The Stick Pile
By Kevin Ryan
I started playing hockey again. It’s been about 10 years since the last time I played, and nearly 30 since I played competitively. I’ve dipped in and out of hockey for a good portion of my life. It always seems to appease some sort of need. I don’t know what has drawn me back to it this time. I’m not clawing my way back from an injury, or healing from some emotional pain that forced me away from it. But I think I need something from it now.
I.
My parents had me on skates not long after I was walking and I got a hand-me-down stick from my cousin when I was five. While skating, stick handling, and shooting were important skills to develop as a young hockey player, learning to tie my own skates was a right of passage, like learning to ride a bike or getting a first car. With it came independence, and an opportunity to belong to something that wasn’t dictated by adults.
Battle Creek Park was three blocks from the house I grew up in on the East Side of St. Paul, Minnesota. I passed by it twice every day on the school bus. Anticipation would begin to build once school started in the fall and the baseball fields at the park were chalked over with football lines.
Then, in mid-November, the wooden boards would appear arranged in an oval outline on a small corner of the park. As the days became colder, I might catch a lone worker holding the end of a fire hose, steam rising from the nozzle, spraying water side to side, like an artist painting the grass and dirt, transforming that oval outline into a hockey rink.
When I was 10, I played my first game as part of an organized team (the Battle Creek Squirts) on that rink during a brutally cold winter day. After the game, I sat in the locker room watching my teammates bawl while their parents removed their skates. Moms and dads furiously rubbed their hands together before cupping their children’s feet to soothe the pain, as feeling pinned and needled its way back into their toes.
I was sympathetic but confused because my own feet were fine. Years later, I discovered the thing that saved me from a similar fate: I had to tie my own skates. Unlike my teammates, whose parents cinched up their skates nice and tight, I wasn’t strong enough to tie my own skates so tight that they cut off circulation. I remember trying to force some tears and fabricated whimpers, in an attempt to show solidarity. But I couldn’t do it. I was consumed by my excitement, proud to be part of a team.
There was more to hockey than playing on an organized team. I’d often walk the few blocks from my house to the rink, stick and skates slung over my shoulder, usually trudging through various depths of snow. Often I’d make the trek by myself, or with my younger brothers. Other times, I’d join a gang of kids from the neighborhood. Sometimes, on our way we’d digress for impromptu wrestling matches or to build snow forts.
A few times, feeling emboldened by the strength of our numbers, or the confidence knowing that you could run faster than at least one of the other kids, someone would throw a snowball at a passing car. If the car kept going, we’d taunt the driver to come back, bristling with the anticipation of a chase. If the car slammed on its brakes, sliding on the snow and ice-covered street, we scrambled like rats in different directions, giggling as we dove behind snow banks, hid behind trees, or ran home.
When we got to the rink, we’d lace up our skates and pile our sticks at center ice, where someone would go about dividing us into teams by tossing the sticks onto either side of the red line. We’d collect our sticks, dump the puck, and play nonstop until the teams dwindled, kids dropping off one by one because they were tired, or cold, or because they had to go home for dinner. Often another wave of kids would come and we’d just keep playing, throwing sticks in the middle of the ice again to make new teams and start a new game.
There were no coaches, no face-offs, no whistles, no referees, and no time limits. We were free of organized rules, governed only by common knowledge and social bonds. We learned to pass, read the plays, and anticipate proper positioning. We learned that no one will remember your hot dogging if your team doesn’t win. We learned that you stick up for your teammates, even if it’s against your best friend who is playing on the other team. We learned when to fight and when to skate away. We learned that sometimes the ice is garbage or too crowded, and it's better to go inside the rec center to play floor hockey, because although it’s not skating, it’s still hockey.
We also learned about life at that rink. We learned about hierarchy and where we fit into the pecking order. We learned about the rules of conflict and consequences when we broke those rules. We also learned that the rules could be malleable and indiscriminately enforced by the older boys despite our complaints (which were considered “whining” and usually ignored).
We learned about other kids. Some whose parents, we decided, loved them more than our parents loved us because they’d get picked up from the rink in a nice warm car. And we’d notice the kids who were there every day until the lights were turned off. Not because they loved hockey as much as us, but because the rink, even with its disagreements and fights, was a safer place than home.
Hockey followed me as I grew, and in high school I chased it, thinking it could offer me salvation from my adolescent suffering. Despite my protests, my parents sent me to a strict Catholic high school. As a sophomore, I was a small, quiet kid with a funny haircut and few friends, a combination which to other teenagers signaled uselessness. I was convinced I could turn that around if I made the hockey team. I could prove I had more to contribute than simply being fodder for the pack’s cruelty. I could become part of a team again.
I had a great tryout, making it to the final day. Compared to the other guys still left I was smaller, but faster. Rushing into corners is one of the more physical parts of the game, and often favors the larger player. It’s common for fearlessness and stupidity to be indistinguishable by teenage boys, so I’m not sure if one would consider this a skill, but I plowed into corners with aggression and little regard for my own well-being. I thought I had a pretty good shot at making the team, but was ultimately cut.
A few days later, I was hanging out with my friend and former teammate talking about the tryout, and his mom overheard that I hadn’t made the team. Unsolicited, she somehow got the coach's number and gave him a call. My friend told me he listened as his mother laid into the poor guy, going on a tirade about nepotism, legacy picks, and the injustice of a system she said favored kids from the “right families” whose last names had emblazoned the backs of the school’s hockey jerseys for generations.
With no team, I joined The East Side Junior Gold (formerly The East Side Midgets), a group of outcasts and misfits. Kids that hadn’t made their high-school teams, like me, and others who were ineligible because of poor grades or behavior problems. The coach, Wes Barrette, was an East Side hockey legend, a bricklayer by day and dispenser of tough love on the ice (with an emphasis on love).
We were a strong but eclectic group of individuals, each of us with a chip on his shoulder and nothing to lose. We struggled to coalesce as a team, often fighting during practice. We refused to listen to Wes, believing we knew it all, and became increasingly frustrated with our persistent losing streak. With endless patience, Wes told us that when we were tired of losing as individuals, he would guide us to becoming a team making no promises other than that we could start having fun. Stubbornly, we started to come around.
Wes entered us into a tournament in Thunder Bay, Ontario. The team groaned that if we couldn’t even notch a win against the Minnesota teams we were playing, we were sure to get mopped up by the Canadians. But Wes wasn’t focused on us winning or losing, understanding that a six hour bus ride and strategic room assignments can force even the surliest of teenagers to find some common ground.
We played well, advancing to the final round of the tournament, but fell behind to a Canadian team in the championship game. Their hard-nosed physical play matched ours, and they ended up taking a sizable lead, which led to squabbling and a couple of fights. After the game, a few of the guys from the other team were waiting for us in the parking lot, and we prepared for another fight. Instead, they invited us to a party and offered to pick us up at our hotel.
Turns out, just like us, they were a team of rejects and misfits. But they showed us that a team is more than just a bunch of guys who play together. They looked out for each other off the ice too. We returned home from that weekend changed. Wes whipped us into a team, and we became affectionately known as Wesy’s Boys. I was finally part of a team again. We went on a run, winning a majority of our remaining games, and qualified for the state tournament.
I transferred schools the next year and decided not to return to The East Side Junior Gold after making the hockey team at my new school. That same year, many of my former East Side teammates, led by Wes, had an incredible season and won the state tournament. I have no regrets about not playing for Wes again, but of all the teams I played on before and after, none ever measured up to being one of Wesy’s Boys.
GALLERY: The author (circled in red) and his Minnesota hockey team during the 1986-87, 87-88, and 88-89 seasons.
II.
By the end of 1998, I had been in L.A. less than a year, but I was done with that town. The girl I moved there for had dumped me and I was barely scraping by, commuting an hour each way to my call center job with the cable company where I’d spend eight hours getting verbally abused by customers. I figured there was a better way to spend my time breathing, but I wasn’t sure where to go. So I packed up and pointed toward Minnesota, thinking I would see what I could make happen somewhere in between.
I stopped over in Vail, Colorado, to visit some pals from high school who were ski-bumming for the winter. They convinced me to stay for a week to snowboard and do what a bunch of directionless 24-year-olds with seasonal jobs do in a ski town. After that week, I ended up getting one of those seasonal jobs and planned to stay until the mountain closed in the spring.
It wasn’t long before we found Dobson Arena, which hosted two drop-in hockey sessions per week. It had been about seven years since I last played but stepping onto the ice again brought a rush of familiarity. It only took a few long strides to remind my muscles what they were doing. My breathing evened out and I felt light, connected, and sure of myself. Here, I knew who I was, where I was from. I would always have this, no matter where I was.
There was an element of competition living in a mountain town that felt unnatural to me. I often had this underlying feeling that I didn’t quite belong or wasn’t doing it right because sometimes I missed a powder day or the big après party. I didn’t want to “work hard and play hard,” because it never felt like it was something I was doing for me. But I played into the expectation and began to lose track of it all.
The seduction of living in a mountain town is that it’s easy to convince yourself you're thriving without really doing anything. Snowboard, work, party. Actual ambitions can wait until tomorrow. Don’t get me wrong, I embraced this, because it was a spectacular escape from having to make real decisions about my life. But the amusement of it all eventually wore off. I found that hockey kept me grounded and connected to different people who, like me, used it to take a break from the fantasy-like lifestyle that many of us were living.
There were the old locals, Bob and Gary, who played college hockey back east in the 70s and loved to come out and “play with the youngsters.” The four Russians, all former professional fighters, who arrived in Vail on seasonal work visas and collectively decided they wanted to learn how to play.
There was Pittsburgh Paul, New York Rich, and Colorado Connor, who lived in Vail but worked month-long stretches on the oil rigs in Wyoming and North Dakota. Jen, who loved skiing, moved out from Wisconsin to take a job as a geologist and picked up hockey as a way to meet new people. Then there was Toni, who introduced me to climbing and was just adding hockey to her quiver of sports. And my two younger brothers were there too, having arrived in Vail from Minnesota shortly after me, looking for a change of scenery.
Then there was this guy, a behemoth of a man with a grizzled gray beard partially covering what appeared to be old battle scars. He showed up a few times and was a decent player, but pretty chippy for such a low-key skate.
One afternoon he picked a fight with my younger brother Dan, who was half his size, grabbing his jersey and jerking him around. Acting on instinct (because sense would have made me think twice), I leapt from the bench, jumped on this monster's back, and wrestled him to the ground. He was incensed, but the old locals and New York Rich stepped between us, holding the monster at bay. After a litany of choice words, he left in a huff, punching the boards and slamming doors along the way.
In the locker room afterwards, Bob, one of the old locals, shook his head saying to Dan and me, “That guy’s a jerk, but you two are idiots... Do you know who he is?” Dan and I shrugged. He said some name that escapes me now and paused, expecting us to raise our eyebrows with concern. Our blank looks begged elaboration, so Bob went on. “He played for the Detroit Red Wings in the 80s. I guess he was one of their goons and kind of a nut case. He wasn’t a guy to fuck with back then, apparently. Probably not a guy to fuck with now.”
That kind of thing happens every once in a while. A guy shows up needing to feel the tension of his glory days. It ruffles some feathers, but no one usually gets hurt. It’s just part of the game, as they say.
A couple of years later, the ski-bum lifestyle lost its luster, so I moved to Boulder for college. I continued to play hockey while going to school and even worked as a Zamboni driver for a stretch. But after graduation, as I began to travel more and chase new experiences, it seemed like I needed space, and some of those familiar things in my life were pushed to the side.
III.
I’m about 20 minutes early for the drop-in hockey session I signed up for, so I recline and sip coffee from my battered green Stanley thermos while listening to some Sunday morning blues program on the radio. The DJ goes on about the cold snap and says the temperature in Denver today will “hover around zero,” but the sun, which has just crested Big Bear Ice Arena’s roof, lights up the parking lot and warms my face as it and shines through the windshield of my truck.
From the outside, most ice arenas are unassuming buildings, characterized by their utilitarian design, spacious parking lots, and, usually, an insignificant sign that identifies them as ice arenas. But Big Bear is unique, having been repurposed from a U.S. Air Force aircraft hanger originally nicknamed “The Black Shack” because of its use as a highly sensitive equipment training facility.
The arena sits on a sliver of what was once the Lowry Air Force Base on the eastern edge of Denver. Sitting in the parking lot, I glimpse a billboard advertising the “starting at” prices of the surrounding condos, which makes me ponder how things might have been different if I had tried to wrangle the persistent restlessness of my youth. What if I had settled down, been less curious, less reckless with my time and money?
I begin filing through my catalog of experiences and notice how hockey has been this bookmark of sorts for certain periods in my life. It surfaces as this reminder of where I’ve been and who I’ve become.
A couple of kids, maybe seven or eight, burst out of the arena’s front door, parents in tow. They’re wobbling under the weight of the hockey bags slung over their shoulders while fumbling with their sticks, slapping at a chunk of ice, trying to play keep away in the parking lot.
I can’t say for sure why I decided to play hockey again now, but I know I need something from it, like all those other times. I’ve been playing all my life, so it’s not new, but there’s a novelty to it each time I step on the ice. It’s also one of those things that connects me to my younger self, so I play to show him that I still can. And that younger self reminds me that while I’m older and slower, I still belong out there.
I don’t know the names of the other players, so in my head I give them nicknames based on their most conspicuous characteristics. There’s the Canadian Dangler who could stick-handle his way out of a paper bag. Angry Old Guy has a permanent smirk, a wicked wrist shot, and sometimes plays goalie. There’s also 60 Gray, 58 Bald, and Curly Red. Talking Ted tells his comeback story every week, usually to the unsuspecting new guy, of how he broke his leg snowboarding and didn’t think he’d “ever play hockey again.” And then there's the crew of twenty-somethings from Minnesota, who said they moved out to Colorado to be ski-bums.
I find myself between a conversation on the bench during one drop-in session. Curly Red, a tinge of southern in his voice, leans around me to chat with 60 Gray, “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”
60 Gray chuckles. “Yeah, I took a puck to the ankle a few weeks back. My 60-year-old body just doesn’t heal like it used to.”
“60?” says the younger guy. ”Well shit, I hope I can skate as well as you when I’m 60.”
Me too, I think, before it dawns on me that 60 is little more than 10 years away.
But I’m finding that the more I play, the less it seems to matter how well I skate when I’m 60. Actually, it doesn’t really matter to me how well I skate now. I’ve got nothing left to prove, and no glory days to relive. I just love to play.
Kevin Ryan is a writer and photographer based in Denver, Colorado. When not writing, he enjoys fishing, writing songs no one will ever hear, and traveling mostly near, but sometimes far. Explore more of Kevin’s work on his website.
