When discussing my attempts as a 40-something woman to play ice hockey, people, usually those who do not play, tend to ask if I like to fight and if I know how to skate. To the first, I can answer it depends; to the latter, I can say kinda, pointing out that I am learning that along with everything else. A common response is, “Oh, I could never do that,” followed by explanations of bad backs, long-ago/recent knee surgeries, potential broken bones, kid busy-ness, inability to skate, decrepitude, wrong gender, and so forth.
To those I sense might be interested but are intimidated, I counter these reasons: I have scoliosis; my skating coach had knee surgery; broken bones heal should they break at all; kids can skate with you; I’m older than you are; hockey is for everybody. The entire concept of hockey can be intimidating to anyone learning the game, especially to adults who have never skated before, don’t understand the gear, and are afraid of getting clobbered by unpredictable goons.
My success in encouraging the interested but skittish hasn’t been bad, probably because I totally understand the fear behind these questions. Being interested in hockey doesn’t mean I am not easily intimidated. I have been and continue to be intimidated by many things. But I have learned to go ahead and do most stuff anyway. This was much harder when I was younger and more concerned with looking dumb in front of record store boy, saying the wrong thing in front of comic book store guy, not understanding how my guitar pedals worked in front of other dude in the band, or answering questions incorrectly in front of hiring manager person.
We you get older and crankier, you also get used to finding a way through, sometimes by repeatedly handling it, whether job interviews or successfully picking out records, and sometimes through sudden epiphanies when what might have thrown you in the past instead holds you. Something like that happened for me on December 12 and 13, 2008.
One of my best friends, known here as Triathlete, has a schedule nearly as bad as mine. Getting to see her at all let alone attend a show with her that December 12 was in itself a small miracle. The fact that said show featured one of my musical heroes and was taking place in a Baltimore warehouse beautifully converted into an art space was more miracle. It was all getting to Holy See-documented by the end, when Ted Leo was as transcendent solo as in his band and when my friend and I had a chance to speak with him afterward. Seems her brother used to play in a band with him. Connections never hurt to start a conversation when you are prone to tongue-tied fangirldom.
That whole night could have been it and might have been enough, except for one thing: He did not play my favorite song. I emailed him about this the next day, because during his set he had talked about how challenging the previous year had been for him. I wrote that it had been intense for me as well, and I let him know that his album Hearts of Oak had been instrumental in getting me through it all, specifically a song called “2nd Ave., 11 a.m.” I thanked him for this and let him know I hoped to see his DC show that night.
There was a little problem with my plan: The show was sold out. It was in the club’s cozier Backstage space, and Leo has tons of DC ties and fans. Triathlete couldn’t join me, either. But, I decided to try anyway and got to the Black Cat right when it opened. I was reading Ulysses for book club, so I brought that along to keep me company, parked myself at the bar, and let the bartender know I was looking for tickets. He also was a huge Leo fan and had found himself in a similar ticketless boat at a Boston show that ultimately worked out for him. He was on the case, kept me well-supplied with Wild Turkey 101, and traded musical stories with me when he was free. Otherwise, I sat there reading, hoping, drinking, and finding the book making more and better sense.
The bartender did not let me down, and before I even fully comprehended my luck, I found myself Backstage, listening to Leo’s introductory patter. It was warm in that little space, as he tuned and then asked about the show the night before.
“So, was anybody in Baltimore last night?”
I was overwhelmed, a bit buzzed from last night’s magic, tonight’s ticket miracle, and the whiskey that was a more obvious factor now that I was standing and not reading. I let out one of the loudest “woos” ever in response.
I was the lone woo.
Now, maybe you are the sort of person who does this all the time, a bringer of show-going chaos who likes to yell “Free Bird” for no good reason, who banters with performers because you paid to be there, who never hesitates to throw the first punch.
I am none of those things. I felt at that moment that I was now the indie rock equivalent of a streaker. Was my face burning from the whiskey or the public humiliation? I didn’t know. I had belted out a response expecting it to be one of many, a cry echoed and supported by others equally enthusiastic in their adoration. Instead I heard my voice about as loud as it had ever been in a public place, all by itself.
Ever the consummate performer, Leo played it off. “Well, this is going to be the same set, so I hope you don’t mind.”
I was standing there trying to fathom how I could possibly be the only person in that room attending both shows when his comment wrenched me back into reality. Like Ralphie almost on his way down the Higbee Christmas slide, I had to salvage this. I had inadvertently made a spectacle of myself. I decided I wasn’t done.
“But wait,” I cried. Necks craned in the darkness, seeking the chaos-bringer.
I was undaunted: “Can you play ‘2nd Ave. 11 a.m.’?”
Leo stopped tuning, tapped his foot, put his right hand on his hip, looked into the audience shadows. “Did you email me?”
I was committed now. “Yes!”
He brought his right hand back to the strings, “You know, I was working on this earlier, trying to see if I could find a way. I’ve never done it solo, and I’m not sure. . .”
He stepped on a pedal, “Well, here it goes.”
And it did.
That ended up being just one of many highlights of two nights I will never forget, neither of which would have happened if I had been too fearful of looking foolish or of reaching out to my heroes. And that’s how this gets back to hockey. Setting aside the real yet manageable concern about getting hurt on the ice, I will translate what so many people who want to play but tell me otherwise are really saying: I am intimidated at the entire thought of making an idiot of myself out there.
That’s fair because you are partially right–learning how to play hockey is not pretty, and it usually happens in front of other people. No way around that fact. And I know players who make my head spin with their skills who cannot stand to watch themselves skate on tape. No matter how good we get, we will always look like idiots on the ice in our own eyes.
But you are wrong to let that intimidate you. Some of the best things that have ever happened to me have required me to get over myself, my fears, and my reclusiveness; to stop playing it cool inside my little walls, safe in the same, relaxed in routine; to choose to play the fool because sometimes that kind of vulnerability is the only way in and onto what you want.
As Leo says in my favorite song: “Oh, just open your door.”
And so years later, when hockey came into my life and I found that it was not going to be easy to do and that my critical, perfectionist self was going to be terrible for a very long time in front of many people, I knew better than to let myself get discouraged. I knew that however uncertain, confused, and exposed I might be as a new hockey player, like Molly Bloom in Ulysses, I would continue to say: “yes I said yes I will Yes.”