Here's why I'm not changing my name to Clutch McHockey

If I can paraphrase Danny Glover's catchphrase from a few movies, "I'm getting too old for this stuff." (He didn't say stuff, but I'm trying to keep things family friendly here).

Our league, is officially C level, an intermediate level of play with A being the most skilled and D being the bottom of the bucket. Despite this, the skill level significantly exceeds that boundary. The four teams in our league feature one player fresh out of a pro career, several former college players and about half a dozen kids who have played junior hockey (several of whom believe they are on the way to pro or college hockey in the fall). Most of the remaining players at least played competitively through the high school level before retiring to the beer leagues (some of them last year).

I however, was not a pro player, not a college player or even a youth hockey player. Those readers who have seen me play are muttering a sarcastic, “really?” I started playing in my thirties and was nearly forty before I branched out from playing only goalie. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the only guy who took up hockey late in life, nor am I the only old guy out there. But there are precious few of us who are both old and took up the sport late in life. As such I do things like make such amazing fakes while puck handling that I fool myself or impress the other team with my footwork which is right out of the school of drunken hockey.

Our week three game found us playing against the team with the oldest average age in the league. This team definitely features some skilled players, but their two biggest advantages are that they've played together for years and they they don't have anyone who is terrible. My team had played together for two game before facing them. We don't have the luxury of not having anyone terrible (even if I'm only counting me). On the positive side of our balance sheet, we do have a lot of young legs and probably two guys who are more talented than any our week three opponents can boast. More importantly, we have a less . . . shall we say . . . passionate approach to the game.

Our opponents outpaced us on scoring most of the game. We'd close the gap, catching up once in a while. In one such moment, their goalie imploded screaming at the refs as we watched unconcerned. I couldn't quite hear his words across the awkward acoustics of the ice rink. I would guess from his fervor there were a fair number of words approximately four letters long. I did catch the repeated word, “crease!” I suspect he thought we were trespassing in his protected habitat when we scored. Regardless, the refs did not revoke our goal . . . surprisingly no amount of yelling I've ever witnessed has had this effect. Much the opposite, they gave him an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty giving us a two minute power play. The goalie continued to yell unintelligibly. I can only guess after the penalty, he was saying, “Please send another of my teammates to the box. It makes me happy when they shoot pucks at me!”

This seemed to be the start of the end for our opponents. The entire team began taking strange penalties. Guys who are usually pretty calm did things like dole out headbutts and attempt repeatedly to use our goalie as a pommel horse. These things along with a perfect Rob Blake style hip check (imagine backing a trash truck into an unsuspecting opponent it you don't remember Mr. Blake) did not go unnoticed by those officiating our non-checking game. Our opponents also heaped evidence on my belief that feigning indignation and surprise at being caught does as little to change a referee's mind as yelling at them. They might try carrying candy instead. “Hey, you wanna chocolate, ref? Maybe we can discuss that last call while you enjoy it.” Nah, that might not work either.

Thus the stage was set for quite a battle. Our opponents would surge forward by a goal and we would stumble back. Then late in the third period, they managed to extend their lead to 6-4. It seemed this lead would be short lived as they punctuated their sixth goal with two penalties. Once the refs sorted things out and tossed a couple offenders into the sin bin, we decided to stack up the line on the ice with our five best players going against the three they were allowed to put on the ice. There was little doubt in our mind that we'd tie this game up sometime in the two minute penalty window. At the end of two minutes, it was still 6-4. Go figure.

Finally with about five minutes left in the game we notched a fifth goal. Then inside the three minute mark we tied up the score at six each. Our opponents didn't give up. They rallied back and spent the majority of my next shift in our zone. It's a nervous time to be a defenseman with two minutes left in a tied game. Essentially it's sudden death at this point. I managed to block a pass intended for the open side of our net which even if I'm humble would have been a goal without my intervention. Instead it tipped wide and behind the net off my stick. The intended recipient of this pass is another old guy. Despite having had a heart attack after one game and slowing down a little, he's still got more skills moving and shooting the puck than anyone over fifty should be allowed.

I pressured him at the side of the net, knowing that someone was moving up behind me. He'd want to pass it back in front of the net for the potential game winning goal. When he did I was momentarily pleased to get my stick on his pass. I say momentarily because while I prevented the puck from going to the man he intended, I ended up making it a better play than he possibly could have. Hockey is so often like this. You think, yes! I made a great play, then turn around and realize that it was actually a calamity.

Our goalie had taken away the entire net away from the player my opponent intended to pass it to. Unfortunately, my deflection sent that infernal vulcanized-rubber disc across the front of the net. There, the second guy simply, and without a trace of reverence, placed the puck in our net.

I was dejected as I looked up and saw there were less than two minutes for us to draw back even. My first thought was to head to the bench where I would hang my head in shame. Certainly someone more qualified to put the puck in their net should be on the ice. Instead, as our best forwards lined up, I gritted my teeth, decided to score and stayed on the ice. (I should mention, there is a great deal more to actually scoring than simply deciding to do so . . . otherwise I would have six or seven goals every game).

The goal invigorated us. Apparently we didn't mind not winning nearly as much as we hated losing so we danced about their net, prodding at any weaknesses. At one point I crept up from my position, anticipating a scoring attempt. This went poorly as they took the puck and seeing me out of position, cleared it out of their end. With a mere twenty seconds remaining, our most talented player picked up the puck, roared back into the zone, shot . . . and hit the goalpost.

The puck bounced about in front of the net. No one could corral the thing until it took a hop in my direction. I shot low through traffic toward the part of the net the goalie wasn't covering. It skimmed the inside of the post and rolled to the back of the net. I looked at the clock. We were tied again and there were only 5.4 seconds left.

There is no overtime in our league. There is no shootout. We ended that game in a seven to seven tie. Had there been a shootout, I would not have gone out to shoot until almost everyone else had. Would I have scored? Who knows? I've scored in three games now on three shots. But the shootout is another animal and I'm sure the goalie knows both of my breakaway/shootout moves . . . I'm kidding, I only have one move move.

But I digress. The reason I won't be changing my name to Clutch McHockey is simple. It's a stupid name.