Sunday 7 December 2014

Final snapshots


So anyway, the season is in full swing now and the first whack of games has delivered a handful of “snapshot moments” that have illustrated where I stand in the hierarchy of beer-league greats. In short, I'm a few notches above where I was last year but still nowhere near the top.

Most of these snapshot moments have been subtle and likely imperceptible to anyone besides me — a won footrace, a few extended moments of puck control, a shot delivered with a hint more force. However, I did experience one snapshot moment that had a noticeable impact on the game.

My team was on a power play and I had the puck. I circled behind our net to orchestrate our assault on the opposition end. A forechecking opponent was hot on my heels, his stick lashing out like a serpent’s tonque trying to slurp up the puck.

I kept my legs moving and eventually left the guy behind, but all my teammates had advanced far ahead and I had no one to pass to. So I lugged the puck all the way into the opposition’s zone. As I crossed the blue line, another opponent advanced toward me and the puck slipped just beyond my reach. I had visions of being swarmed and denuded of the puck as has happened so often in the past. It filled me with self loathing.

With a furious outburst of strides, I caught up to the errant disc and regained possession of it. Then, as I circled in the corner, it eluded me again. This time an opposition defenceman latched onto it and prepared to fire it down the ice. I lunged desperately, and to my surprise, I got it back. By this time, my legs were dying, but I was able to take some quick strides and reach a safe area.

Hearing a voice call for a pass, I saw a wide open teammate sliding down toward the goal. I slid him the puck and he promptly slipped it through the goalie’s legs and into the net. Ha, ha — assist for me! It was one of just a few points I’ve collected this season.

I ambled slowly to the bench, exhausted from the frantic exertions I’d just performed, but also feeling deeply satisfied.

*        *        *

While I have enjoyed some muted successes, the seismic transformation I was hoping for hasn’t happened. I haven’t morphed into an explosive, puck-dangling sniper, a “game breaker” who can single handedly manufacture scoring chances out of routine situations. I haven’t become one of the best players in the league, nor can I even say that I’m one of the best players on my team.

However, I have upped my game to the point that I now blend in with the rest of the rank-and-file schlepps who populate my beer league, rather than standing out for being slow and ineffectual. I’m more in the thick of the action now, handling the puck more and skating with it, making good passes more often and defending more effectively. Though my shot is still pretty weak, I’m getting more of them away. All these subtle improvements make me feel good about playing.

Another positive thing is that I’m still developing and improving as the season unfolds. Since I play just once a week, I’m usually able to do one strength/power workout between games, while being careful to leave at least three days to recover before the next game.

During those recovery days I try to do at least one stickhandling session and one session of agility and quickness footwork. The former is necessary to prevent a lapse to my cow-handling-a-snow-shovel status. The latter is necessary to prevent a return of static leaden-ness to my feet and legs.

If I’m able to keep up with this workout routine, I believe I’ll be able to maintain my skill level and increase my leg strength throughout the season. Then, come next spring, I’ll be at another crossroads, having to decide whether to put in another summer of training or call it a beer-league career.

I can tell you right now that I’ll probably opt for training, but I can also say that I cannot endure another summer like the one I lived in 2014. The training was just too constant. I’d like to work out less often but in a more focused way, basically blast the legs thoroughly every four days with the odd bit of skill and cardio work thrown in here and there.

Final buzzer
That sums up where I am and where I’m planning to go with my training. It’s been a bit more than a year that I’ve been at it and from here on it seems to be a matter of constantly fine tuning my approach.

Given this situation, with not much new for me to experience or write about, I feel it’s time to sound the final buzzer on this blog. That way we can all move on to other productive pursuits — you to watching cat videos on YouTube; me to training our cat to use a video camera (that’s how it works, right?).

As I stated, I expect I will continue to train and I hope to experience incremental increases in my abilities and my enjoyment of the great game of hockey. I still hold out hope that, someday, I will experience a magical moment when, in the heat of game competition, I grab a loose puck and propel myself explosively to the oppostion’s goal, eluding any and all defenders who attempt to halt my progress before undressing the goalie and depositing the puck in the net as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

If and when that happens, I’ll know that I’ve finally completed the transformation that I’ve been pursuing and that I’ve become what I’ve always had the potential to be: a big leaguer ... big beer leaguer, that is.

Sunday 16 November 2014

Action resumes

There’s a saying in hockey: the fastest player on the ice is the one who’s just given the puck away. It’s true. I know this because I’ve just proven it ... and I couldn’t be more thrilled!

OK, I guess I’m not thrilled that I gave the puck away, and that it was to one of the other team’s faster forwards, and that he’s now bearing down on our goalie thanks to a 150-foot breakaway that I gift wrapped for him.

But, on the plus side, after putting my head down and skating my hardest, I’ve erased his 15-foot headstart and am now hot on his heels. I’m glowing with warm satisfaction. Hockey season has begun ... and I’m fast again!

*        *        *

When I got word in early September that our first game was scheduled for Sept. 15 my immediate thought was, “I can’t play hockey, it will get in the way of my training!”

After I got my head around the reality that my hockey training was in fact going to give way to actual hockey playing, I had to adjust my plan for the last chunk of the off-season, as this start date was a week earlier than I’d anticipated. One of my intentions during this last stretch was to attend at least two sessions of pickup shinny, but my suddenly compressed schedule allowed for only one such outing.

My goal for this particular ice session, besides the usual objectives of getting used to skates again and shaking off some rust, was to try to do more than I usually do, such as hold onto the puck more and try to beat opponents one-on-one, with speed, stickhandling or a combination of both. I wanted to try moves, even when I knew I shouldn’t, to really test what I can and can’t do, and ideally, expand my comfort zone a bit.

It was with great anticipation that I stepped onto the ice. Not only was I in the best shape of my life but my fit body had been specifically trained for the very activity in which I was about to engage. I wondered what it would feel like.

As I skated around, I noticed with satisfaction that my legs felt strong and energetic. I was moving significantly faster than I had in a few years and this effort wasn’t sapping my legs of their strength. On the other hand, the puck felt awkward on my stick and my shot felt like it hadn’t improved at all.

After we divided into sides and dropped the puck, I found I had more jump than I’d had in years. I was keeping up with the brisk pace without much trouble. However, I soon found that my stamina wasn’t great. My legs, while feeling strong initially, filled with a slight ache, a faint form of the burn you feel when you exert your muscles to their maximum. Moving around the rink became a bit more of a struggle and I had to fight to avoid slipping into my old pattern of doing as little as possible on the ice.

A few times I did force myself to hang onto the puck longer than usual and attempt to stickhandle past defenders or outskate them. Sometimes defenders easily swatted the puck away from me, but my speed bursts did earn me a few unfettered forays at the net. Of course, this was pickup hockey, where the effort devoted to defending tends to be lacklustre, so the extent of my improvement was hard to gauge.

*        *        *

As the season began and progressed through its first few games, the issue with leg fatigue persisted. I was puzzled. I’d spent months honing these aged appendages into densely muscled pistons of hockey propulsion — why were they getting tired after a few minutes of exertion? 

I had an inkling that it may have to do with post-workout recovery time. I turned to the Internet, which told me that it can take anywhere from two to four days for muscles to recover after heavy exercise. I’d generally been performing leg-centric strength and power training about every second day. When I had a hockey game scheduled, I would take a break from such endeavours for 48 hours prior to the game. I thought this was allowing my muscles enough recovery time, but maybe I was wrong.

I started giving the old drumsticks an extra day off between workouts and before games. In fairly short order the burning stopped. I adjusted my workout schedule accordingly.

All catched up
So anyway, getting back to that guy on the breakaway, which was caused, incidentally, by wretched ice conditions and not a miscue on my part ... honest. As it turned out, the ice also contributed significantly to the resolution of the situation.

As the guy advanced into the deep slot, I was about a stick length away, not quite close enough to disrupt his attack but poised to take advantage of any miscue. He made a fake or two before getting the puck to his forehand for what was to be the fatal shot. Just then the puck skipped on the sandpapery ice, causing him to shoot only air. Before he could do anything more I swiped the bouncing puck into the corner and out of danger. Opportunity denied.

That play was a snapshot moment, one of several from my first few games, that illustrated where I’m at in my development as a late-blooming beer leaguer. In my next blog post, I will share a few more of these moments. Stay tuned.

Saturday 13 September 2014

Stickin’ with it












































I’ve never been compared to Pavel Datsyuk, the Russian hockey star whose puckhandling wizardry has been in heavy rotation in NHL highlight packages since he became a regular with the Detroit Red Wings in 2001. But at one time I was skilled enough that, when I had a puck on my stick, I felt I was in complete possession of it and could control what happened next.

That feeling has been relegated to the archives of my memory for years now, replaced by the knowledge that I would be soundly trounced if I was ever in a stickhandling contest against a cow equipped with a snow shovel.

In an effort to improve the sorry state of this fundamental hockey skill, I started stickhandling a plastic orange hockey ball in my garage for about 10 minutes every day starting back in early June. The ball felt completely foreign on my stick at first but gradually began to feel more at home.

In August when I finally acquired my shooting pads, I commandeered the larger one for stickhanding practice and experimented with various practice pucks and balls that I’d also acquired. I consulted YouTube for stickhandling drills and adopted a fairly regimented approach to the whole endeavour.

The puck I prefer is a vulcanized rubber one that’s the same size and shape as an official puck except it’s two ounces lighter and it’s blue. On the shooting pad it feels similar to a regular puck on ice although it does jump up on edge a fair bit. Another one I like is a very light floor hockey puck I bought for $2. I like to use this one either on the pad or on the bare concrete floor. It flips around quite a bit as well but otherwise feels similar to a puck on ice.

Various stickhandling objects are available. The Dryland
Puck (bottom left) costs $12 and is purported to be viable
on a sliding surface or floor. In my opinion, it performs
poorly in both settings. The Green Biscuit, which sells for
about $13, slides okay on a slippery surface but feels heavier
and clunkier than a puck on ice. The blue puck ($2) is like a
regular puck except it's two ounces lighter. It works fairly
well on a shooting pad. The Swedish Ball ($4, second row, left)
is a very lightweight wooden ball that really flies around a
shooting pad. It's good for working on quick hands. The
Extreme Stickhandling Ball ($9, second row, right) is heavy
and hard. Surprisingly, on a shooting pad it has a feel similar 

to a puck on ice. The basic orange floor hockey puck ($2), 
slides nicely on a floor or shooting pad.
I also have two balls that I like. Let me rephrase that: I also have a couple of balls that are fun to stickhandle. OK, what I mean is: I’ve got two little balls that are specifically made for hockey stickhandling practice and I like each of them for the specific properties they possess. One of these is somewhat heavy and made of rubber; the other one is light and made of wood. The rubber one, called the Extreme Stickhandling Ball, feels similar to a puck when handled on a slippery shooting pad. The wooden one is called the Swedish Ball and is billed as the speed bag of stickhandling because it moves very quickly, which is good for developing quick hands.

 With my stickhandling, my main objective has been to solidify the basics like moving the puck from side to side and front to back, nothing too fancy, just some fundamental skills that will allow me to skate with the puck without feeling like it’s a grenade with the pin pulled.

Despite my committment to keeping it simple, curiosity got the better of me one day and I found myself on YouTube studying a step-by-step breakdown of the toe drag, a high-level hockey maneouvre that involves pulling the puck toward you with the toe of the stick then quickly dragging it sideways past your own feet as you burst past a helpless defender. When executed well, this maneouvre seems to defy the laws of physics, leaving defenders swiping at air as the puck teleports from one side of them to the other and the puck carrier swoops past to mount an assault on their goalie. As a defender, I’ve been victimized by this move more times than I’d care to relate.

Even though I’m technically incapable of performing this trick, I’ve sometimes succumbed to temptation and attempted it anyway, always with the same result: the defender easily divesting me of the puck along with fragments of my dignity.

Actually, once and only once I did successfully employ the stunt, but I was so surprised to arrive on the other side of the defender with the puck that I lurched into a speed wobble that grew wilder as I careened  toward the goal. In the end, the puck and a glorious scoring chance simply slipped away like an eel.

At any rate, I’ve been working on this toe drag thing within the controlled conditions within my garage, having concluded that, if having some basic skills is good, having some more advanced skills is better. I’m not convinced I’ll ever master this move or be a player described as having “good hands,” but if I spot a cow carrying a snow shovel I’ll gladly throw down a puck and take her on.

Friday 12 September 2014

A rootin’ shootin’ good time



There’s a certain satisfaction that comes from nailing a target consistently when firing shots out of your garage late at night.

I know this first hand because every night for the past two weeks I’ve been setting up for some good old, down home shootin’ practice, firing with determination and glee at a target set up in my driveway.

Now before you imagine some sort of hillbilly scene featuring spent shotgun shells scattered about or Winchester hollow points whistling through the night, let me remind you that this here is a hockey blog. Ergo, I’m talking about shooting hockey pucks here, plain old six-ounce hunks of vulcanized rubber ... 200 of ‘em.

I’d meant to start practicing my shooting much earlier in the off-season but it took me a while to assemble the equipment I needed to create a workable setup.

The main puzzle piece was some sort of slippery surface from which to shoot my pucks since I knew from experience that shooting off a surface like a concrete floor or a piece of plywood wouldn’t translate well to on-ice performance. I did considerable research into the available options and, after much deliberation, placed an online order for two shooting pads: a four-foot by 10-foot rollup pad valued at $160 and a thicker 30-inch by 60-inch pad priced at $100 (plus $50 to ship both items from Ontario).

The order arrived on Aug. 19, only about a month before I expected the season to start. I quickly set up my shooting gallery according to a plan I’d refined in my mind after weeks of scheming.

I knew from experience that dryland shooting while wearing shoes also doesn’t translate well to the ice so one of my priorities was to devise a system that would enable me to wear skates while shooting. I also wanted a system that was quick and easy to set up and take down, since I don’t have a spot where I can leave it assembled on an ongoing basis.

The system I devised involves a couple of old blankets draped over a piece of wood suspended across two metal poles (racks used to hold up barbells for squats, etc.) I used heavy duty clamps bought at a hardware store to hold the blankets in place.

I set up this rig on my driveway about 10 or 15 feet outside my garage door then set up both shooting pads side by side on the floor inside the garage. The idea was to shoot from inside the garage (where there’s a solid, level floor), through the open bay door into the draped blankets. The larger shooting pad was to be the shooting surface and the smaller, thicker one was for me to stand on (in skates, even though the pad isn’t made to withstand this kind of abuse).

My first full shooting session was on Aug. 27. It took me about 17 minutes to shoot my 200 pucks. I was surprised to find that this seemingly inert exercise caused me to run out of breath — I had to rest numerous times. The repeated torque of the shooting action was also murder on the hand that holds the top of my stick. By the time I was half done my pile of pucks, I had a hole in the skin in the middle of my palm and another at the base of my pointing finger, revealing the tender, reddish sublayers.

By the time I was down to 60 pucks remaining, I had two bloody spots in the palms of my gloves and I was in serious pain. But I foolishly persevered, determined to finish my 200-puck quota.

After that, I took four days off from shooting, to give my hand a chance to heal a bit, then I got back at it. My hand was still quite sore but I relaxed my grip and spared it from further damage. This time it took me 13 minutes to shoot all the pucks.

Blankets are effective at funneling pucks into a cohesive pile for easy retrieval.
Since that day I’ve shot my 200 pucks every day, racking up 1,400 shots so far. I’m concentrating on the classic wrist shot because the league I play in doesn’t allow slap shots. I’m still trying to nail down the perfect technique as there are many subtle mechanical adjustments one can make and it’s hard to discern what effect each little change is having on the shot speed.

This is where a radar gun would come in handy. There are outlets that sell them for sports like hockey and baseball but that’s $100 I refuse to spend. For now at least I must be content to judge by feel and by sight.

The blankets work really well. Not only are they quick and easy to set up but they are also virtually silent. It’s usually about 11 p.m. when I’m doing my shots and the only sound is a faint thwack when each puck hits the blanket followed by a light clanging as the wooden pole rattles around in the metal rack.

The blankets are also very effective at directing pucks into a cohesive pile. In fact, my blankets are long enough to lie on the ground, so most of the pucks fall on top of them, and most of the pucks can be retrieved at once by gathering up the bottom of the blankets and dumping the pucks into their storage container. Pickup is done in about three minutes.

I feel that I’ve improved quite a bit within the first two weeks of practice. I’m getting my shots away quickly and it looks like they have a fair amount of zip on them. But I suspect if I measured the actual speed it would be rather unimpressive and if you pitted me against a good shooter, I would look very wimpy in comparison.

In hockey, really hard shooters are said to have a howitzer. Throughout my hockey career, I’ve been in possession of nothing more powerful than a homemade slingshot, but the progress I’ve made over the last couple weeks gives me a glimmer of hope that, maybe someday, I’ll be the proud owner of a genuine shootin’ iron of some calibre ... a dream come true for any self respecting hillbilly, I reckon.

Saturday 6 September 2014

Wheeling and dealing – Part 2




This off-season I’ve been pulled simultaneously in two opposite directions: the relentless desire to buy stuff to help my training and the relentless reality of limited finances.

These two elements battled mightily about two months ago when I found myself dying to buy a semi-fancy digital watch that could time intervals.

For those who are unaware, interval training involves alternating between exertion and rest for specified amounts of time in order to achieve specific physical outcomes. Interval workouts have been an integral part of my program since I started training about a year ago. One of my regular modules calls for a work-to-rest ratio of 10 seconds to 50 seconds. Another one is 30 seconds of givin’ ‘er followed by two minutes of rest. And my personal favourite is the good old scheme of two minutes on, two minutes off.

Up until recently I didn’t have a device that could manage these times for me, so I just counted in my head as I was doing my moves, not really knowing how close I was coming to the actual times. For example, I’d be grinding out a wind sprint, practically dying, while counting in my head, “20 Mississippi, 21 Mississippi ... come on 30 Mississippi!”

The system was quaint in its imperfection when I was first easing into this training thing, but as I’ve become more serious, I’ve felt a desire for accuracy.

In the spring I succumbed to temptation and conducted some online research into watches. I quickly discovered the Timex Sleek 150 and ascertained that it was the best watch for me because it allows the user to program three different interval schemes. I spent more time than I care to admit gazing at pictures of this prized timepiece.

The watch was out of reach due to the $125 price. Granted, this isn’t that much money in the grand scheme of things. Like, if I’d been facing some needed repair to my car or teeth, I could have come up with that much and more, but given that my hockey training is really a self-indulgent hobby that benefits no one else in my family, I couldn’t justify the expense.

Desire
But I must admit that I do sometimes become obsessed with objects of desire, and that’s what this watch became. Even though I told myself unequivocally that I couldn’t have it, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. One day I even ventured into a specialty running store to leer at the watch in person.

It took me mere seconds to spot it in its glass case, looking even more stunning than in the online pictures. How I longed to strap on that sleek little number and finger its buttons until a lap split, even if it was just a fleeting, one-time thing. 

But I wouldn’t allow myself to indulge this fantasy. The display case remained unopened, the watch untouched, staring at me with snooty disdain as its $125 price tag dangled with a forced casualness that was as infuriating as it was alluring.

Days and weeks passed. I accepted that the watch would never be mine but couldn’t shake the desire to possess it. Then one day I couldn’t resist popping into my local sporting goods emporium to see if that store also carried the watch in question. It did. And the watch was on clearance for $60, less than half the regular price!

My reaction was instant. I shielded the display case with my arms and body while summoning a clerk with violent movements of my head and eyebrows.

The rest is a blur. There was a key, then a box, then a credit card, followed by a sense of elation as I drifted to my car.

Good timing
I’ve been using the watch for several weeks now and it’s been one of those rare obsession purchases that has lived up to expectations. Truly, the watch has improved my life, and yes, I love it. There, I said it — I love my watch!

I’ve got three different interval workouts programmed into it and use them all regularly. It’s nice not to have to program it each time I do a different workout. And the watch counts the number of reps as I perform each interval sequence so I don’t have to keep track of those in my head.

But the best feature is simply that I no longer have to count Mississippis in my head. Instead, I can concentrate on doing my moves and maintaining them as my leg muscles melt, until that magical moment arrives when I’m saved by that most musical of sounds: “Beepity-beepity-BEEP!”

Tuesday 26 August 2014

My old John Deere



I’m not a fan of country music but there’s a bit of country music lore that’s loosely relevant to my recent training exploits.

Legendary country singer George Jones was known as an enthusiastic consumer of “adult beverages.” In fact, he was such an incorrigible booze hound that his wife once hid the keys to all his vehicles so he couldn’t drive to a liquor store or bar. But wily old Jonesy still made his escape after noticing a key dangling from the ignition of his old John Deere riding mower. This incident and more subsequent ones became well known in country music circles and were further immortalized in Vince Gill’s 1993 song One More Last Chance, which featured the line, “but she forgot about my old John Deere.”

How this relates to me is that I think I may have bested old Jonesy when it comes to unconventional usage of a John Deere riding mower.

You see, by about the midway point of this off-season I got my leg strength up to the point that I could start pursuing serious speed work. This is an endeavour that hockey players and other athletes typically pursue through the pushing or pulling of heavy objects, which develops the legs for explosive bursts of going real fast. An example of such training can be seen in this video, which shows NHLer Martin St. Louis engaging in a mind-blowing display of sled hauling (pertinent bit starts at :40 of the video).

As a lowly beer leaguer, I don’t have access to the types of resistance mechanisms that the pros use, so I’ve had to improvise.

Earlier this off-season I experimented with sprinting up the grassy hill that lies next to our house. The scheme didn’t take root because the uneven terrain was face-plantingly treacherous after dark, which is when I usually do my training.

A couple of times (during daylight hours) I loaded one or both of my kids into a wagon and pushed it as fast as I could up our sloped driveway, with the oldest kid (age 7) in charge of steering the wagon. This method didn’t take off either, as the gravel driveway provided rather poor traction and was therefore unsuitable for fast starts. Also, once the kids realized that I wasn’t really doing the exercise for their enjoyment, they stopped agreeing to participate.

Another time I loaded a wheelbarrow with bags of dirt and sprinted it up our driveway a few times. Again, traction was a serious drawback to the scheme.

As all these trials and errors were taking place, I often eyed the old John Deere SX-95 riding mower that was sitting innocently in front of our garage. I knew the thing was heavy and difficult to push because I’d experienced these facts many times in the course of mowing our wild environs. So one night I decided to accomplish my speed work by pushing the mower up our driveway.

It was a decent system. I’d push the mower up the slope for about 10 seconds then let it roll back down into position for the next rep. But again the one problem was traction on the gravel driveway. Still, I felt that the mower was the right tool; I just needed to match it with the right location.

I knew that solid traction and a relatively level surface were available on the paved road of our subdivision, but even I wasn’t willing to endure the humiliation that would occur when a neighbour came driving along as I was pushing the mower down the road after dark. Such a meeting would be inevitable and would most certainly yield a healthy dose of slackjawed gawking and possibly even force me into offering some sort of explanation. What could I possibly say?

“Hey neighbour! What’s that? Oh, just taking old JD here out for a spot of exercise! Tootle-loo!”

I don’t think so.

Fashion risk

That left our front lawn as the only remaining option. It has the benefit of being quite flat and it’s also sheltered from the view of passersby. I knew there would be a traction issue here too as the grass is always damp and slick during my workout times. The best solution would have been some form of cleated shoes like those used for soccer, football or baseball, but I don’t have any of those and I’m too cheap to buy some just for one exercise.

So once again I made do with what I have. I set off wearing the most aggressively treaded footwear I own – a pair of green rubber oilfield boots that are still caked with bitumen stains collected on drilling rigs throughout Western Canada more than a decade ago. Imagine that look with cutoff shorts and pasty poultry legs – now that’s a three-alarm fashion faux pas! But like I’ve said many times, hockey training ain’t no fashion show.

Anyway, back and forth I went, grunting the 400-pound mower in a bouncing, clattering trajectory across our front lawn, which proved to be much rougher than it appears.

But the scheme worked. By holding onto the steering wheel and pushing the mower backwards, I was able to keep it on course while providing my legs with a burningly productive workout.

So, just like Vince Gill’s song of more than 20 years ago, my ode to the old John Deere has proven to be a hit and has achieved regular rotation ... in my workout schedule that is.

Thursday 21 August 2014

Digging deeper



Hockey season starts in about a month and as far as I can tell I’m on track to be in peak form when the puck drops. This is despite an inauspicious start to my off-season training.

In the early going I struggled to address the strength and cardio components laid out in my guide book while also providing my muscles with sufficient recovery time.

One thing that was tripping me up, I eventually realized, was that I was misreading my body’s signals. What I interpreted as muscle fatigue caused by the workouts I was doing actually turned out to be plain old weakness in my leg muscles. As a consequence, I wound up resting my legs, thinking they needed time to recover, when I should have been working them more regularly to make them stronger.

A more thorough reading of my book supplemented by some Internet research and some simple trial and error helped me to sort through my confusion and I put together a solid plan for the summer.

This plan involved dividing the off-season into three segments. The first segment focused on building my basic cardio capacity through regular runs and Xbox boxing sessions, with a secondary focus on building leg strength and beginning to develop the anaerobic energy systems in the legs, which is accomplished through timed sprints.

The second segment dialed down the frequency of cardio workouts and increased the frequency of anaerobic workouts. The third segment, which I’m just beginning, will continue to build strength and power in the legs, as well as overall cardio capacity, but will concentrate almost exclusively on hockey-related movements to achieve these goals, so the results translate as much as possible to the hockey rink.

Key change
A key adjustment I made this off-season was changing how I’ve performed my 30-second anaerobic intervals, which are a critical element in priming the leg muscles for the dynamic demands of hockey. Last year I approached this element by sprinting in a straight line but I’ve since realized that this type of movement has little relevance to hockey so I switched to doing hockey-related movements like lateral footwork, crossovers, leaps and pivots.

These exercises really make the leg muscles burn, which signalled to me that I needed to focus on them, since they mimic what my legs must endure during a hockey game. By doing these exercises regularly at a high intensity, I’ve been able to gradually increase the interval work time to 45 seconds and decrease the rest time from two minutes to 1:10. By the time the off-season is over, my aim is to have the work time up to a full minute followed by a minute of rest. This will closely approximate the shift-rest cycle I typically experience during a beer-league hockey game.

Need for speed
A key component of the latter half of my off-season has been a concentrated effort on exercises designed to boost my skating speed. This is achieved by making the legs stronger through squats of increasingly heavy weight, lateral leaps and sprinting against some form of resistance.

My book says that before undertaking serious speed training, a player should be able to perform several repetitions of deep squats of his own body weight. I started the off-season squatting 140 pounds, which is 10 pounds less than my body weight. I gradually worked up to 150 pounds and within a couple sessions was able to comfortably perform three sets of 10 squats.

This was my cue to start undertaking serious speed training, which I’ve been doing for the past month or so. This speed work is key, as speed used to be my hallmark as a player and its departure is what I’ve missed the most as I’ve aged.

I’m not sure how much of my lost speed I can recover, but I hope to be fast enough to keep up with the fast, young guys who populate our league. I’m emboldened by the fact that, when I was in my late 20s, I played regularly with some older guys and the fastest guy on the ice was this 44-year-old guy who was about my size.

The reason that this guy – let’s call him Brian – was able to be so fast at his age was that he took care of his body. I think of him often when I’m out training and visualizing what I hope to achieve this upcoming season. As a formerly fast player who’s now trapped inside a 44-year-old body, my dream is to be able to step on the gas and have my body respond.

Tuesday 12 August 2014

Wheeling and dealing – Part 1




As I mentioned in my previous blog post, I’ve realized that I require additional equipment if I’m to take my training to the next level. One of the items I placed on my must-acquire list was a whole whack of pucks for shooting practice.

Like any schmoe who plays hockey, I had some pucks kicking around the house, like 10 or so, but I knew this paltry number wouldn’t do if I was going to work seriously at improving my shot. I needed to take a significant number of shots every day but also wanted to minimize the amount of time spent retrieving pucks. The solution, I figured, was to have enough pucks that I could shoot the entire batch once, then retrieve them afterward and be ready for the next day.

The number I settled on was 200. This may seem crazy, but it isn’t.

I estimate that a hockey player, while practicing his shooting in much the same way as a golfer practices at a driving range, can fire a puck every two to four seconds. So working through 200 pucks would take anywhere from 400 to 800 seconds (seven to 14 minutes) – a manageable amount of time to spend every day. Plus, I think 200 pucks would be manageable space-wise and lead to improvement if shot every day.

So I set about finding 200 pucks. About the cheapest place around to buy pucks in my part of the world is Canadian Tire, a department store. It sells brand new pucks for 98 cents each – not a bad price but much too high when you’re looking at buying 200 of them. (I wasn’t prepared to spend $200 on this acquisition).

Turning to the Internet, I learned that 50 cents a puck is about the best price you can get. On Kijiji I found a guy in my area offering 200 pucks for $100 – right in my wheelhouse. We agreed on the price via email and I awaited a response about a meeting time and place. Meanwhile, I got a text response from another seller I’d contacted. It was a fellow acting as an agent for his eight-year-old kid, who collects pucks around outdoor rinks each spring. I told him I’d already settled on a deal.

Then seller No. 1 emailed back with meeting instructions.

“I usually meet my buyers in the Co-op parking lot. Look for a black Honda,” he told me.

Whoa. This guy regularly makes deals in parking lots? And he drives a black Honda?

I realized that I was about to do business with a deadly Asian triad that specializes in stolen hockey gear!

I could see exactly how it would play out. We’d be conducting our business and would start up an innocent discussion about a random beer-league topic – the relative merits of dumping and chasing, perhaps. But he’d be pro and I’d be con, and with the suddenness of a Kansas tornado, our disagreement would turn violent. In the end, the evening news would relate how my lifeless body was found stuffed in a Co-op shopping cart with a wad of hockey tape jammed in my mouth and a jagged chunk of composite stick protruding from my neck.

I texted the kid’s dad and asked if he’d sell 200 pucks for $85. The kid went for it so I gingerly backed out of the deal with the triad guy.

So I’m happy to report that I now have 200 pucks in my garage. I haven’t shot any of them yet because I need some more stuff to complete my shooting gallery, which is in the works.

For those of you who are curious, 200 pucks weigh in at about 70 pounds and nearly fill a large plastic storage container, displacing about 1.6 cubic feet, or 45.3 litres, of volume. 

Thursday 31 July 2014

Beyond conditioning



Years ago, and for several consecutive years, I traveled with my beer-league buddies each spring to a weekend recreational tournament in the resort town of Banff. One of the perks of this hockey getaway was that a video replay was screened in the arena lounge following each game. This provided us weekend warriors a rare opportunity to see ourselves play on TV. We took full advantage.

Seeing my hockey-playing self on video was both encouraging and discouraging. On the encouraging side was the instant impression of, “Wow, that guy’s pretty fast.” But almost immediately came the question, “Why doesn’t he do something?” You see, I fit the stereotype of the small speedster who looks dangerous as he races around accomplishing little.

The problem was that I lacked the puck-handling skills and the confidence required to maintain puck possession when challenged by an opponent, so whenever I had the puck I got rid of it at the first sign of pressure, either passing it to the nearest teammate or just dumping it to a safe area.

This spring, when I decided to train seriously for the upcoming season, one of the deciding factors was the realization that I could take my training beyond conditioning by also working on hockey skills like stickhandling, shooting and skating.

All these skills can be improved in a dryland setting and I’m in the process of either doing that or getting set up to do it. This is taking some doing because, in order to take a solid run at these issues, I’ve concluded that I need to acquire some equipment.

A quick Internet search will turn up a plethora of stuff that’s available to help hockey players improve their game, not to mention empty their wallets. (This site is one I’ve consulted on numerous occasions: http://www.hockeyshot.ca/). Navigating the hockey training marketplace to distinguish the useful from the frivolous has been a time-consuming chore, but I’m close to completing a list of select items that I believe will help me develop my skills. Soon it will be time to crack open the wallet and go on a bit of a spending spree.

This will be a direct violation of my hockey training rule No. 1 but I’ve done a serious rethink of this rule given that I’m dedicating this summer to taking this hobby to another level. 

And besides, what good is a hobby if it doesn’t involve buying stuff?

Wednesday 9 July 2014

At the crossroads – To Margueritaville or Beerton?




The arrival of the off-season at the end of March was a shock, so focused was I on delivering a peak playoff performance that I wasn’t prepared for what came next.

As I dealt with life without my weekly hockey game, I felt like I was at a crossroads and neither of the two choices before me were palatable. The first choice was to keep putting myself through the physical rigours that are involved in competing against 20-somethings as a 44-year-old. The upside of this option was that it contains beer. The second choice was to retire to a leisure life of golf and pinnocle, lubricated by some sort of out-to-pasture beverage like pina coladas or margueritas or something. Those were my options as I saw them – either waste away in Margueritaville, as the song says, or toil away in Beerton, as it were.

Part of me felt it was time to retire. But another part recognized that I was staring at a glorious six-month window of opportunity, a chance to take my training to new heights and “awesome-ize” myself in time for next season. After all, last fall’s three-week cram session of training had produced some improvement, hadn’t it? (Yes, it had.) I was curious what six months of focused work could achieve.

As I considered my options, I jumped right into exercising, to start tuning my body just in case I decided not to retire. Within a couple weeks of my last game I was devoting time every evening to performing leg-strengthening exercises in the form of jumps and lunges, all in the comfort of our living room as the NHL playoffs unfolded on the TV.

My daily regimen quickly had my legs feeling firm and sprightly. At work I’d bound up the stairs two at a time and displayed tremendous first-step quickness whenever word spread that doughnuts were waiting by the coffee maker.

Around this time I also began twice-weekly physiotherapy sessions to address a knee that complained whenever its routine was interrupted by any type of bump and a hip that launched darts of torment with my every move. The therapist zeroed in on some muscle weakness that was contributing to my woes and taught me some exercises to shore up those areas. The exercises became part of my daily routine.

After a while I started to take my workouts outside. This gave me a slap-in-the-face dose of reality. Here I’d thought I was getting in pretty good shape but it turned out that, when it came to propelling me around in a sustained fashion, my legs were still as weak as wet noodles and my lungs had the air exchange capacity of solid wood duck decoys. I spent more time doubled over trying to catch my breath than I did moving my feet and legs.

By the end of April the aggressive kneadings of the physiotherapist, coupled with the improved strength that she was injecting into my body (figuratively speaking), caused my hip pain to subside. This in turn relaxed my angst about my physical condition and swayed my decision.

I would not retire. No, I would train full bore this off-season so I could give ‘er in beer league next season.

This decision necessitated a reassessment of where I was with my training, given my laboured attempts at shuttling my body around. A careful review of my training book (Complete Conditioning for Hockey by Peter Twist) revealed the importance of a high level of aerobic fitness as a base for the later development of strength, agility and quickness. With this as my focus, I sat down and charted a plan.

It’s been going well. With July now here, I’ve put in a fairly solid first half of the off-season and have a plan for the rest of the way. I’m turning in solid, focused workouts almost every day. I can engage in sustained effort without losing my breath. My legs are feeling strong and are getting stronger every week, gaining the strength required to produce quick, powerful bursts of movement. With more than two months to go until the season starts, my physical abilities are taking shape and my hopes are high.

But so too are my antennae of caution. My greatest fear is that I’ll somehow fall off the wagon or miscalculate in my planning or execution, thereby failing to take full advantage of this precious time, arriving at next season in semi-decent shape but basically the same as before – just a slow, unskilled plugger toiling away in Beerton.

With all the work I’m putting into it, if I fall flat with my attempts to transcend my age and skill level, I may yet wish I had chosen Margueritaville. At least then I could claim that there was a woman to blame, as the song goes. Something to keep in mind next time I’m at the crossroads.

Wednesday 18 June 2014

Done like wings 'n fries


Among the things I enjoy in life are:
1) beer
2) chicken wings
3) French-fried potaters, and
4) lounging in a state of semi undress after playing a hockey game.

Never have I experienced all four of these elements at once ... until now.

With our last game of the season having finished, we’re sitting around in our dressing room, some of us dressed only in towels, others still stewing in smelly hockey gear. Despite the late hour the arena concession people have stuck around and are sending regular food shipments into our room, and refusing to accept payment in return. And contrary to the norm, not a single member of our team has gone home, even though the game has been over for half an hour.

There’s a jovial, festive atmosphere in our room and in the room down the hall. Some of the opposition players are mingling in the hallway with some of our players, amicably rehashing the two-game final series. We’re one big, happy family even though one team is the league champions and the other isn’t.

I think we knew deep down that we weren’t going to win. We clung to the fact that these opponents, despite their superiority in speed and skill, needed overtime to beat us when we met them in the preliminary round. But in the final two games they didn’t leave much room for hope, beating us 6-3 and 3-1.

Our two 20-something players, one fresh out of junior B and the other a stalwart at the senior AA level, were more than capable of competing with those guys. But for the rest of us it was a stretch. They were simply faster, more skilled and better organized.

The loss is disappointing but there’s also satisfaction in the knowledge that, by reaching the final, we overachieved significantly. A decidedly mediocre team during the first half of the season, we went on an 8-2 tear to end the regular season. Then we took our team, a squad that’s relatively old, lacking in high-end skill, not particularly fast and not particularly great at passing, and made it to the final, eliminating some pretty strong teams along the way.

Our strengths were our workmanlike tenacity, a commitment to a structured defence and a solid young goaltender. It’s the best finish this team has ever posted in its history, which dates back about 20 years (this was my first season with them).

On a personal note, I found our playoff run to be exhilarating and fun, though I was disappointed to find I was no longer in very good shape as the season wound down. In the days leading up to the final two games I engaged in some workout cramming in an attempt to elevate my physical status. It helped a bit but there’s only so much you can do in a few days.

After our resounding loss in the first game of the final, I decided to abandon my strictly defensive style, recognizing that our team needed more offence. In the last game I let it all hang out, racing up the ice to join in our offensive attack, trying to do more with my chances to skate with the puck. These efforts didn’t generate any tangible results or affect the outcome of the game, but competing more on the edge like that made the game more fun.

As the party in the room continues, I’ve forgotten all about the physical pain I’ve endured during the past few weeks. I suppose these issues will fill the coming days with thoughts about my ability to continue playing at this level. But, for the moment, it’s time to savour what was a pretty fun ride.

Friday 28 March 2014

A magical playoff run

Stock photo

I’m at work, sitting at my desk doing routine desk stuff but the day is anything but routine.
My body is buzzing with electrified dread and my stomach is a ball of writhing vipers. It’s game day.

My team in the midst of a solid playoff run despite having entered the post-season in fifth place in our 12-team league. Our Cinderella story could end tonight, however. Whoever loses is done.

I know that our opponents – let’s call them the Posies – will be eager to beat us, not only to keep their own playoff run alive, but to exact revenge for a bitter defeat we handed them two games ago.

These playoffs are set up as a double-elimination tournament, which means you play a different opponent each game and are eliminated if you lose two games. For our first matchup we beat the fourth-place team by a single goal in a fast and intense game. Next came the Posies – the first-place team – who we also beat by one goal in a game that was even more intense.

During this game, the Posies’ No. 19 was constantly taking runs at our players, being careless with his stick, berating the referees and generally behaving like he could snap at any moment.

The situation escalated during the handshake session after the final buzzer sealed our one-goal victory. One of my teammates, whom 19 had violently assaulted with his stick in the game’s waning seconds, refused to shake hands, causing 19’s perpetual frown to deepen noticeably.

When it came my turn to shake 19’s hand, it didn’t go well. You see, I had recently had my right hand crushed during an end-of-game handshake session. Whether or not it was intentional, I’m not sure, but I was determined to avoid a repeat occurrence.

So when it came my turn to shake 19’s hand, I made sure to get my hand right in there and I dialed up the PSIs to prevent him from overpowering me. I even adjusted my hand position mid-shake to ensure I was fully engaged. I’ve learned from experience that the most vulnerable position to be in is when you don’t get your hand in there all the way, leaving only your fingertips for the other guy to grab.
Anyway, as this handshake tĂȘte a tĂȘte unfolded, 19 thought my defensive posturing was an attempt to crush his hand. This lead to an exchange of glares and F-words, then some general milling around and arguing involving members of both teams.

After a few minutes of this, and having grown weary of the proceedings, I loudly reminded the Posies that the game was over and suggested they get off the ice.

“You’re going to have a heart attack,” one of their players said to me, a reference to my advanced age of 43, I guess.

“Huh, what’s that?” I said.

“You’re going to have a heart attack,” the guy repeated.

I was just pretending I hadn’t heard him. Really, I was trying to buy time until I could think of a zinger comeback. I had nothing.

“Huh? I can’t hear you,” I said again.

Real smooth, I thought to myself. This guy’s grinding your gears about being old and you pretend to be hard of hearing. Yeah, that’s some good trash talkin’ right there.

As No. 3 and I glared at each other, a different comeback finally materialized in my mouth and I spit it out without thinking.

“I can’t hear losers,” I said.

Well, the face of my trash-talking counterpart sagged as if I’d killed his dog and insulted his mother.

“I can’t believe you’d say something like that, calling us losers,” he moaned.

I was confused. Isn’t that the point of trash talking, to insult the other guy?

Anyway, the melee finally dispersed and we retreated to our respective dressing rooms. As I replayed the episode in my mind, I started feeling guilty about having been drawn into the melodrama. At the core of my concern was the knowledge that we could end up playing this team again in these very same playoffs, and if we did, they’d be looking for revenge both on the scoreboard and along the boards.

Sure enough, we lost our next game and the Posies won two in a row to earn a rematch with us, with the winner advancing to the finals. Which takes us to tonight’s game and today’s game-day jitters – not just about the game itself, but also about the game within the game.

So like I says, there I am at my desk with the day crawling by at glacial speed. Then I’m at home having supper then I’m putting kids to bed, all through a fog of slow motion, until I finally find myself driving to the arena.

In the dressing room prior to game time, as I apply protective armour to my body, I’m working hard to keep the butterflies in check and my body relaxed. A few minutes later, as I walk down the tunnel toward the ice surface, I force myself to stride with purpose, with my head up and an artificial swagger in my derriere. If I’m walking to my doom at least I’m going to do it with dignity, I figure.

Within the short distance from the dressing room to the ice surface I jettison all extracurricular concerns, leaving only one thought: time to just play.

Fast and close
The game is fast and close. In the early going one of our young guns scores on a breakaway. A little while later the Posies respond. It goes back and forth like that. It’s an intensely played game that’s forcing us to skate and pass more quickly than I would have thought we were capable. Thankfully, we’re keeping up OK and the game is all hockey – no B.S.

We’re clinging to a one-goal lead as the third period winds down, but they tie it up, sending the game into overtime.

As I’ve done all season, I’ve concentrated on playing a safe, defensive type of game, leaving the offence to our more skilled and fleet-footed players. But during the four-on-four overtime session an opportunity to generate an attack falls into my lap as I suddenly find myself with the puck at our blue line and some open ice in front of me.

Even though my legs are feeling lethargic, I feel obliged to try to make something happen, so I race into the Posies’ zone with as much speed as I can muster (which isn’t so much speed as it is a less exaggerated form of slowness).
Back in the day I would have found another gear and gone blazing wide on the defender without hesitation, which may have afforded me an unfettered path to the goal crease and a chance to score (which I would have frittered away).

However, this is 2014 and what actually happens is a pretty feeble attempt to dart into shooting position followed by a more feeble wrist shot that the goalie easily deflects to the corner.

Out of gas, I retreat to the bench. Shortly thereafter the five-minute overtime session ends and we head into a shootout to decide the game.

The Posies send out their first shooter and our goalie calmly turns him aside.

Our first shooter is the young gun who scored on the breakaway. He casually deposits the puck into the net.

Their next shooter meets the same fate as their first, setting us up for the potential game winner. We send out our next best young stud. He strides toward the goal, makes a move to deke then quickly fires a shot from close range.

The goalie crumples in an attempt to close his legs in time. From my spot on the bench I see a black speck emerge from behind the folded legs and fling itself soundlessly against the twine at the back of the net.

“Yes!”

Our bench erupts in unison and empties onto the ice. We’ve beaten the hated first-place team and we’re off to the final!

Later, in the dressing room, the beer tastes extra sweet and the satisfaction of a hard-fought victory is soothing the fatigue in my body. There’s no feeling quite like winning.

Except we haven’t really won anything yet. Next week we’ll engage in a best-of-three series for the league championship. Our opponent will be the team that has already beaten us once during these playoffs. And the series will unfold over the course of four days.

The prospect of playing that much hockey within such a short span is both exciting and daunting. It won’t be easy on my body, which has grown weary in the season’s late stages.

So, while I bask in the satisfaction of victory tonight, and take a day to recover tomorrow, I know that the following days will involve merging my butt with my training ground as I prepare for next week’s ultimate battle.