Read Online Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies by Charley Boorman - Free Book Online
Authors: Charley Boorman
Ads: Link
with a helmet and, of course, skates. Reggie looked impressed –
not with the way I was turned out, necessarily, but with what he called my ‘play-off beard’. Apparently the goatee I’ve cultivated
over the years is exactly what the players who reach the playoffs grow for the occasion, only in their case they keep it going
until their team gets knocked out. The teams that reach the finals often have guys on the ice with full beards, because once
they start growing, it’s bad luck to shave them off.
Oh, wow. I was so looking forward to this, although I wasn’t exactly feeling confident. Reggie was going to put me through
my paces with a bunch of kids, the youngest of whom was about seven years old. Seven. That’s nearly thirty (ish) years my
junior and this bore all the hallmarks of potential humiliation. I’d played field hockey when I was at school, but Mungo didn’t
think it would help much.
The kids were all whizzing about as if they’d been born onthe bloody ice and all I could do was try and keep up. I was nervous – ice hockey is the fastest team sport in the world, and
if you’ve seen it, you’ll know there is
always
a fist fight and the refs rarely get involved. It wasn’t fist fights I was worried about right then, however; it was getting
around. I’m not bad on roller blades, but on the ice – kitted out like the Incredible Hulk and with a hockey stick and the
puck to worry about too – I was slipping and sliding all over the place.
The basics of the training involved ‘carrying’ the puck around the circles on the ice and shooting at the goal. By carrying,
Reggie meant working it from side to side with the stick, moving in a circle. Having Reggie there to coach was a help, and
I began to get better. I’d been doing it one-handed, but that was all wrong – you needed two hands on the stick at all times,
and Reggie insisted I learn how to carry the puck properly. The most important thing he told me was that far from being a
hindrance, the stick was actually a help. He showed me how to use it to balance, and I started to get the hang of it, skating
over the ice, working the puck from side to side before I let fly and hammered it beyond the goaltender. A goal! I’d scored
a goal! Of course I celebrated like a true pro, sliding across the ice on my belly to smack up against Mungo’s knees.
Really, I wasn’t half bad … in a sprint for the puck with a seven-year-old boy I came second, which, despite the fact that
there were only two of us, wasn’t that terrible. Yes, I was a little slower than the kids, but I was in control, sort of.
I did spend quite a bit of time on my knees, and that was before we started going backwards. Again it was a child half my
size who showed me the way, easing his skates back and forth behind him and dragging the puck along. He made it look so simple,
and yet when I had a go I sort of shuffled and fell again.
Reggie tried to offer some encouragement by telling me that the seven-year-old who’d whipped my butt in the sprint had been
skating since he was about three and was now one of the top players in the area for his age. That was all right then, at least
I had an excuse. The girls were all better than me as well – up until the age of thirteen they trained with the boys, so I
imagined they could hold their own in a fist fight.
One of the most difficult exercises was working the puck around a cone signifying another player. That was when I went down
the hardest. I tried again and again and kept hitting the ice with my chin no matter what. The difficulty was moving from
a forward motion to a backward one after pivoting on the skates. We played a mock game and I did all right, though I fell
over quite a bit. By the time we were finished I really was exhausted. I’d completely lost all my energy and these kids were
skating rings around me. Before I’d gone out on the ice I’d had no idea how energy-sapping
not with the way I was turned out, necessarily, but with what he called my ‘play-off beard’. Apparently the goatee I’ve cultivated
over the years is exactly what the players who reach the playoffs grow for the occasion, only in their case they keep it going
until their team gets knocked out. The teams that reach the finals often have guys on the ice with full beards, because once
they start growing, it’s bad luck to shave them off.
Oh, wow. I was so looking forward to this, although I wasn’t exactly feeling confident. Reggie was going to put me through
my paces with a bunch of kids, the youngest of whom was about seven years old. Seven. That’s nearly thirty (ish) years my
junior and this bore all the hallmarks of potential humiliation. I’d played field hockey when I was at school, but Mungo didn’t
think it would help much.
The kids were all whizzing about as if they’d been born onthe bloody ice and all I could do was try and keep up. I was nervous – ice hockey is the fastest team sport in the world, and
if you’ve seen it, you’ll know there is
always
a fist fight and the refs rarely get involved. It wasn’t fist fights I was worried about right then, however; it was getting
around. I’m not bad on roller blades, but on the ice – kitted out like the Incredible Hulk and with a hockey stick and the
puck to worry about too – I was slipping and sliding all over the place.
The basics of the training involved ‘carrying’ the puck around the circles on the ice and shooting at the goal. By carrying,
Reggie meant working it from side to side with the stick, moving in a circle. Having Reggie there to coach was a help, and
I began to get better. I’d been doing it one-handed, but that was all wrong – you needed two hands on the stick at all times,
and Reggie insisted I learn how to carry the puck properly. The most important thing he told me was that far from being a
hindrance, the stick was actually a help. He showed me how to use it to balance, and I started to get the hang of it, skating
over the ice, working the puck from side to side before I let fly and hammered it beyond the goaltender. A goal! I’d scored
a goal! Of course I celebrated like a true pro, sliding across the ice on my belly to smack up against Mungo’s knees.
Really, I wasn’t half bad … in a sprint for the puck with a seven-year-old boy I came second, which, despite the fact that
there were only two of us, wasn’t that terrible. Yes, I was a little slower than the kids, but I was in control, sort of.
I did spend quite a bit of time on my knees, and that was before we started going backwards. Again it was a child half my
size who showed me the way, easing his skates back and forth behind him and dragging the puck along. He made it look so simple,
and yet when I had a go I sort of shuffled and fell again.
Reggie tried to offer some encouragement by telling me that the seven-year-old who’d whipped my butt in the sprint had been
skating since he was about three and was now one of the top players in the area for his age. That was all right then, at least
I had an excuse. The girls were all better than me as well – up until the age of thirteen they trained with the boys, so I
imagined they could hold their own in a fist fight.
One of the most difficult exercises was working the puck around a cone signifying another player. That was when I went down
the hardest. I tried again and again and kept hitting the ice with my chin no matter what. The difficulty was moving from
a forward motion to a backward one after pivoting on the skates. We played a mock game and I did all right, though I fell
over quite a bit. By the time we were finished I really was exhausted. I’d completely lost all my energy and these kids were
skating rings around me. Before I’d gone out on the ice I’d had no idea how energy-sapping
Similar Books
