatic as an arena bon fire, but I got the message. No gear.

So, I reluctantly agreed to be the referee. It seemed easy enough. I knew the game. I knew the guys. And I was a pretty good umpire back in the day. But boy do I suck as a hockey referee. I was so bad the guys—my teammates and friends—didn’t ask me back. If I had gone drinking with them after the game, I’m sure they would’ve made me sit alone at some corner table and thrown French Fries at me as though I was an unwelcome seagull at the beach.

So, I let that be a lesson to me and stayed off skates until... about six weeks ago.

I still don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was the spirit of Wayne Witt. Maybe it was the upcoming alumni game Thanksgiving weekend back in Lockport. Or maybe I just saw my skates in the closet and let myself wonder, “What if...” Either way, I soon found myself back at Centennial Sportsplex. Not for a game. I’m older and at least negligibly wiser. I started with public skating, thinking if it went well, I’d consider playing in the alumni game back in Lockport.

I felt pretty good after a few laps. A few more, and I was starting to imagine passing lanes. The bug was nibbling at my jacket, trying to get through and break the skin.

I ran into a bunch of old “Joes” at the memorial service of our good friend and teammate, Vince Trama, a few days before heading to Buffalo, and the old stories led me right to the edge. Sadly, other circumstances prevented me (or maybe saved me) from the alumni game, but by that time, the bug had bored its way inside, and it left breadcrumbs for its friends.

There I was, standing on the edge with a jacket full of bitey hockey bugs. And then I got an email from my longtime left wing and dear friend, Johnny “Red Pants” Ettinger. Our Red-Green charity game was back on after two years of COVID-interruptus. And this year was in Vince’s honor, so how could I miss it?

So, off the ledge I leapt. Right back onto the ice at Centennial Sportsplex. Almost a decade to the day since the last time I played in the Red-Green game.

I was eager to get back on the ice between my two Finesse Line (the name Etty gave us) partners, but I set my expectations pretty low. The legs were there. The brain was still working. But the hands are another story entirely. In our first shift—the game’s second, because our superstition dictates that we never start a period—I found myself on a breakaway. Familiar territory with a familiar result. I missed the net. A bit later in the game, I rang a wrister off the left post, and it felt like home again. I managed to record a couple helpers for Etty and Scott’s goals before Scott gave one back to me for an easy tally, but we were never close to winning the game.

In some ways, this game turned the earth on its axis, if only for a moment. I found my stupid somewhere between Vince’s memorial service and the locker room at Centennial and decided to see if I could make playing hockey a thing again.

The summer league at Ford Ice Center in Antioch seemed the perfect place to start my comeback trail. Scott was playing. So was Peter Tuttle. And Terry Lancaster. Guys I know and love. Guys who play for fun. It was low pressure with the promise of a couple Blues after the game. What could go wrong?

The first game was a win for the team, but a warning flare for me. My knee held up great, but my reconstructed shoulder was another story. By the third period, I couldn’t feel my left hand. Just a minor inconvenience, right? Try it sometime. I promise it will piss you off. Especially when it lasts for two days after the game.

Because my stupidity was still with me, I decided to give it another shot. After all, numbness and pain are very different things, right? Maybe, but the result was about the same. A cameo from old friend and teammate Art Stevens after the game made me wonder if I could make it work, but things didn’t end well for the one-armed man in The Fugitive, and I wasn’t going to wait around for Harrison Ford or Tommy Lee Jones to tell me I was done. I was done.

Disappointed? Yes, of course. But at least now I know for sure—playing hockey with any regularity is a thing of the past for me. There’s comfort in that certainty. Even if it sucks.

I’m sure I’ll still play Red-Green if they’ll have me back. And I’d like to try to play in the Lockport alumni game for nostalgia’s sake. After all, I’ve never been on the ice in the new arena. Plus, I’ll get to play with some of my childhood heroes again. And that’s worth something, isn’t it?

Cheers.