Does anyone play road hockey anymore?
Here we are, well into another interminable winter, and one thought just crossed my cluttered mind.
Does anyone play road hockey anymore?
I have yet to see one such game since the first snowfall.
It was the same thing the previous winter ... and the year before ... and for several years before that.
Perhaps I have missed something. Maybe groups of youngsters are still inclined to play shinny on the street, stopping periodically to move the nets when someone inevitably yells “car!”
Honestly, how long has it been since I actually passed by a street hockey game?
The activity is a part of Canadiana — as depicted on Tim Hortons commercials — but what happened to all the participants?
Centuries ago, when I was young, we played road hockey virtually every weeknight on the west side of Academy Park Road.
Regardless of the temperature, there was always time for a game
... or two ... or four. Road hockey often took me away from neglecting my homework, but I didn’t care.
The first team to 10 goals would win. Then we would pick new teams and start over.
“We” consisted of yours truly, Steve Taylor, Kevin Kasha, Scott Clark, Duane Richter, John Papandreos, Wayne Thorpe and anyone else we could recruit.
The projectile was a (frozen) tennis ball.
The target, more often than not, was the porous R. Vanstone.
My shooting and stickhandling (ahem) skills were such that everyone saw fit to put me in goal. I don’t think anyone objected to the notion of firing slapshots toward my head, either.
Scott had a knack for scoring goals from extreme angles. His one-timers were uncannily accurate, but there was the occasional exception.
There I was, hugging the right goal post, when Scott unleashed a Howitzer.
BANG!
Right in the noggin, just above my right eye.
My glasses — not the sporty kind — exploded.
Everyone got down on all fours and looked for the lenses, rims and the nose piece. Someone may have been searching for my nose.
Once the ex-glasses had been collected, I put the shrapnel in my pocket and resumed playing goal. Without the spectacles, I did not have a clear view of anyone, or anything, because I am extremely nearsighted.
My goaltending, such as it was, didn’t really suffer. I wasn’t stopping anything I was seeing, anyway.
That said, one save does stand out, perhaps because of its rarity.
In the Academy Park Road Hockey League Inc., a goaltender’s worst nightmare was a one-on-one situation with Duane, who was an amazing player.
It was a given that he would find the net. He could pick a corner from a different postal code, while unleashing a heavy shot that a goalie was well-advised to avoid.
It was just my luck to face him on a breakaway. I still remember that feeling of utter terror due to the no-win situation.
If he scored, there would be the ignominy of allowing a goal.
If I made the save, there would be a lasting souvenir in the form of a bruise.
Good news: I made the save.
Bad news: Um, the impact was felt just below the midsection and, er ... uh ... ow ... well ... you know ...
I crumpled to the ground while emitting a high-pitched shriek that could only be heard by poodles. Never before had I felt such pain. I flopped around like a water-deprived salmon, screaming and moaning and attempting to catch my breath.
Good times ...
I miss those days, even though some recollections induce discomfort.
Most of us were in Grade 12, virtually devoid of any responsibility. The harsh realities of life were largely foreign to us.
The most important thing in the world was the next pick-up game.
Once the snow melted, we would invade a baseball diamond and have a game of scrub.
Every opportunity to simply throw around a baseball in the park was seized and cherished.
Ball hockey games moved to local tennis courts — to the dismay of the tennis crowd.
Of course, there were the regularly scheduled touch football games outside the Legislative Building.
So many summery nights were spent on the plush green fields of Wascana.
Everyone knew that we were also to meet every Saturday at 1 p.m.
There wasn’t any need to recruit. All the regulars knew where to be and when to get there.
Sometimes, another group would be in the midst of a game when we arrived, so we would join in. Alternatively, perfect strangers would routinely become part of our game.
It was fabulous fun, for the longest time.
Where did those days go?
Where did those games go?
Does anyone play pick-up sports anymore?
I can’t help but wonder — and wish that I could do it all over again.