Warroad's Olympians

One of my friends has a hockey blog that is pretty much devoted to hockey in the Washington, DC area but this past week he posted a nice tribute to the “Miracle” team of the 1980 Olympics. You might want to check it out at www.onfrozenblog.com.

I remember watching that team as they won games and the Gold Medal in Men’s Hockey for the 1980 Winter Olympics played at Lake Placid, NY. This past week on February 22nd (Washington’s birthday) was the 27^th anniversary. It was really a good time and I wish I could have been there to have totally experienced it live. This was a team of amateur hockey players that put their hearts and souls into playing beyond their expected capabilities for Herb Brooks and the United States. Sure, a movie was made about this with Kurt Russell playing coach Brooks and a wonderful bunch of guys acting as the team. That movie, though, could never equal the real excitement of that season. The one thing that amazed me the most about the teams’ play was that they avoided many checks by jumping up in the air as the hit was coming and thereby avoided much of the physical impact. The intensity of their play and their camaraderie might never be seen again in a USA team. We see this more often now in the teams that participate in the Olympics from much smaller countries where they’re tremendously bound with national pride.

Myself, never having been good enough for Olympic play, I still feel free to air some of my opinions. I miss the Olympics where the players are still “amateurs”. When you throw together a team composed of players from various NHL teams and give them a week or so to skate together, they’re never going to gel, not even in time for the last game of the series. The true Olympic team is a team that plays maybe fifty to one hundred games together. It’s a team that maybe starts out with forty or fifty guys competing together and against each other for the top spots to be carried on into the Olympic play. Some will make it and some will get cut. Some will get called back up because of injuries or what have ya – but it becomes a team that’s tight!

So that’s what the 1980 USA Olympic Hockey Team was. A group of amateurs that stuck together through all that shit, got tight and became champions – became heroes! In my book those boys were walking with wood. You know I’ve got a nice poster of those boys that I bring to work during the Winter Games as an object of inspiration. It’s big, about four and half feet wide by three feet tall and has everybody jumping on each other to the left of Jim Craig’s net. My sister won it at a 7-11 and gave it to me. Bless her heart. After 911 I put a little sticker in the left hand corner that says “UNITED WE STAND”. Ain’t that the truth, ehh?

I think about thirteen of those Olympians went on and became NHL pro’s. That’s the right way to do it, ehh. Not the other way by becoming a pro and then an Olympian. Sheeeeeet no!

One of those guys was Dave Christian. He signed on as a Winnipeg Jet and for about three years he averaged almost a point a game. His best season was 1985-1986 where he scored forty-one goals. All tolled he played in 1009 regular season games; scoring 340 goals and 443 assists. He also had over one hundred post season games with thirty-two goals and twenty-five assists. Not bad for a former Olympian, ehh?

Dave came from a hell of a hockey family. His uncle Roger played on the 1960 Olympic team that won gold also. That was in Squaw Valley. Dave’s dad, Bill, played on that same Gold Medal team in 1960 and then again on the team in 1964. Combined, I think the two brothers had six or seven points while playing in the 1960 series. Herb Brooks was the last player that got cut from that team just a couple of weeks before the Olympics started.

The brothers, Bill and Roger, formed a hockey stick company in 1964 – Christian Brothers. “Hockey sticks made by real hockey players” was the marketing slogan that one of their friends used to inspire their decision to start the business. They made sticks, in the old days, from wood. Wooden sticks, yup – I’ve owned a few! The company was sold a few years back and I’ve kinda lost touch with what they’re doing with the original company.

But shit, Dave, his dad and his uncle were from Warroad, Minnesota. Right on the Lake of the Woods. In the lower forty-eight, you can’t get much further north. I mean this is North Woods country folks. Big town these days with a population of about 1,700 folks. Ya want a brew you go to the Breakers Bar on Lake Street or the lounge at the Patch Hotel. If you’re in town for a road trip/away game at the Gardens Arena then ya can stay at the Patch or the Super 8. Good folks here – walking with wood!

Ya can always snag something to eat from the Main Street Bar and Grill or the Lakeview Restaurant. If you’re in town during the off season for fishing and boating then ya can get a sundae at the Dairy Queen. Not bad, not bad at all.

Their still kickin out some good hockey here. The boys high school varsity team this season went 16 – 8 – 1. And the girls team went 20 – 4 – 0. Pretty damn good if ya ask me. Back in 2005 the boys won the Minnesota State Class A Championship. That’s talking wood my friends!

If ya check into Warroad anytime soon ya still might want to get yourself some traditional wooden hockey sticks. www.buildastick.com will give ya the “Tradition” and build ya “Full Length Wood Custom Hockey Sticks”. What more do ya want? So maybe this company is what became of the original Christian Brothers stick company, I don’t know.

But if ya are up in the North Woods near Warroad be sure to stop in and tell the folks that they’ve got a mighty fine town and that Jasper Wheats say’s “Howdy you guys, ya got me walking with wood again!”

Road Trip with T-Ball

One thing that I’ve always found pretty tight about sports is all of the nicknames. Who gives a rats-ass where they came from? I’d have to say that the nicknames of most pro athletes were created by the fans or sportscasters. I mean look at a few on my “short list” here:

Boom Boom – Bernie Geoffrian – what’s that tell you?

The Great One – Wayne Gretzky – certainly was – not so sure now.

Red Light – Andre Racicot – ooooh, sunburn city.

The Turk – Derek Sanderson – what the ……..?

The Golden Jet – Bobby Hull – blondie, ehh?

The Golden Brett – Brett Hull – like father, like son – you betcha.

The Pocket Rocket – HenriRichard – couldn’t be Rocket Richard could he?

The Russian Rocket – Pavel Bure – another “rocket” - ok.

Mr. Hockey – Gordy Howe – now that’s sayin sompun, ehh?

Chopper – Al MacGuinnis – should have been Radar with that slapshot.

In some of the other sports ya got Catfish Hunter, the Babe, William The Refrigerator Perry and on and on and on. Ehh – what’s it all mean? Shit I don’t really know.

And then you’ve got nicknames that are some sort of abbreviation or modification of the player’s name. These I can understand a bit better. They sound like they mighta come from the guys on the bench or back in the locker room. Like what’s wrong with Grets for Gretzky? Here’s a few of them that I can think of:

Ziggy – Zigmund Palffy – great with the Kings.

O – Gerry Odrowski – I coached his boys.

The Flower – Guy Lefleur – yo Habs!

Cheesie – Gerry Cheevers – shit I thought he was in a museum.

Rogie – Rogatien Vachon – Habs and Kings goalie, but with a nickname that you’d give a dog.

Ollie the Goalie – Olaf Kolzig – hey in the Northwoods if we call ya Ollie its cuz your last name is Olson, ehh?

Beezer – John Vanbiesbruck – a nickname every want-a-be goalie wanted.

Cujo – Curtis Joseph – sounds like a damn mutt’s name again.

So being from the Northwoods and all maybe I don’t know shit about nicknames, ehh? I mean, I’ve had a few over the years, like Bobby-O (I’ll never figure out where they came up with that) and the Team Bleeder (the season I got stitched up a few too many times). A lot guys just call me by my last name, Wheats – shit it’s what’s on the back of my jersey dabnabit. My brothers generally go by Bronzy and Jingles. Bronzy’s just a jazzed up version of Brian and I guess that even a rock band or media head could come up with that. But Jingles is a definite bench derived name for Jimmy. During his years in juniors, Jingles would get sent out on the ice (pretty….damn…..often…..folks) to take guys out the game, but when he was a midget he really knocked the socks outta some jackoff. When he came back to the bench, I believe it was the back up goalie that said “You really shook the jingles out of that guy”. And it stuck.

So some guys get named by their team mates and some get nicknamed by the fans or media muthas.

Well T-Ball got nicknamed by his buds. I ain’t real sure whether it was his on ice antics or bar room charisma that led to his naming – but it fit. His real name was Tim (I won’t use his last name here ‘case he wants to sue me for some shit or other) so the “T” was for that. And he lived hockey and life like it was just a non-stop speed ball (Not to say that he didn’t have to get rushed to the hospital few times due to extracurricular activities).

He was from Cape Breton Island (yo - Canadian Maritimes if that ain’t Northwoods, ehh?) and had somebody sponsor him so he could work down in the lower forty-eight. He worked as a plumber – hard worker – dirty work. Got his shirt caught in the pipe threading machine once. Spun him around about three times before some jerkoff figured he could stop it by un-plugging the machine. It really busted up T-Ball’s wrist and he missed more then a season. Sucks – not being able to play!

T-Ball wasn’t always an Outlaw. I think when I first met him he played for the Rangers in our league. Really tough guy to play D against. He’s about 6’-2”; I’d guess and maybe 210 – 220 pounds of solid muscle. All speed and good puck control – balls out sort of business and yappin at ya all the time. The league got all changed around and eventually fell apart which was when we joined up with a semi-pro league and T-Ball joined us.

He was good acquisition and I was coachin the boys by then. He was loud but daggone stimulatin if ya know what I mean. The guys needed a charge in their shorts and T-ball could bring it.

He could be damn down to earth though too. If he’d a been my son he would a made me proud. Give ya an example here. I had season seats to the Kings back then and they made the Stanley Cup finals against Montreal that year. T-Ball went to one of the games with me at Los Angeles’ Fabulous Forum (before Staples Center). I forget which game it was and I forget the score and the whole shebang except for this (Could it have been the beer?):

T-Ball jumps up out of his seat and says he’s got to get out to the lobby. I figure he’s got to take a leak cuz we’d really been chuggin em. But it was game on and you gotta hold it during play. Didn’t make any sense to me. I think the Kings scored while he was gone cuz it got really, I mean really loud. After a bit T-Ball comes running back up the stairs taking two or so at a time. He was beamin if ya know what I mean – thought maybe he’d just done a toot or two. But he yells at me “I just called my Dad back in Montreal on one of the pay phones!”. Well I thought his folks were back on CBI but he says, no his dad’s on a job in Montreal. He says “Wheats, I said to my dad to listen to this, I’m at the Forum for the Stanley Cup Finals. Then I took the phone away from my ear and held it out so he could hear the crowd. Shit, I get back on the phone with him and he say’s back to me “Yeah, wrong Forum, ehh?” Ain’t that something – smartass Pop.”

Yeah, he was ok.

On road trips he ruled.

Road trips are good hockey. Ya win some and ya lose some, but if ya got enough guys to ice a team its hockey at its best. Ya got rubber legs from the travel and ya got butterflies to counter that by pumpin ya full of adrenalin.

Secondly, road trips are partying. Folks, I’m telling ya, there ain’t no better partying then that of road trips. First thing that you do is designate whose hotel room gets the beer. That done then ya fill their tub with beers and ice. This shit is for casual thirst quenchin, gut bustin after last call and breakfast of course. Serious drinkin will be done at the bar after the game.

So the third thing is to scope out the neighborhood for a decent bar or two. You couldn’t always trust the local team’s recommendations and sometimes game results dictated that you really didn’t need to win in the bar too (though damn if we couldn’t if we had too).

On this particular road trip that I’m thinking of we were all set up at the hotel and had gone on to the rink to suit up. T-Ball dumps his gear out on the floor in front of himself. Kicks it around a bit and grabs a t-shirt and sniffs it then throws it in the trash. Grabs another one, sniffs it and throws it in the face of one our wingers. Kicks his gear some more and reaches out and grabs another t-shirt. He sniffs this one too and says “Aw, fuck they all smell like shit – what’s the dif? Probably’ll give me a little maneuvering room out there.” I’m telling ya that his gear just reeked.

Game on. Game over. Shower up and time to partaaaaaaaaaa!

T-Ball comes up to me before we head to the bar and says he’s got to run back to the hotel cuz he left his wallet there. Wanted to know if I could give him a ride. I thought about it for a sec – thinkin – he’s the chick magnet, I’ll look good walkin into the bar with him. So I tell him, “Yeah, lets scoot.”

We get back to his room and he snags his wallet off the top of the chest of drawers. He gives it a quick peek for cash and says to me “Wheats, ya need some protection? Grab a couple of those.” I look over at the chest and see that he’s got like thirty condoms of maybe five different varieties spread out on top. Holy shit, is he ready for the game later tonight, or what?

Good hockey! Good partying! Good night!

That was T-ball. That was road trips. That was walking with wood.

Global Warming II

He don’t know shit about chilly!

I’d been down to the local greasy spoon earlier this week and shot the shit with Big Joe. He’s owns the place and is fry cook, dishwasher and waiter all in one big fat happy package. His hashbrowns and bacon are always crisp, though I’ve gotten some bacon once in a while that tastes a might rancid. I’ll eat it anyway like that – I mean what the fuck it goes down ok and helps unclog the plumbing pretty damn quick. Well crappola folks – when someone else is fixin the meal and entertainin ya besides – it’s sure a damn site better then re-heatin a batch of ludefisk back at the shack.

Big Joe had been a hell of a defenseman in the day. A lotta guys lost there front teeth from his cross checks and wreslin that resulted from their attempts a standin around in the slot. He wasn’t too shifty being so big and all, and never had much of a slap shot. Actually I don’t think he even tried to take a slapshot after he was about sixteen or so. Seems as though one of our coaches really made fun of him for falling down after a shot so he never took one again. But he had this sweeping wrist shot that more times then not floated high and guys would get out the way when they knew he was going to release it. I saw him take one once that just floated right up over the glass. He just was wild that way. Yup but that was back in the day.

Now Big Joe just ladles the grease and chats ya real good. To hang around his place is just a damn good way to spend a morning while you’re waitin for your truck’s engine to warm up. It’s a pretty good place to just get a cup a joe too.

Well like I said I was over ta his place earlier this week and we were not talkin about anything too damn important until he brought up some local gossip. He leans across the counter like he’s got some dangone secret to tell me. He spits a little at me cuz he’s missin his upper two and says “Jasper, that hippy-ass Caliboy, Bobby, ‘sbeen saying that he thinks this is the coldest winter on record.”

Now I’m not sure from the tone of his voice if he’s thinking that this is authorative or what. But I take it as arguin ma-tear-e-l if ya know what I mean.

“Big Joe,” I say, “what the fuck does that damn jack-ass know? You and me, we’ve been livin in the North Woods all our damn lives! He don’t know shit about chilly. Ehh?”

Big Joe pours me some more coffee and says, “Yup. He’s a little soft. He don’t know shit about chilly like you and me do. Right, Jasper?”

I hear some crinkling noise and see that Big Joe is scrounging through the pile of papers over ta the end of the counter. He picks a section up and says “Look this just came earlier,” as he sets it down beside my cup.

It’s a two day old copy of the Star/Tribune (takes a couple of days for things to get to us here in the North Woods) and has a cover story of about 100 inches of snow dumpin up-state New York. Ya know, shit, doesn’t Buffalo get about 200 inches a year on average

or somethin? What’s the big deal? Some blooie lake effects climatology shit causes that stuff.

“Yeah, so what, ehh? We been colder before this shit. Remember St. Patty’s day in ’67 when the whole fuckin area got snowed in and we were cut off for a week and half. Shit that was a storm and chilly with blizzard conditions for five days straight and no plows or nothin being able to get ta us up here. Ehh? Ya Remember that don’t ya Big Joe?”

“Wheats, I’m telling ya, I just don’t know. I remember that pretty damn well. Yup. That was a storm. I had to crap in a coffee can for a couple a days before I could get the back door open and make a path to the crapper. But I’m wonderin. Remember what ya said earlier about that global warming bullshit and the earth shiftin on its poles? What if we’re going into, ehh, some fuckin ice age or somethin? What if Bobby, ain’t as blooie as we think he is? Maybe you and him is on the same wavelength? Ehh?”

“Oh – Fuck that shit, Big Joe. Ya know the North Woods always gets cold, ehh? I mean, shit, sure we don’t get as cold as Nunavut or Siberia usually, but we get damn cold. I’m tellin ya Bobby just don’t know shit. After the truck gets warmed up, I’m goin to head back to the shack, nose around with my bud’s on the internet and see what they say. I mean, Big Joe, when I’m headin out ta skate, and I’m walking with wood, it just don’t seem ta be so bad.”

“Wheats, ya get smart on this shit and let me know later, ehh?”

Well we moved on to some other less important talk and my truck finally got warmed up; so I headed on back home and dogged the internet for a bit.

Here’s the scoop. Ya folks out there reading this shit let me know what ya think. Ehh?

Jamie of Duluth says: high of -3 today..whoop whoop...few nights ago was -45 with the wind chill but about -22 normal...eeek!!

Ti the Unperfect from Pennsylvania says: Fuckin ball freezing cold! hahah- unreal,

crisp,cold air like 7 at night 25 during they day- wind chill is 0!

Yeah and I told her: Yah I know how cold that is. Something's crawling up to my throat trying to stay warm and it ain't my hands.

Double-0 of Lewiston, Maine says : LAst few days have been a little cold. Highs of about nine degrees and lows below zero, then you add in the wind. It is suppose to be six below tonight! We won't be skating outside this week. I have one friend though who always has a nice fire going alongside his rink. Maybe we might be able to skate there, its just the damn wind.

My response to that shit: Ok - maybe you can describe that with a little less nostalgia and a little more Mainiac humor!

And he rewrote: Well I tell ya what anyhow, it's wicken friggin fridgid up in these goddamm parts, yes sa, god damn ma. Both my knee caps have been a wobblin and crackin off one another like a god damn loose barn board. BEen so cold can't even turn over the friggin skidda, fucken A, Jasper!

Boston Clover of Minneapolis says: its really cold but i went skiing at afton alps today so i think i got frost nip

And I respond to his crappola: Come-on give me something a little crazier. How cold was it????????????? Where'd ya get that frost nip - and don't just say your nose unless it came with a snotsickel.

And Boston Clover responded back: fine its like -17 degrees with wind chill and my cheeks and my nose and no no snotsickle

The strangest little tidbit I picked up though came from a phone call ta one of my business associates in Blackhawk territory. He told me that he had gone outside the other day while it was quite crispy and took one of those deep breaths through the nose that would normally create a tingle in each nostril as your snot froze. Instead he said that his left nostril sucked in and froze shut for about ten seconds. Now ain’t that somethin, ehh?!?!

Well folks, its just Jasper Wheats here, movin on again for bit. Remember: Skate hard, skate often, and continue walking with wood.

Balls Out

First of all, if you’re a lady and find this blog entry offensive or sexist, then I would like to apologize for your sensitivity. I cannot apologize for my opinions about the differences in our sexes. Man and woman, we are each a distinct sex as the way God intended it. And I am always thankful for the distinction and the joy that the differences make. For I am heterosexual as opposed to what any of the other tendencies might be being called these days. (Brings back memories of the Dodge Caliber commercial “Silly Little Fairy”. The flying redhead in the green fairy costume is HOT! But the limp wristed dog walker is schnot.)

Being a fictional character, I, Jasper Wheats, firmly believe that the North Woods makes a man a man. Why shit, I go to play hockey and I walk with wood. What more can I say?

Yo! Dudes and dudettes I can say a lot.

This morning as I read through my local little paper (Fairfield’s Daily Republic) I come across a sports article from one of the great North Woods states, Maine. Now the local rag doesn’t usually have much ink being spent on hockey and today was no exception. The article was in reference to one of the other lesser winter sports called basketball. It’s not really a winter sport but the media giants that rule TV decided that they needed to put a sport on the screen between football season and baseball season where the viewing audience could see the instrument used for scoring. Fucking blind son-of-a -bitches. You know, if you play our sport and the camera angle is from high enough up to see what’s really going on, then you don’t need to see the puck to know where it is. ‘Nof said about that shit ESPN and your dis’n of our great sport. Come on you other networks – pick up the slack (thank you Versus and your East Coast coverage of games that are over before I get home from work).

Basketball and manhood – that’s what the article was about. Seems as though during half-time of a basketball game for Leavitt Area High School the coach asked his players to do something that later got him fired. He apparently asked them to check out their package with the insinuation that the Big Boys were going to win the game that night. The strategy worked because they went on to win the game. Probably the unfortunate part of this motivational move was that he asked the guys to reach into their shorts to check out the tools. Sad – that doesn’t sound so bad when you look at gangsta wanna-be’s grabbing their units as their walking down the middle of a public street - or are they just trying to keep their pants from falling off. Crap even highly paid popular music types grab their sexy parts when performing now days.

Did this coach deserve to be fired for this? SHIT NO!

Damn it – it was in the locker room. There’s some sanctity here. It’s like lawyer/client privilege what goes on in the locker room between a coach and his players. Hell it doesn’t even have to be locker room chatter – bench behavior should be protected too. You know the article said that one player didn’t respond to the coach’s spirit. Pity that poor guy later in life when he looks back at his insubordination. CHOKE! The little pecker-head was probably ashamed of his size. Dude – Size Don’t Matter – its all how you use it.

I don’t know how the school’s administration got wind of this or who filed the initial complaint. But I’m going to guess that it was some relocated city scum from San Francisco or other priss ass – kiss ass community. Down East’rs just aren’t brought up that way to raise an issue over manhood and winning.

This same sort of parental/administration interference was revealed to me many years ago when I was coaching youth hockey. I was a Bantam AA coach and was assisting with the Midget A team also. Sam was the coach of the Midget A team and had a fine playing and coaching reputation. He even ran an equipment repair business repalming gloves, fixing goalie gear and adding extra stitching to stiffen-up skate boots. Good guy. Always loud and really made the guys skate.

Well we had one smart ass on the team and during the course of a game, Sam had to grab a near-by player’s stick and use it to smack the smart ass on his helmet to get his attention. No anger just motivational nudging. The kid’s dad took offence to the Sam’s behavior and within the week I was coaching two teams.

I coached most of those guys the next season on the Midget A team again. I even had a couple of young ladies on the team that year. I’ll tell you – you’ve never seen such a tight team as the time some opposing goon tried to take out one of those ladies. But I had one young man that got into trouble with the law because of his messed up folks. He truly loved the game. We had a monthly rotating practice schedule that had us out at 6:00 AM Sunday mornings for a while. One of my goalies worked for the rink and could get us in (read: knew how to break in) and turn lights on if the morning staff didn’t show up. But this other kid that got in trouble had parents that wanted him to play (so he wouldn’t be in their way) but regularly wouldn’t get him to the rink. These early Sundays were the worst and he couldn’t get a hold of anyone to give him a ride one morning. So he took his parent’s car. Apparently he had done this before and this time the parents, upon waking, called the cops. Shit sometimes happens when you really pursue what you want.

Dedication, motivation – that’s what I’m talking about. Coaches should be immune from punishment for their behavior – no matter what it is if the team or the player becomes inspired enough to improve – to play at their best – and to win.

Years after coaching youth hockey some of those guys later played on the same senior team (the Orange County Outlaws) with me. At some point in time I quit playing a checking game and moved on to a more relaxed yet still enjoyable version. The Outlaws started drifting apart because a lot of the original players had done like me and moved to non-checking. Both of my younger brothers, Jingles and Bronzie, were still playing so I decided to run the team and renting the ice for practice, etc.

We joined the West Coast Hockey League (WCHL) which was a shared gate semi-pro organization (what a laugh that was – only Vegas drew any substantial crowd). We were pretty good though and held our own. After a couple of years we were asked to join another league that had its hub draw at Anchorage – it later became the league that the Long Beach Ice Dogs joined and we now see that they’re in the ECHL. Unfortunately we didn’t move on but that’s another story yet to be told.

We were in the semi-finals playing back-to-back games in Fresno against the Aces. Our first game which we had won had been on Saturday night. The usual partying and heavy drinking followed for a late night with an early Sunday morning game the next day. The guys showed up hung over - I mean badly hung over and were playing worse then flat. I don’t know how bad we were losing but it didn’t help my confidence from the get-go when our starting goalie showed me that he couldn’t hold his hands steady. I’m not sure which intermission it was when we were back in the locker room when I let the guys have it. Jamie Todd, our captain, happened to be video taping it so I got to see myself in action later. The video tape could have been used at one of those boot camp leadership seminars. I held nothing back and let the guys know that regardless of their hangovers and shit ass playing I hadn’t driven all the way up to fucking Fresno to watch them lose a game. You know there’s a phrase “Balls to the Wall” that’s used as similar to “Pedal to the Metal”. It makes “Skate Hard” sound so trivial. Well all of that, as my memory works, wasn’t enough. For at least ten of those fifteen minutes I just screamed at them. There were no niceties, like, “You made a good check at the blue line” or “Sweet breakout pass”. No “Nice shot”, “Good goal”, or “Great save”. I just whipped them like the delinquents they were.

It was my success. It was their success - as we pulled that one out by a winning our semi-final round.

I’m not sure if I used this one or not because I don’t have a copy of the video to review right now, but it was always one of my favorites. “Balls out!”

Think about that.

What does “Balls out!” mean?

I’ll explain to you like I had to explain to the team.

When you play highly competitive hockey you have to play fearless. What can cause fear? Fear of the dark? Nah. Fear of losing face? Yeah, sometimes. Fear of losing? Sure, but that’s just a lack of confidence. Fear of pain? Usually not.

Fear is a weakness when you’re on the ice. I’ve had that fear and I know that it’s a weakness. I’ve taken a slap shot in the balls while making a backwards sliding block. Those little jewels got squished against the inside of my cup with so much pain that I had to crawl to the bench from the far side boards. Pain, embarrassment, weakness. What is weakness? Fear.

If you have a weakness you’ve got to overcome in. A man’s balls are his weakness in more ways then one. Boys, if you’re going to let your balls hinder your play then leave them at home in jar.

That’s what “Balls out!” means.

If I yell to the guys to skate balls out is it so much different then this Maine basketball coach asking his guys to measure up? Its motivation, its inspiration – it’s a request for dedication to your sport, your team, and yourself to be the best that you can be. It damn sure isn’t something to get fired over.

Jasper Wheats here. Skate hard boys cuz walking with wood feels so good.

HEROES 01.22.07

With apologies to all – I missed the All Star Game this past week so there ain’t shit I can write about it. I had to meet with my new employer and damn if the boss don’t really run your life. Can’t get signing bonuses or incentive clauses without them and the agents ehh? I did catch most of the skills competition the night before. Nice to see the big guy having the quickest little dinger. I really wonder how Bobby Hull would have looked like compared to our current ice heroes.

Speaking of heroes did you guys see NBC’s show Heroes this past week? I’m a big fan and it’s listed as one of my fav shows back at myspace.com. I’m into this weird kind of comic book style drama where the characters can have some kind of super or supernatural power or gift. Reminds ya of gettin in the zone and havin a good night on the ice. Smokin! Yeah, walking with wood feels so good.

Well here we go. I’m going to do a parody of the January 22, 2007 episode. I’m doing it as if its one of Jasper’s dreams and as we all know, dreams are all screwed up and have no real continuity. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Sheeeeeet man, enjoy!

HEROES 01.22.07

There’s a story going around about one of Cheevers’ sacred goalie sticks being found years ago frozen in the snow somewhere up in the great north. The dude had been feared by all of Canada in his day… coming out after ya when ya came in on him on a breakaway. And swingin that stick at ya after he made the save. Could really scare the shit outta ya. They say they found it up near Lake Ramsey out of Sudburry in Ontario.

Some shit hole ref named Skyler had something to do with. Seems as though they say he had locked it away in a secret room. I think I’ve seen the place though and it ain’t no secret room, I think it’s the equipment room or broom closet at the back of our locker room in Bay City. You know opposite the showers. There’s always a trash can in front of it that’s full of tape balls and empties. You really never notice the door.

But Skyler’s one bad ass. When it comes to refs he just sort of the silent type. Like any other he just does his job, makes the calls, blows his whistle, collects his cash from the league at the end of the game. If it’s his last game of the night he might pound some with us in the bar after. But on the ice when he makes his call and sends ya to the box – he just looks at ya …… and ya know that damn bald head is sweatin under his helmet too, and ya kind of have a brain fart and want to forget all. No point arguing with him he just will add on more minutes.

So guys, I’m now out on the ice during warm up. Just skating, stretching, trying to get loose but tight. I yell at Jingles to blind side me so that I can get my adrenalin cooking ya know. Us old guys need as much help as possible getting lit before a game. So I’m skating making some tight cuts to test my edges and I hear some tang up in the stands yell, “Well you can blow the Star Spangled Banner out of my ass! Go home Matt, were done.”

I see Matt coming up behind me. He skates for the wad wackin Rhino Room Wreckers that we’re playing tonight. I slow down and he catches up. I pull my best Dr. Phil and say to him, “Good luck with that.” His response, typical, “F-you ass hole.” Oh, the game is on!

Cheer leader … body snatch

What the f was that?????

Sometimes I just can’t remember a lot of things but it seems as though I skate over to the bench and take a toke from my water bottle. This was some holy shit. I had collected some of the water from when the Garden had melted down and this stuff was some umpteenth generation on that. Kinda like your grandma’s sour dough starter. I figure that it gives me good luck.

I’m fadin in and out now. The games gotta be going on. I get a penalty. Nah it ain’t two minutes, ain’t a double, aint five for fighting, shit ain’t even a game misconduct. Gol-damn if I don’t get the DEATH PENALTY! Yipes – what the hell’s goin on here?

Now I’m with my bud Hiko. I think he’s Korean or maybe Japanese but I know that he came down from Hibbing. Good “D” but it always looked like he was skatin on his ankles with loose skates and all – pretty shifty. So we’re looking for “it” and Hiko says “It looks like a dipstick.” I tell him he’s a lame-o and that it ain’t no dip stick, it’s a hockey stick. I think we’re in the hockey hall of fame or maybe it’s the hacker hall of fame. I don’t know for sure but there’s a lot of edgy stuff on display.

But we find what we’re looking for.

Hiko says, “That ain’t no snow suit.”

“Shit no. That’s Cheevers’ gear.” But it’s in some kinda glass display case like it was the Stanley Cup or something.

I pull out my water bottle take a tote and tell Hiko “Our life of legend begins.” The water’s magic kicks in and I’m in the zone. Time slows down for everyone but me and I open the case and snag Cheevers’ stick. We’re out of here.

Out in the parking lot now. Climbing over snow banks and buried cars we get to a safe place to examine the stick. I check it out. Crap! It ain’t even a whole stick. And it ain’t even wood. It’s a stinkin Easton! Holy smokes Batman! I flip it over and see that it says, “Replica provided by Lidstrom.” Vegas Schmegas we’re going to Hockey Town USA. Detroit ain’t bad but if ya want chicks ya gotta cross over to Windsor for the tang. Our journey was ahead of us. We had to find Cheevers’ original wood.

Hiko’s getting a chill now and whips it out to take a piss. It steams in the snow. A yellow drizzle of color and stench. I tell him that that’s a real work of art. Maybe his piss picture could predict our future. Maybe not – its all too unreal.

Dream jump again ……

We’re in a clinic or something and I tell Hiko that he looks healthy.

Jump again …….

Texas I think. But it’s cold. The North Pole’s shifted and the hell with global warming. Hiko say’s that he’s clean and doesn’t need drugs anymore. He can piss a good picture without them.

I shut my eyes and I space out a little bit. I see him exploding. I hear someone say “Peter …. He’s the cause of the explosion.” But no, it wasn’t Peter, it was Hiko folks.

Jump again ……..

Make the save, win the game. Am I reading Cheevers’ mind??????? Every time I hear that in my head I start thinking about cheerleaders afterwards. But nothing in my life has been real. Everything was a lie.

Oh crap. Its Skyler again. I’m begging him to give Hiko back his memory.

My gift? Yeah it’s in a bottle. I’m my own private freak show.

Make the save, win the game. That cheerleader again. Maybe the team needs cheerleaders. Yeah that’s it. Tight sweaters, hard bodies, short plaid skirts with colored panties underneath that said things on them. Like “Bite Me” or “U Guys Suck” so that when they bent over in front of the other team they’ let em have it.

What’s going on here? Mind melt or something.

So I, Jasper Wheats, can jump back and forth in time and space. Crazy. It’s just a dream. Its like Crosby and Howe skatin on the same line. I can handle this. Gotta just keep remembering walking with wood feels so good. Just gotta keep it down.

I got the power, you got the power, maybe he got the power too.

So it’s just me and Cheevers now. He’s telling me, “You, me, the video camera. Just keep the camera on me. I know you can keep a secret. I want you to see what I was. I want the team to know.” He skates out to the net and does a bit of stretches and scrapes to rough up the ice. I look out at the blue line and … Woe! … looks like all of the Outlaws lined up out in a semi-circle getting ready for the machine gun drill. I look back at Cheevers and he’s shy of all of his gear. What the f? He’s just in his long johns – no skates, no stick, no blocker – nothing! I’m thinking that all of his shit must all be back in the museum. I look back at Cheevers and he turns to face the net for a second then grabs something redish colored from the top of the net. Oh shit. It’s the cheerleader’s red plaid skirt. He turns back to the boys, dancing lightly on his feet cuz their startin to freeze, and tucks the teenie little skirt into the top of his long johns and with a shit eating grin he yells “Red Zone guys!” I swear that piece of red skirt that was hangin out of his long johns was smaller then his goalie cup if he’d had it on. Now I still had the camera running but I felt like I was missin it. A chance to bust a guy open and I ain’t holdin wood … just this camera. Whatttt??? So he yells again. “Not one at a time. Not alternating sides. But I want it all at once when I say three.”

He makes the count and its sounds like a barn coming apart from a northeast bound twister after he says “Three.” The camera’s getting this as I was focused on him. He must have been hit with at least ten or twelve of the shots. A couple hit the skirt. I figure it was Jingles that creased his skull – never could keep his shot down. That wasn’t just a dent, that was a crushed skull. He went down like a sack of bricks. Blood was flowing pretty good. Pretty much reminded me of Clint Eastwood in The Gauntlet.

The guys were mysteriously gone now as I ran out onto the ice with the camera still filming. Felt like an equipment manager sliding out to fix up a guy in a televised game but there was no one there to help me keep my balance. Cheevers is still down as I get there. No noise, no nothing – I figure he’s gotta be dead.

Then I hear a little moan as he’s laying there in a pool of congealing, freezing blood. There’s gotta be about seven gashes besides the crushed skull (Jingles … I’m thinking … you asshole). He moves a bit then grabs one of the pipes and starts to prop himself up. I’m thinking I better help him, but before I can put the camera down he pulls a Bruce Lee and pops up to standing. Before me (and the camera) he starts to mend. The gashes close up and his skull pops back out with a sound like a Coors can opening.

Oh shit. I’m shaking now. Wonder why I didn’t wake up at this point. Maybe I better visit a psych ward after I wake up.

Hico shows up again. Carrying his suitcase. Its got like two million bucks in it and he’s getting ready to hand it over to Lidstrom’s agent. He said it was his signing bonus that he had reneg’d on. The agent takes and says to both of us that the debt ain’t paid in full. We’d always owe Lidstrom. Gad what’s he want? Am I going to end up being a stick caddy or something for the rest of my life. He needs me I guess.

Dream jump again ……

It’s a honey. Maybe one of the cheerleaders. Can’t really tell at first. Ah yup. It’s the tall one. Nasty uh huh. But she’s got some split personality or something. I remember thinking that Nicks had said that she had hit on him pretty good one night and then when he was getting ready to go for the gusto she tells him that she ain’t that kind of girl. Talk about doing a flip-flop. So she’s been out on the ice doing some cheers and bending over showing her derogatory ass to the Rhino Room Wreckers. That jackass Matt jumps over the boards and goes at her. Slides her straight across the ice and slams her pouty little face into the glass in front of the penalty box where I’m still sitting serving my death penalty. Man it was ugly to have something that cute get all washed along the boards. But she was special. Had her kid with her that night. Man did he want to be a hero and play for the Outlaws when he got older. But it really hurt him to see his mom trashed like that.

So now its time to figure out who’s on the roster. How many heroes are there? If we could just gel then I’m sure we could make a difference. Maybe take league this year. Who knows. There’s gotta be more out there like us; that have what it takes to be an Outlaw. But each of us has so many problems that hold us back from being are best. Look at Hico. He showed up at home the other night and his old lady’s got a suitcase out. Said she got it out that morning to pack and then leave him but couldn’t put a damn thing in it. He nearly had a breakdown and had to explain some to her how he could read her mind and all. Some bulllshit that was when he tried to prove it to her by asking her to pick a number exclusive between one and three. But they stayed tight. Ya gotta stay tight with the things around ya or else ya bring it to your game. Staying tight with team says ya gotta stay tight with your life.

Maybe Madison Square Garden melts down. Maybe all of New York City blows up. Even Hico with all his damn piss paintings can’t paint the future. And Cheevers can’t see everybody if we don’t clear em out from in front of the net. He’ll need his stick back to move forward. We need his stick back. The first snow melt will bring an impossible change. We’ll have new friends from the internet to feel safe with as they laugh along and wonder: Does the earth shutter under my skates?

Make the save, win the game (damn there’s that cheerleader again – and I’m trying to be so serious).

Skate hard guys!

Walking with wood feels so good!

Global Warming

Earlier this week I talked with my bro Bronzy who lives in SoCal. Lucky sucker, he and Jingles are still playing a couple of times a week and according to Jingles, Bronzy ain't doing too bad at it these days. I bring this up and he says "Well Jasper, I think we finally got in a league where we're playing against guys closer to our own age." I tell ya, I loved playing against the young pups and rubbing a little in their face, but after a while ya just can't stop 'em. Life catches up with ya. Gotta love hockey though and walking with wood feels so good.

So whats this shit about global warming? Ya got any idea? Ice caps melting and all its kinda scary. One week on the news I hear about some massive ice pack breaking off of Antartica that's the size of Russia (hey don't kid yourself Russia ain't that big anymore). And then I read that the permafrost under Northern Canada (now there's a BIG country) is shrinking by some ungodly proportion. The Tundra gone - no way Jose.

I mean, I s'pose this is reality, but what the f...? I could tell you stories. Hmmm. Let me think about this a bit.

Lets see. I'm hearing that the Dakotas and Minnesota have been having some really mild winters these last few years. Sorta been keeping track of that part of the states cuz I've lived in the area. I can remember some pretty damn cold winters back there.

Ever screw around in high school practice? Yeah, if ya get singled out then ya gotta stay after and flood. You younger whipper snappers probably never skated anywhere 'cept in an indoor rink. Ain't they nice?!?!

Well, Wayzata High School in '68 only had two outdoor rinks. Wooden boards and all. That damn afternoon that I got nailed and had to flood was 30 below. Ya had to change out of your gear and jump in some winter garb with pac's and all that shit and haul a motherf'ing inch and half diameter rubber hose out of the boiler room. First to the closest rink and put down some new ice then move onto the further rink and do the same thing. Course ya catch shit from the guys the next day cuz the ice is still shit. No Zambonies, just a bunch of team mates with shovels, scraping the ice after practice then "you screw up you flood". Colder then poop I'll tell ya.

But it seems as though that same year we had a bit of a thaw. Damn near all of the snow melted and I didn't hear a thing back then about "global warming". But what a bitch-ass thing that thaw did. The snow runoff filled every low spot around and refroze quicker then shit. We had ponds everywhere and I went walking with wood to skate on every one of them that I could find. New ice is great! Of course most of the new ponds I found had crap sticking up out of the ice and as I've mentioned in earlier writing that shit gets ya horizontal if your skate hits it.

At the end of our neighborhood was Gleason Lake. Not too deep and really crappy for fishin' - only held bullheads. At the widest, the lake is only about a half mile across and maybe two miles long. It narrowed in one spot where the railroad trestle was and had a little spit of land further on up the tracks where the trees had really gotten wacked from a tornado a couple of years earlier. You could get to the tracks from the backyards of any of the houses across the street. So I moseyed on over there and walked down the tracks to the trestle. (I've been back recently and the tracks are gone - just a bike path now.)

Beeauutifullll ! The whole lake was like a sheet of glass. I figured this was going to be great! The ice was at least eighteen to twenty inches thick which was due to the shallow depth of the lake and the ice was black as the night. I'd only skated on Gleason once before and that had been in a cleared out patch that was the roughest chunk of ice I'd ever skated on. Ice under snow did that - it kind of resembles porous lava rock. But this was something else today. This was tits!

I laced up and tossed the puck out on the ice and it slid forever as I skated out after it with my wooden stick in mittened hands. Just skate and skate and skate. Stick handle a bit. Shoot the puck somewhere - shit shoot it anywhere and chase it again. There was a bit of a breeze so if ya skated into it ya worked your butt off but with it behind ya - ya could sail. Made me think about a story that I had heard from the guys that a few years earlier some whiz had gone out on the snow covered lake with skis and a parachute. He got sliced in half on barbed wire at the south end of the lake after the wind had really got behind him. Nah - not gonna happen too me. I'm in control - I'm walking with wood!

This was the absolute greatest feeling. So much ice. Sooooo smooth. But I gotta tell ya I also had the biggest damn shot of scared-as-shit goose bumples out there too. Those of you that have done this know what I'm talking about. You're skating along and the ice cracks right between your skates. Nah your not in danger, but the noise that that fissure makes as your body weight causes the settling or shift or whatever the shit it is to happen - just liquifies your bowels. Its like a gunshot - where you didn't pull the trigger but maybe you were inside the barrel. It happened, I think, three times that day. You're never ready for it and its so cold and ya know how the sound carries on those crisp days.

Ya can't pass that up. Winter thaw - global warming - glaze ice out on the lake! I don't know.

Ok. So back to the science of this shit about global warming. I read in our local paper the other day here in wonderful Fairfield, CA that the "Cold Spell" that we've been having is of course unusual but not uncommon (what gobal warming???????). In the past, but still recent history, one of the goose ponds (Fairfield has got geese the same way as Rochester, MN so don't call them duck ponds. OK?) got frozen over several different times. Yeah, don't go skating on that shit - too thin here. Just the same ... frozen over. So what gives?

And snow in Texas. Heck one of the girls at work showed me pictures from this week taken at her brother's ranch in Del Rio (that's like right next-door to Mexico). The picture was of him and his kids out in one of the pastures and they had made a damn snowman. I mean, snow on the ground and enough to build a punk dude.

So what's with this global warming bullshit?

Here's my theory on all this. There ain't no such thing as global warming. The earth's just getting ready to tip on its axis. And the North Pole's going to end up somewhere south of Texas with the South Pole east of Madagascar somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Scientists say that its happened before - so why not again?

Ok enough already.

Skate hard, skate often, and continue walking with wood.

Hey if ya like this shit then let me know. Shoot me an email at hoduhn@sbcglobal.net.

Thanks guys.

The North Woods

You’ll have had vacant days
that have followed vacant nights.
But walking with wood is “just all right.”

A fable retold umpteen times to young lads of the North Woods.





“Skate hard!”

Bif Redden - an ice hockey drill of the North Woods.





“Film at eleven”

Bif Redden -recap of the day in the North Woods.





Well, I better go fix the plumbing.

A North Woods farewell after finishing the last one.

First Skates

I started thinking about the time back when that $1.9 million hockey stick was carved. Sheeeet ,that was a long time ago! Didn't have the Internet back then. Hell, didn't even have tubuler blades or kangaroo skin Tacks back then. Its my understanding, from my grandpa's grandpa or some such other old fart that tried to learn me some cultural goods, that hockey was originated by our North American native Indians. No, not those ones that you get when you're on the phone trying to resolve your computer problems but full blooded Native Americans! I haven't read any other news about that old stick but as far as we up here in the North Woods know - it could have been carved by an Indian.

Again, back to that cultural learning, seems as though that when the Indians originated the game that they didn't have skates. I guess they just ran around slip sliding on the ice. You know - kind a like those idjits that rent the rink after hours and play broom ball. Hell yes they've got spirit and hockey's originators had spirit too. Thank God for that or we wouldn't have the game we have today. But I don't think they invented the shoot-out. Nah, couldn't have. Its just not a team thing. Minor league idea or something.

So when they started using "skates" the type that they used were attached to their walking shoes or boots with straps. The straps were probably made of leather, but get this - the blades were made from wood. Yeah wood. I'm telling ya Walking with Wood is the bomb! Skating with wood can't be too bad either. Wood baby! Snow shoes are made of wood and sinew or leather. Probably invented by the Indians too. And look at all the shit that I'm sure evolved from snow shoes; like tennis rackets, squash rackets (what the f' is that) and Nike's. Hmmm, ya gotta think about that don't ya?

My first skates could have been the strap on version. I remember seeing those skates but my memory gets a little foggy about whether I ever actually used them or not. I do remember that my younger sister wore these skates but not me. Who knows maybe I did? These pups certainly weren't wooden. Dang shame. They were cheap chromed steel and each one looked like a little sled that you strapped onto each shoe. Front blades, back blades and side by side to boot. I don't think you really skated with these things but it was a start. Walk, scoot... walk, scoot ... get the idea?

Ahhhh .. the first skates that I do remember wearing were ... OK this is shit, I mean embarrassing ... they were white, well scuffed up white ... they had toe picks (God forbid) ... and they had two blades each. Skates yes. Hockey no! They did get me started on a life long pleasure from being on the ice. Bitchin! Though I never did partake of figure skating (minor miracles, yup) and it would be many years before I got to even skate again, as we know my first skates that weren't hand-me-downs would be hockey skates. Yes!

Enough for now, but remember that Walking With Wood feels so good!

$1.9 Million Hockey Stick

Wooooe Baby!!!!!!!!!! $1,900,000 for a wooden hockey stick! That's like $2.2 million Canadian or something like that.

So the old thing is 150 to 160 years old. That means that some of my old wooden sticks (or the pieces that are left over) that are around 30 years old must be worth ....... let me get the math right ...... a bit over $300,000 each. Yipes! I'm in the money.... I'm in the money!!

So I'm hearing that its hand carved from a piece of hickory. Well I think all of my old sticks are probably ash but what the heck. Ebay here I come! Easton watch out with your flimsy little hollow shafts. Wood is back and I'm walking with wood again.

A carved stick huh? Well most of mine had had a little carving done to them too. A skate blade here a skate blade there. "Ah ref I didn't hook him." Sheeeit - mine might have done a fair share of carving up themselves. I wasn't known for carrying my stick too low you know.

Historically the black rubber hockey puck wasn't invented until much later. Maybe someone's going to find some ancient piece of frozen horse pucky at the bottom of their freezer and send it to the hockey hall of fame too. I'm sure I don't have anything that old hangin around but I'm going to start asking the guys. Maybe they know somebody that knows somebody that knows somebody ...... Wouldn't that be something - sending a chunk of horse douver to the museum. I'd want to be discreet about it though; wouldn't want everybody to know it was me, Jasper Wheats. Couldn't really handle the popourazzi being an old fart and all now. But give me the money, baby!

Yeah - I'm still walking with wood and you should be too.

Walking With Wood

Holiday Hockey

Years ago, (or as the say now “Back in the day…”) when I was still just a young pup, the Christmas Holidays were more than just a special time. They were a time for playing lots of hockey. Now days the indoor rinks aren’t even open on Christmas day. Whats ya gonna do????????

Can you remember when you got new skates or gear for Christmas and you couldn’t wait to use the stuff. Like getting a new Northland R 5 lie stick (or maybe it was a Norcon) – made from real wood remember? “Thanks Santa!” Or, “Thanks Mom and Dad!”

I remember getting new skates the year before. Nothing real special. They were all black, hockey style tubulers but the toes got soft when they got wet. I wore those babies out over the year and saved my own money for a real pair of Bauers. Fiberglass reinforced toes, lots of structural support. You know the boots. Anyway the folks now really knew how much I loved playing the game. It was nothing organized just a lot of little pickup games two on two, three on three, and if I was by myself it was a little stick handling and a lot of shooting.

Well Dad took me out before Christmas to the local Western Auto store. They always had a seasonal sporting goods section and Dad let me pick out a new stick for one of my presents. Sure, I now knew what one of my gifts would be but so what – it would be something that I really wanted instead of a new package of Hanes or Fruit of the Loom undies. Shoot – enough of that stuff already. So they put a new puck in my stocking too. I had several pucks that I had dug out of snow banks and I had learned how to use epoxy and clamps to “fix” broken sticks that I had found. But the new stuff was going to be great. I was so damn happy I could hardly handle it.

Our family was pretty big. I had a bunch of sisters and two younger brothers (a shit load of stories to follow about those two). We opened our presents on Christmas Eve after church. Boy was it tough to sleep that night. And in the morning we had to all get together again for breakfast before we could go outside or doing any other fartin-around. Probably it was pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon that Christmas day – I don’t really remember. But Mom could be pretty tough on you about tradition (bless her soul – tradition is what keeps us going sometimes ya know) and we did these things before playing.

Finally, “Ok you can go down to the pond now. But you can’t stay too long, I’ll send someone to get you in couple of hours and earlier if it drops below 10 degrees.” Sweet! I had a heck of a lump in my throat and couldn’t believe how stinkin happy I was.

The pond was maybe two acres and was in a little hollow between our neighborhood and the next one to the south. You could get to it from the White’s backyard and they kept part of it shoveled off with their Toro lawn tractor and they flooded this area sometimes too. There was a little floating dock or raft that was by the shore. It was made of four 55 gallon drums and some two bys for the deck. Frozen into the pond, it made a good place to sit and pull off your snow boots and put your skates on.

Well, I don’t know what they teach now but in those days the rule was that a stick should be cut to length so that while in your stocking feet and held upright it just reaches under your chin. Sized up I cut my new stick. I had a rubber knob from one of the broken sticks I had found and stuck it on the end. I raided Dad’s tool box for black friction tape and taped up the blade. Not much for brains back then I taped it about three inches up the shaft too. Again – oh so sweet!

Back up stairs from the basement I’m in my room. Now I’m putting on my long johns, oversize jeans, a tee-shirt, sweater and two pairs of socks. Heading to the front door out of the closet I snag my old wool coat, a thick stocking cap, my snow boots with metal clasps, and grab Dad’s buckskin mittens with wool liners. My new stick is standing by the front door. I stick the puck in my coat pocket. I bend over, feeling pretty flexible back then, pick up those Bauers from the entry rug and slide them over the blade of the stick. You know you could do that with tubulers – pretty slick. I put the mittens on, yelled at Mom and headed out the door with the wooden stick over my left shoulder with the skates hanging on my back. Walking with wood – it felt so good!

Bam, the closer on the storm door finally pulled in and I was about half down the driveway. I heard the door open again (its great how crisp the sounds are on a good cold winter’s day) and Mom yells, “You forgot your scarf.” Sheeet! She knew I was susceptible to the strep and always made me wear a scarf around my neck to keep me “extra” warm. The damn thing was an ugly sulfur yellow, of thick woven wool (not knit so it didn’t stretch much) and was itchier then heck. I head back to the front porch, set my stick down, take the scarf from Mom, wrap it around my neck and tuck it into my coat above the collar. Mom says, “Don’t get hurt.” She shuts the door and I’m on my way again.

The White’s house was only the second house from us but I had to cross a street to get there. Our street crested in front of our next door neighbors’ and was pretty much down hill from there. If I got it right I could do a little slip sliding on the packed snow in the street that the snow plow never seemed to scrape up. I do a little skip shuffle and I’m sliding a bit. The sand in the packed snow stops me and I’m walking again. Proud as can be. Walking with wood! I sure hoped that the neighbors were seeing me.

To get to the pond you’ve got to turn on the street at the White’s, go to the edge of their property at a vacant lot, trudge though the snow down the hill into the hollow and arrive at the edge of the pond. The snow was fairly well packed around the shoveled area and you could walk on top of it to get to the raft.

I can see that I’m the only one at the pond. Must be a bit early ‘cuz of it being Christmas and all. I start walking on top of the snow bank. The snow is crunching here as I break through some of the top crust. Oh jiminy if I didn’t step into a crusted over depression and had my right foot hip deep. I put my stick and skates down and used the stick as a brace to pry myself back out. Crap! My boot filled right up with snow. I hadn’t snugged up the clasps tight enough. Never did. Actually I always had them loose and never fastened the top one - ever. It just didn’t look cool to do that.

Well, I don’t think that anyone had seen me so it was funny to me but not embarrassing. But I could tell that the snow in my boot was already melting. Meaning my socks were getting wet which would shorten my skating time before my damn toes froze up. I’ve got to hurry and get to the raft, deboot and brush off my socks.

Done. I’m laced up and ready to go. I pull the puck out my pocket and throw it out ahead of me.

Pond hockey.

There’s nothing like it. Nothing better than it except for maybe holiday hockey.

I skate to the puck and fumble a bit of stick handling. We’ve got some wooden goals with chicken wire and I take a wrist shot. Got a little lift on that. Boy this stick feels good. Did a few cross ice passes to nobody and had to dig the puck out of the snow bank. Good thing the snow had a crust so that I could see the mouse holes that the puck made. I pickup the puck and make a behind the net sweep heading towards the opposite end and take a shot from about 20 yards out. The puck hits the wooden post and bounces out dead to the right. I skate hard for it, cup it in the blade and spin behind the net again. Sheesh! I’m airborne. Just like Bobby Orr in that famous photo but I’m on the wrong side of the net. I hit a damn reed sticking up through the ice behind the net and it stopped my left skate dead as a door nail and sent me flying.

Pond hockey – there’s nothing like it!

You know I wasn’t wearing elbow pads nor shin guards. I landed hard and slid for a little bit. Pond ice ain’t too smooth. And I hadn’t been out long enough for any parts of me to be numb from the cold. Damn that really hurt! My right knee was going to have a decent bruise – again. Later in life I’ll realize that even wearing the best equipment I’ll still end up with swollen elbows, cuts and bruises.

Of course while this shit was happening, Mike White had come out his basement back door and caught the whole friggin incident. Mike was a year older then me and played hockey for the school. Quite a hot shot, later during his junior year he tied with another neighbor for scoring lead for the team. So he yells at me “Way to go Wheats! You skate worse than my old granny.” Well I was pissed but at least someone else was coming out to play. I always appreciated that these guys that were better than me would let me skate with them.

Others showed up later and we managed to get a little shinny going – no lifts allowed. The time flew by and before I knew it one of my younger sisters was yelling from the side that Mom wanted me to come home now. Back to the raft and I work at unlacing with frozen hands on iced up laces. Jeepers I had had fun. I slip back into my snow boots, punch the stick through the skate blades knocking out caked in snow, pitch it all over my shoulder and head on home.

Pond hockey! Yeah, holiday hockey!

I gotta tell ya – it felt good – Walking With Wood!