2 Old To Play 2 Games

For those of you new to this website, I play hockey with a terrific group of fellas, and we call ourselves Dawg Nation. Dawg Nation is comprised of four teams:

Young Dawgs- A group of kids, all in their teens and twenties, that play in a very high level league during the summer. Believe it or not, I don't get to play on that team. I know-it's an outrage.

Dawgs I- A fun combo of young and old, ranging anywhere from 19 to my old ass at 52. We play in the highest league offered at the Edge Ice Arena (B level at most places), and we're good and competitive. In fact, we won the whole shootin' match last year, and got to skate around with the Edge Cup, which for me was better than sex. Here I am after we won.


I dry humped it- nobody wanted to touch it after that

Dawgs II- A little older group of boys (almost all over 40), that play in the next level down. They've been very successful- they also won last season, which we called the Dawgs Double. I don't play on that one either- a great kid named Bryan patrols the crease for them.

Old Dawgs- We just started it this winter. It's an over 40 league, and the level of play is quite a bit slower than any of the others. But it's a really nice group of guys who just come out to get some exercise and hang out with dudes their own age. We combined a few old Dawgs I players, a lot of Dawgs II, and some new guys to make this squad up. I wasn't expecting much, but it's been a total kick in the ass so far. Not because of the actual hockey, but socially it's been great.

So we had an Old Dawgs game the other night, and I got a pretty good workout. You see, on both Dawgs teams that I play on, to put it mildly we don't actually put a ton of emphasis on defense. Our defensemen really enjoy skating deep into the offensive zone, which leaves us open for the counterattack, and can result in extra goals given up by your little pal.

I stopped worrying about that shit a long time ago. Sure, the competitive prick in me wishes that we would play it a little more conservatively sometimes, especially when we're trying to hold a lead late in the game. But that's just the way we roll, and all I can do is try my hardest to keep the puck out of my net. We have a lot of games that end up like 6-5.

So we ended up winning the Old Dawgs game 5-2, and I probably got around 30 shots for the game. Most of their chances were down low, so I stayed pretty busy, and was tired by the end. I'd like to think I put in a good night's work, and was ready to retire to the locker room, where we would drink some beers, laugh, fart and tell stories like only old people can.

However, just as I got off the ice, the captain of one of the teams from the next game approached. I've been playing long enough to know what was happening next: their goalie wasn't coming, and they needed somebody to play for them in ten minutes.

Fuck me.

The absolute last thing in the world I wanted to do was play another game. I hadn't slept well the night before, my knees were aching, and honestly, I wanted to drink a beer and bullshit with my friends. But I just couldn't let a team skate without a goalie- it would completely ruin the game for 30 guys, and I'd feel like a dickhead. So I reluctantly said okay.

I hadn't pulled a doubleheader in a long time, and I told the guys before the game not to expect a lot, because I was pretty worn out. One of them said, "Don't worry, none of our defensemen showed up tonight, so we're not expecting much at all."

Uh-oh...

I can see now why their goalie didn't show up. He probably discovered what kind of team he was going to have in front of him, and blew his fuckin' brains out rather than have to play that night.

Kids, it wasn't pretty. I started out fairly well, even though they spent most of the first ten minutes in our end. About halfway through the first, I got beat on a shot where I was completely screened. The bad part is that it was my guy doing the screening.

This happens all the time with guys that don't regularly play defense. They think the place to stand is directly in front of the goalie, and instead of challenging the shot, they just get in the way. I always yell, "Screen! Screen! Let me see it!", then after the puck goes in, they turn around and say, "Were you talking to me?". Why, yes. Yes I was, Bobby Orr.

Anyway, the flood gates pretty much opened after that, and we ended up losing 4-1. I played okay under the circumstances- the only fugly goal I let in was the last one, where I was just so tired that I let the puck get under my stick where it should have been an easy save. But the puck was in our end so much during the game, I think Roberto Luongo could have been the goalie, and they still would have lost. At least that's what I'm telling myself.

But your chubby little pal was one tired sumbitch afterwards. It was absolutely everything I could do to get my gear off and drive home. I tried to drink as much water as I could, but my calves kept cramping up, and I couldn't bend my fingers. I figured I was either dehydrated, or rigor mortis was setting in.

When I got home, I hung up my pads in the garage like I always do, and brought in my roll of clothes that I wear during the game, which includes a pair of sweatpants, socks, underwear (boxer briefs, so my cup doesn't chafe my taint meat) and an Under Armour shirt. When it's dry, the roll weighs maybe a pound.

That night it seemed heavier than usual. Just out of curiosity, I put the roll on the scale. It weighed seven pounds. Boys and girls, that's a whole lot of perspiration, tears and butt-gravy, even for a fat boy like me.

On the best days, I'm a walking question mark the morning after I play. It takes a little time and Advil to loosen up the old back and other parts. But the morning after the doubleheader, I could barely move. Not only was I walking like Quasimodo, both knees were killing me, and my calves were still cramping. It wasn't my favorite Friday morning.

So what did we learn? Well, I think it's finally time to admit that I can't play two games in a row anymore. I have an hour and a half in me, and that's about all there is. Three hours of hockey just isn't going to work. My brain might be saying, "Come on, body- we can do this!", but my body is now saying, "Uh, brain, how's about you go somewhere and fuck yourself?". It's time to listen to my body, even if it uses abusive language.

So I'm done with doubleheaders.

Of course, until the next time someone gets in a pinch. Then I'll play, because, you know, I'm an idiot.