Thank you for visiting my blog. 

I have moved it here: http://www.coryhare.com/off-season-blog/
and changed the name to "Off Season."

Please stop by for a visit.

Cory

Tools of the trade

Here I am demonstrating the tools that are essential to my outdoor, night-time interval training: a mini flashlight and the Gymboss Minimax timer.
Perhaps there's a small amount of self delusion at play, but I feel like a special ops agent with these tools on my waistband.

I suspect that one of the best parts of being a cop is getting to wear a wide assortment of tools and weapons on your belt. Not only are these things cool in their own right, but I expect that having them all within easy reach invokes a feeling of officialness that is nearly intoxicating. An added bonus is that the presence of all this stuff forces the wearer to adopt that wide-armed cop swagger, which projects an air of authority as well as the illusion of bulging biceps. Awesome.

My summer hockey training has evolved to the point that, when I go out at night to sprint intermittently, I’m able to get a small taste of this “sidearm swagger” thanks to a pair of specialized tools that ride on my waistband.

One of these tools looks like a pager or step tracker, but it’s actually the Gymboss Minimax, a simple timer designed to track intervals. Originally designed for use in the boxing gym, this handy device allows the user to create and store up to 20 different interval programs. I bought the unit online for only $30 to replace my formerly beloved Timex Sleek 150, which unceremoniously died just a bit shy of its first birthday.

The timer’s downside is that its menu system is clunky and it has no light, which is a problem for me because I do my road work after dark. Because the timer’s menus are so strangely configured, I can’t switch between programs in the dark – I need to see the screen.

This is where my second specialized tool comes in. It’s a small keychain flashlight that I’ve attached to a retractable lanyard – like the kind that building custodians use for their key collections.

When I go out for my timed workouts, I clip the timer onto my waistband at my left hip while the flashlight rides at my right hip. “Lugging” these lightweight tools isn’t quite the same as toting a nine millimetre Smith & Wesson and a Tazer M26 (plus the various other bric a brac that cops get), but it’s pretty good, I think.

When I’m out there demonstrating my fleet-footed prowess, I feel like a highly specialized, cross-disciplinary covert operative – kind of a boxer/sprinter/janitor hybrid, if you really want to break it down – not exactly at the same level of cool as a uniformed law enforcement officer, but I do have to swing my arms a bit wider than usual, so there is that.

And another thing: if anything goes down in my exurban neighbourhood while I’m out there engaging in totally non-suspicious exercising activity – like one of my neighbours starts accusing me of sneaking peeks through his windows (no reason to suspect this ... road is too far from houses) or the neighbourhood coyotes start circling and salivating a bit too much for my liking – one glimpse of my boxing gym timer and/or a warning blast from my mini spotlight would surely settle things right down, don't you think?

Personal best

I have a confession. After my power skating course was over, even though my ankles and ego were scorched and trying to scab over, I didn’t take time to recover. No, I went a different direction – I hit the ice the very next day, making it five days in a row on skates. This was a personal best by far but not a record my bleeding ankles were prepared to celebrate, I can assure you.

This was a drop-in stick-and-puck session for parents and younger kids at our local mega-plex leisure centre. I took my own two kids, aged five and eight, who aren’t big skaters or hockey players. They also don’t take kindly to coaching, which left me free to pursue my own pursuits.

While my young progeny floundered on their butts and other fathers and offspring noodled around while paying no attention to their edges or weight distribution, I practiced the various one-footed exercises I’d learned.

As I performed my slow, semi-graceful passes across the ice, none of the other dads stared or acted outwardly jealous but I know they were sneaking peeks and I know what they were thinking: “Wow, that guy’s edge control and weight distribution are well above average.”

Just a few days later I was invited to suit up for my old hockey team, which plays in a summer league. I jumped at the chance, eager to put my new skating abilities to use in a game setting. But, as usual, results were mixed. Some of my striding was more powerful than usual and some of my turns were quicker but I was inconsistent in these executions because these new mechanics weren’t yet committed to muscle memory. Under duress, I naturally reverted to old, inefficient habits such as not bending my knees fully and not fully extending my legs.

Shortly after that, the kids and I did another stick-and-puck session. This time I cranked up the pace on my semi-graceful exercises. And this time none of the other dads had to pretend they weren’t envious. I was less than impressive, as my mechanics quickly broke down under the duress created by additional speed.

I kept at it, closely scrutinizing the movement of all my parts. What I deduced was surprising and upsetting.

For every single manoeuvre, the weak link was my left leg. Close inspection revealed that the sucker has all the propulsive power of a mozzarella cheese string and it returns to base position in lazy loops rather than direct, forceful movements. At high speed, my right leg does all the work while my left one does only the bare minimum required to maintain the appearance that it’s doing its share. This means that, for all these years, I’ve been galumping around like a moldy old mariner on a peg leg.

No wonder I’ve been struggling to keep up. These young guys I play against are not only quicker and stronger, but they’re no doubt more accomplished at these fundamental mechanics.

All this raises the question, what now?

On the one hand, my skating mechanics are so brutal that they represent tremendous potential for improvement. Perhaps I could achieve greater overall gains by dialing back my pursuit of iron-clad leg muscles and divert some energy toward improving my technique.

On the other hand, the amount of time that would be required to truly address my fundamental skating flaws makes the whole endeavour seem impossible. It’s almost enough to drive me toward other leisure pursuits, such as macrame, cowboy poetry or blues harmonica, to name but a few examples.

One hurtin' unit

Sore, oozing ankles, the result of a four-day power skating course, were a necessary price to pay for a ticket on the train to hockey mastery.

Man, I’m one hurtin’ unit. Not only are my ankles killing me but my feelings are all scuffed up as well.

Both sets of wounds come courtesy of a scheme I cooked up a few months ago and just completed the other day.

You see, back in March when my hockey season ended, I took stock of my beer leaguing exploits and came to this conclusion: through diligent training, I’d made marginal improvements to my speed, quickness, conditioning and stickhandling but hadn’t touched other aspects of my game. These areas were now holding me back and it was time to tackle one of them.

Skating topped the list, since it’s the most important hockey skill and I hadn’t received any instruction in it since I was a youth – about 30 years ago. Although I’m a pretty good skater, I knew that serious scrutiny would reveal deficiencies.

Extensive online research turned up just one company that offered a power skating course that was open to adults. I signed up even though I wasn’t thrilled about the age range, which started at 11. The course was to be eight hours spread over four weekday afternoons. I wrote the dates in my daytimer and booked vacation time off work.

As the course dates approached, I vaccilated between anticipation and apprehension, the former due to the prospect of learning and the latter due to the age factor. I expected that I’d be the only adult in the class and that the average age would be about 14. At 44, I’d be an oddball with a capital O. Of course, it’s not like my beer-leaguing exploits (and my life in general) hadn’t already placed me squarely in the oddball camp, but still, I would have preferred that the “sore thumb quotient” be a bit less extreme.

On the day of the first session, I steeled myself for an ordeal, marched into Sherwood Park’s Millenium Place and plopped down in a vacant spot in the male dressing room. As I’d expected, the room was full of boyish faces that cast furtive glances my way. I had barely sat down before that curiosity bubbled over.

“So, you here to do some coaching?” asked the hulking teenager beside me.

I worked to suppress a grin.

“No, I’m here for a ... refresher,” I said, inflecting my voice so as to place aural quotation marks around “refresher.”

This subtlety seemed to be lost on the questioner, who I judged to be about 16. A couple minutes later I launched my own question his way.

“So, are you here because you want to be or is someone making you?”

Instant eye roll.

“My father,” he said.

When I was young, like peewee or bantam age, my team was visited by power skating instructors on a couple different occasions. These instructors were females with figure skating backgrounds. Because of this, and because we were cocky young stallions, we disregarded everything they said. None of us learned a damn thing and we were damn proud of it.

This time around, armed with a broader outlook gained from 30 years of seasoning, I was primed to soak up information (and skills, I hoped) like a mature, open-minded sponge (and one who was determined to get value for his $290).

Feeling edgy

As soon as the ice was ready, the dressing room emptied and players started skating lazy laps. The group numbered about 30 and was about evenly divided between males and females, with many of the females being ringette players. This contingent included a couple of moms, so I didn’t feel like such an oddity.

After the instructor gathered us up for a short introduction, he and his two assistants ran us through a battery of drills aimed at getting us to exert control over our skate edges. For the first exercise, we travelled the length of the ice using only our inside edges, swooping in wide arcs like armour-clad flamingos as we alternated from one foot to the other. We followed that up by doing the same on our outer edges then did both drills again, backwards.

This is what the course was: eight hours of performing various permutations of pushing and gliding while paying careful attention to our edges and weight distribution. We learned and repeated the proper mechanics for the forward stride, backward stride, crossovers, tight turns and starts.

Some of the drills were easy. Others made me feel like I’d never skated before in my life. Most were somewhere in between, feeling awkward at first but less and less so with diligent effort. None of them was overly tiring physically – the pace was slow, the focus on technique. But because they were so foreign, the exercises required intense concentration which made them exhausting mentally.

Resting on the bench while the ice is being resurfaced, my feet are 

positioned in the “V-diamond” formation (heals together with knees 

bent), which is the foundation of effective skating, I learned.

Getting hurt

My feet started to hurt almost right away during the first session. That’s because, when we used a particular edge, we didn’t just casually lean that way, we leaned with all our weight, with the pointy part of the ankle bearing the brunt. Never before have I subjected by feet and ankles to such extreme forces. After the first day, all four of my pointy ankle knobs were raw. By the end of the third day, both my inner ones were leaving bloody blotches on my socks.

My feelings also started to hurt almost right away during the first session. As I stated, some of the exercises were so awkward that they made me feel like a complete neophyte, a bitter pill for someone who’s been a semi-serious hockey player for more than 30 years.

What was particularly draining emotionally was the fact that the course didn’t just expose my shortcomings and move on. Instead, it dangled them in front of my nose then smeared them all over my face like a sadistic army officer exacting some sort of feces-based hazing ritual.

Due to the significant mental and emotional toll of my learning, my cranial activity downshifted to stupor level during my off-ice time. Meanwhile, my time on the ice was a continuously unfolding oxymoron. I enjoyed but dreaded it. I wrung maximum value out of every repetition while sneaking longing glances at the clock.

After the last session was done, I floated out of the arena feeling glad it was all over but also glad I’d done it. As I’d hoped, I had soaked up a lot of knowledge and some of it was already transferring to my legs and feet. It’s true that I was reeling from the wounds I’d incurred, but I viewed the discomfort as an indicator of personal growth. Once the wounds healed, I’d be a new player ... well, maybe not new exactly, but improved.

And that’s exactly what I’d signed up for.

Someday (maybe even before I’m 50), the sleeve 

of my hockey jacket will be covered in these, and the 

world will shower me with all the adulation and 

accolades that I deserve.

IF YOU WANT TO BE 

A MONSTER ON THE ICE ...

View image | gettyimages.com

I’m not usually much for sayings. Like, I’m rarely moved by those inspirational posters of eagles or oceans or Ghandi or Einstein, you know, those ones that convey wisdom about persistence or success or attitude or whatever.

... YOU'VE GOT TO
BE A MONSTER
IN THE GYM

The trite sound bites and maudlin catch phrases of our time have caused me to develop a crusty coating that’s largely impervious to sayings, but I recently encountered one that penetrated this barrier: “If you want to run fast, you’ve got to run fast.”

While this simple saying is geared toward sprint training, I view it as relating to any situation in life, in a figurative way, which is why I find it powerful. 

After letting this saying simmer for a few weeks, my mind has repurposed it to fit my situation as a dude trying to train his way to improved hockey performance. 

Here’s my personalized version: “If you want to be a monster on the ice, you’ve got to be a monster in the gym.”

Maybe it’s a bit corny, a bit too dripping in machismo, but it’s stuck with me for a few weeks and I still like it – a good sign. 

Also, I find it popping into my head during my workouts and the effect is often that I’m able to push myself just a little bit harder than I otherwise would – another good sign. 

I’m at the point where I’m thinking about making a poster. When that happens, you know a saying has taken hold and is doing its job.

Wearing the pants

Note: I know I said in my last post that I was pulling the plug on this blog, but that was then and this is now. Some stuff has happened that warrants comment (in my mind, anyway), so I’m posting a comment. Going forward, let’s agree that this blog is indeed finished, except when it’s not.

Too tight: Months of training have rendered my beloved Levi's 501s obsolete as they no longer accommodate my expanding derriere.

So I’m trudging up the stairs at work, several steps behind my co-worker – let’s call him Carl – which has me at eye level with his rump, but rather than avert my eyes, as per “The Guy Code,” I’m taking in the view for all it’s worth.

“Gee Carl, your jeans have ample room in the seat yet they aren’t too baggy. Do you mind if I ask what brand they are?”

This is what I’m thinking, but of course, I say nothing. The way a fellow’s pants cradle his buttocks is a somewhat taboo subject in our society, so I’m left to gather the information I seek through stealthy observation.

Unfortunately, Carl has his golf shirt tucked in loosely, so it hangs down over the top of his jeans, covering up the label. I’m disappointed.

A similar situation occurred recently at 7/11 when I missed my chance with a strapping young dude whose athletic build seemed to be ably accommodated by his stylish but unassuming jeans. Same deal for a shorter but equally athletic looking guy at KFC.

Epic blowout

My obsession with exploring jean styles has been going on for a while. It started with an epic crotch blowout that occurred when I was chasing a kid around a playground. (Note: It was my kid). The incident left Fruit-Of-The-Loom tufts protruding where they shouldn’t and upset an equilibrium that had been in place for decades.

Like most men, I settled into my preferred jeans style in high school and never looked back. For more than 20 years, buying jeans was the simplest form of shopping in existence. Every year or two, when I caught wind of a sale at Sears, I’d walk in, select a couple pairs of Levi’s 501s and strut straight to the checkout. There was no need to try them on since I’d long established that these jeans suited my body type and I knew my specs. (I did have to visit a changeroom every few years when it came time to graduate to the next waist size, to account for my body’s ongoing “settling in.”)

Before: A photo of my backside taken 

in the summer of 2014.

This blissful existence has been under attack for a few months. I started noticing that my jeans were getting increasingly snug, as my ongoing training efforts expanded my butt to near-Kardashian dimensions and transformed my thighs from pencil-thin reeds to ... well ... reeds of carpenter pencil dimensions. It got to the point that kicking around in jeans on the weekend was no longer an act of relaxation, but rather an act of excruciating endurance.

Then the aforementioned blowout occurred and it was official. I needed new jeans – not just a new pair of jeans, a new style of jeans.

The dreaded “Clothing Store”

My soul-sucking quest for a new denim identity began with some online research, followed by a visit to an actual “Clothing Store,” where I tried on and bought one pair of jeans that I’d identified as the right style for me.

I was wrong.

I found this out while modelling my purchase for my wife. (The jeans were too baggy for my stumpy legs).

Some days later I revisited the dreaded Clothing Store, where I returned those jeans then systematically tried on every style that wasn’t super slim or super loose. Through a ruthless process of elimination, I surprisingly ended up with Levi’s 501s, except that the winning version was two waist sizes larger than the ones in my closet. Yes, these new garments were too large in the waist, but they were ample in the seat and thighs without being annoyingly baggy. I thought I could live with them.

I was wrong there too.

After: A photo of my Levi's
taken in March 2015, shortly
before the "Epic Crotch Blowout."

The first day wearing my new jeans, even though I had a belt cinched up tight, I still had to keep my thumbs hooked through the belt loops to prevent the pants from falling down. I started drawling my words and people started calling me Cletus.

“Dang it all to heck,” I thought.

I was quite despondent, but just as I was starting to Google the location of bridges in my area, my mind seized on one nugget of information that gave me a glimmer of hope.

I remembered that Levi’s has recently come out with a new jeans style that’s specifically designed for athletic builds. Yes, I was thinking about this in terms of my body. (I’ll give you a moment to conclude your guffawing and snickering.)

So anyway, this new model is designed to provide more room in the rear and thighs without being baggy. I’d dismissed them before because I didn’t think they came in my waist size and I felt their prefaded grunge look was more for young dudes.

But, lacking other options, I decided to give them another try. I found a store that did have some in my waist size and I bought myself one experimental pair.

I’ve worn them a couple times in public. They’re a bit stretchy and feel more like sweatpants than jeans, so I feel like I’m cheating, but I think I may have found my solution. I sure hope so, anyway. If these don’t work out, I’ll be forced to go way outside the box ... I'm talking kilt territory. Drastic? Yes. But don’t discount the double-barrelled upside: 

1) plenty of room and 
2) no need for Fruit Of The Looms.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!”