HOCKEY IS AN OLD FRIEND I DON’T WANT TO LOSE
Aging has brought the spectre of an end to a sporting life to the fore, writes Peter McKinnon.
Competitive sports have always been like good friends of mine — constant companions on my journey through life. They fire my passion and bring me great joy and occasional sadness. They help me stay fit, healthy and sane. Like friends of the corporeal variety, however, they’ve begun to disappear one by one as I’ve got older.
Last season, at the age of 56, I had to say goodbye to ultimate, the team disc sport I’ve played since the mid-1980s. I stopped because it hurt more to play than to not play. Now I wonder if my best buddy, competitive hockey, will be the next to go.
For each of the last 49 years, I’ve played hockey in a league — with referees and standings, teammates and opponents, winners and losers. As a kid, I sometimes wore a toque under my helmet because the rink had no roof yet. In minor hockey, I played mostly on competitive teams, but I was never quite good enough to crack the lineup of a junior or university team. As an adult recreational player, I’ve been the strongest player on weak teams and the weakest player on strong teams. And in every game, the goal has been the same: to play well, to compete and to lose myself in the exhilaration of the moment.
I’ve enjoyed a great run, but the feeling has changed significantly over the past couple of seasons. The fun is disappearing faster than a pitcher of post-game beer.
It’s the same struggle anyone lucky to live long enough must face, of course: the inexorable decline in physical ability. I’ve overcome my fair share of injuries — torn rotator cuffs, a broken thumb — with the help of surgeons, physiotherapists and a solemn commitment to rehabilitation. In recent years, though, the decline has accelerated noticeably; I’m looking over the steep cliff of my mortality, and it leaves me feeling empty.
A new foe now stands between me and my friend: osteoarthritis. Whenever I shoot, pass or handle the puck, my hip and leg bones rub together painfully. Without the puck, I can skate at a decent pace, but often end up feeling like a spectator at the back of the hall — able to hear the show but not experience the full glory of the performance.
There are options, of course. I could play at a lower level. A few years ago, while recovering from injury, I skated with a group of older, weaker players. I didn’t enjoy it, though, because it wasn’t competitive enough. And while casual pickup hockey and outdoor shinny remain good friends, the relationships have never been nearly as deep and satisfying.
There’s also the matter of the team I’ve played on for the past 23 seasons — Irene’s Jets. The core of the team has been together for more than a decade; five of us remain from my first season, along with a few others who joined a season or two later.
The Jets are as much a social club as a hockey team. We do our best on the ice and enjoy a beer together afterwards. We say “we” and “us,” and admit to our own mistakes and shortcomings rather than to each other’s. We all recognize who the stronger and weaker players among us are, though. Part of my struggle has been to accept moving from the former group to the latter.
For years, I was an impact player; I occasionally led the team in scoring and in one season somehow managed to lead the league. The only time we won a championship — in a hard-fought 1-0 final game — I scored the winner, although more on luck than on skill. Those memories grow ever distant.
As we’ve aged, the Jets have slid down from the better divisions to the weaker ones. A few years ago, the league put us in a 35-and-over
I’m looking over the steep cliff of my mortality, and it leaves me feeling empty.
division; many of us joke about being only 15-to-20 years older than our opponents. But the truth is that our impact players are now almost exclusively our younger players — guys in their late 30s and early 40s.
As someone who believes that there’s no “I” in team, I recognize that if I can’t contribute on the ice, I should sit out. Now I’m at that point. I’ve exhausted all of the non-surgical treatment options, including physiotherapy, targeted exercises and a hip injection.
I meet with a surgeon next month. It’s a decision that I won’t take lightly, although surgery feels inevitable. Without it, though, the list of former friends is likely to continue to grow. I want to suit up with the Jets again. And I’m determined to hold on to all of my friends — on and off the ice — as long as possible.