Hockey Playoffs, California Style

By Dick McCullough

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I am an adult. An old, slow, inflexible adult. And I play ice hockey. In California. Playing ice hockey in California as an adult has all the excitement and drama (and fights) of the NHL. The only thing missing is skill. Oh, and fitness. But other than that, it's exactly the same thing (almost).

I'm also a goalie. People who don't play hockey, and some who do, often think the goalie just stands there. If that's true, standing is the most exhaustive exercise I've ever done, and I used to run marathons. I'm literally drenched after every game.

My hockey team made the playoffs last winter. Which isn't saying much. Everybody makes the playoffs in my league. But we won our first game and then we had the semifinals. We were the third seed, playing the second seed.

You know you're in the playoffs when you see forwards back check. During the regular season, I didn't see forwards often enough to recognize them in the locker room. But playoff hockey is special. Both teams were hustling on every shift. Just like the NHL but in slow motion.

I know the other goalie and he's good. A young kid right out of junior, probably 19. Athletic, flexible, skinny. I hate guys like that. Probably because I am none of the above.

In the first period a centering pass careens off an opposing defenceman skate (I spell defencemen like a Canadian so you'll think I'm a good hockey player) onto the stick of a surprised forward who was staring into an empty net. My guy manages not to fall down and stuffs it in. Junk but it counts. We take a 1-0 lead going into the second.

I'm happy for the lead but I know it won't stand up. But everyone takes care of business and we go into the third, still ahead 1-0. I start thinking about a tie game and a shoot out. The only other time I was in a shoot out, it was the finals of my first season as a goalie. I didn't make one stop and we, of course, lost. I was humiliated. I didn't want to face some teenager built like a Gumby doll in a shoot out. I tried not to think about that.

Third period was pretty much like the second. No big defensive gaffs. Some good chances on both ends. But, unbelievably, nobody scores and we win 1-0! I get a shut out for the first time in several seasons and we advance to the finals. I consider having the words "Patrick Roy" tattooed on my butt.

A week later we played the finals against the number 4 seed. They had beaten the number 1 seed 5-2 the weekend before. Again, playoff hockey. I actually see my own forwards in my end on occasion. Incredible. I'm not used to seeing this and it seems to throw me off. It's disorienting.

We are clearly superior at all positions except perhaps in net. Their goalie makes several really good saves. All the pressure is in their end but the score is still 0-0. Then we score first on a very soft goal. The puck bounces off the opposing goalie's glove and barely dribbles over the line. We are jubilant.

Shortly afterwards, their best player takes the puck on a tour of our end, starting at the blue line, circling around my net, past both face off dots and then buries a wrist shot, short side, just inside the post. 1-1.

We score, 2-1. They score, 2-2. We score. They score.

My guys finally figure out that we are going to need to score a lot of goals if we want to win since I am apparently determined to keep it close.

I make a mental note to cancel my appointment with the tattoo artist.
But my guys work their bums off and score three more. We win the league championship 6-3! Yahoo!
Maybe I'll get that Patrick Roy tattoo after all.

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