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I was a little late getting out of the shop last night before my game. As the result, I was the last guy out of the room and onto the ice. The buzzer announced the end of warm-ups expiring just as my skates touched the ice. I sneaked in four or five laps of our half of the rink while the stray pucks were collected in Homer's Orange Bucket. It was almost enough skating to get the blood flowing a little faster, though not enough to warm any of my many stiff muscles.
As the dubious honor of team captain fell to me this season simply because I was the only guy willing to organize the team. I headed to our bench and was sorting out who would play where. It was slightly challenging due to the odd number of skaters. Ten or thirteen is perfect, we had eight when I left the locker room and nine when I hit the ice (thanks to a last second sub player). I'd set our defensive lines and was working on the offense when the linesman skated over and asked, "Who is your team captain tonight?"
"That's me." I answered, wondering who on the team was in trouble as officials don't generally invade the pre-game strategy meetings.
"We need to talk to you at center ice before we get started."
"OK." This was an interesting development.
I skated to center where the referee and Tom, the opposing team captain, waited.
I asked Tom, "Are we starting out with a team captain fistfight tonight?"
"I'm good with that." Tom replied, a disturbing grin on his face. He's a bit bigger, younger and does cross-fit. (Aside from hockey, the only exercise I've had time for lately is 12 ounce curls). My chances toe to toe with him were more dubious than the question of team captain being an honor.
The ref, apparently not one to mince words, told us, "Both of you are going to start the game in the penalty box."
In response to our obvious but unspoken pleas of innocence, he continued, "The rules clearly state that no one should enter the rink until the Zamboni door is closed. Both your teams were out here early tonight. You're serving bench minors and we'll start the game 4 on 4."
Tom protested mildly, "I was one of the last to leave the locker room."
I added, "I completely missed warm ups."
"It doesn't matter."
I sighed, "Tom, how about you go punch everyone on my team in the face and I'll go punch everyone on your team in the face?"
We decided not to do that, instead thanking our team for the two minute rest we'd get to start the game. Then we settled in for a couple minutes of lighthearted banter yelled back and forth between our glass cages.
"Your sub goalie said she'd spot us fifteen goals tonight."
"That's right, she was playing the night we beat you 15-1, right?"
"I was sick that night."
With this new time spent in in the sin bin I tied my personal best of four penalty minutes in a season. Maybe I'll have that fistfight next time Tom and I meet just to improve my penalty stats. I'm probably out of the running for the Lady Byng award this season anyway. Besides, Tom's the kinda guy who'd have a beer with me after the fight no matter who won.
Anyway, that's how you can take a penalty while you're still in the locker room. It also explains that whistle I heard while I was still lacing up my skates. Next week, I will see if I can find a way to serve a penalty for a team I don't play on . . . that might be challenging.
