It was March 2014, and my self-imposed deadline loomed: Take enough figure skating classes to learn how to spin and then switch back to hockey skates.
But I hesitated. My love of hockey had not diminished, and my development as a skater had continued. Spinning was as much fun as I had imagined, but I wasn’t sure that skill really translated to hockey. Stopping skills definitely did, but they still eluded me. I could stop by using the toe pick—which hockey skates do not have.
If I let the old voices win, then there was no way that I was going to trade in my figure skates: “You are 43 years old; you have a bad back and all of your teeth; and you can’t stop in hockey skates. Are you insane?”
Those voices had some valid points, and I had spent the last two months gabbing away with the figure skaters at Cabin John and elsewhere, doing my best to convince myself and them that I intended to be a part of that world. I was finding opportunities for ice dancing and other pair skating activities. I was meeting retired women who worked their edges on the ice with such deliberation that they called to mind Tai Chi enthusiasts in public parks and earned my enduring admiration.
I was keeping quiet about playing hockey, especially with my new figure skating acquaintances. Most friends and family had little experience with the game, and although the few I told were somewhat supportive, I knew they secretly hoped as they nodded encouragement that I would come to my senses.
For my scheme to have any legs at all, I needed to hear from someone who bought into my aspirations.
He had sharpened my figure skates right after I bought them. Now, I saw him around the rink, almost every time I was there. We chatted often.
“Edges still good?” he wondered one day.
“Absolutely!” I said.
He smiled, “My skates have been in storage for 15 years.” He saw me getting ready to ask why, and he changed the subject.
“Ice dancing does look like fun, though.”
I knew he used to play hockey. He had mentioned it, and the conversation had turned to various professional teams and people that he knew or used to know, towns where he had lived or places he had played.
“It does,” I said. I knew now I had a chance to be honest about my intentions, if they still were my intentions, which I had started to question given my deadline, my inability to stop, my back, my teeth, my age.
I blurted out: “But hockey looks even better. It looks like the most fun thing in the world.”
I stared at him, looking for any sign that he would not betray me with a laugh or, worse still, a patronizing “aren’t you cute” figurative pat on the head.
He smiled to his eyes: “Then you should play.”
He was serious, which encouraged me to become serious. I stopped being quiet and started telling others that I would play. As I did so, I heard new voices, louder and more numerous than the old ones. I was ready to listen.