As soon as my first Portsmouth Pirates soccer season ended, it was time to fulfill my dream of playing ice hockey. There were ice hockey rinks everywhere in Rhode Island, two of them just on Aquidneck Island alone, and ice hockey was huge in New England. You could find everything from learn-to-skate programs to the most elite leagues, and they played all year long.

In the fall of 1996, the moment soccer season ended, I signed up to play beginner ice hockey. I had no equipment at all, so the first thing we had to figure out was how I would get fully equipped to dominate the ice. We waited until the last minute to find gear, and the day before the first practice, my father and I were on a mission to Play It Again Sports. We were armed with an extensive checklist of all the required equipment and started poring over the shelves of “gently used” sports equipment. Since we waited until the last minute, we didn’t have a lot of options and were committed to whatever they had in stock. I tried on all the different gear, not really knowing what we were looking for, and generally chose the cheapest stuff we could find somewhere near my size. After several hours, with the store about to close, we checked out, and I was the proud owner of a new hockey wardrobe.

Before my first session, I still didn’t really know the protocol for how to get dressed in all the equipment, and I was a bit nervous about doing it in public. There is a whole order of operations that must be followed while putting on hockey equipment, and I was not well-versed in it.

I elect to get fully dressed at home, don skate guards, and travel to the rink ready to jump out of the car and slap some pucks. I have a black mesh jersey that is fairly see-through, shoulder pads that are embarrassingly small, pants that are way too big, and socks that don’t match anything. Once I get my gear on, I look like an extra from Mad Max, and it is obvious that it’s my first day. We get to the rink, and I try to mimic what everyone else is doing so I can blend in. My Mad Max ensemble does not allow me to blend in.

I walk through the bench, hold firmly onto the boards, and with a timid first step, put my skates gently on the ice. The warmup is just skating a few laps around the ice, and I can manage this because it feels close enough to street hockey. I adapt to the slippery surface but need to keep pulling up my pants, which are continuously falling down. Wearing thick padded gloves and holding a hockey stick makes keeping my pants up a full-time job.

Shortly after, the coach lines us all up on the boards. Everyone skates over and does a hockey stop to get into position, spraying ice up into the air. I skate over, and it dawns on me that I have no idea how to do a hockey stop on the ice.

I figure it can’t be that hard and give it my best shot. I attempt a quick 90-degree turn, catch an edge, and crash into a few people already in line, who then fall on top of me as I smack into the boards. Fortunately, nobody is hurt, and I shake it off. We do all the different skating drills: forward, backward, sideways, hockey stops, sharp turns. I fall at least a thousand times. I am a total embarrassment, but I love every minute of it.

The next day at home, I suit up in my Mad Max ensemble with my inline skates and practice all of the many skills I was deficient at during the ice session the day before. I skate back and forth for hours in the driveway, and I am determined to learn as much as I can on my own because I know that ice time is precious. Day after day, I suit up and run drills after school and on the weekends. Every time I get back on the ice, I notice improvements and only need to slightly tweak my techniques from the inline skates. My parents notice my hard work and have no doubt that I will stick with ice hockey, so they slowly replace my Mad Max gear with properly fitting new gear. I am starting to look like a real hockey player.

My dad shares my passion for ice hockey, and I love bonding with him over the sport. I get NHL ’95 for Sega Genesis, and my dad and I have heated matches every night. He gets season tickets to the Providence Bruins, and we go together to most of their home games. My favorite player is Aaron Downey. He is from Canada, and he is an absolute savage. They use him mostly as a weapon and only break the glass when absolutely necessary. When he goes on the ice, he hurls his body at the opponents, not to get the puck, but to send a message. This almost always incites a riot, and as a skilled boxer, his opponents are usually on the ice in seconds. The crowd erupts as he is often ejected from the game to a standing ovation.

That next summer, I get to join a summer hockey league and be on an actual team. My first hockey coach is a bodybuilder who looks like an action figure, and I look up to him a lot. He is super supportive and encouraging of everyone on the team. After our first game, he calls our house and asks to talk to me. He tells me how proud he is of me for all the effort I put into the game and that he appreciates how much I hustled. It is the best call I’ve ever received.

In November of 1997, I try out for my first travel hockey team, the Newport Whalers. At this point, I have all the right gear. I can skate forward and backward. I can do a hockey stop, and I am ready. This is also the first league where there is checking and physical contact. I wouldn’t say I know how to properly check, but I skate around with reckless abandon and try to attack pretty much anyone who touches a puck. I know I am not close to being the most skilled player, but I am the most aggressive. I end up making the team, and I am ecstatic.

After making the team, we take team photos dressed in all our gear in front of a fake hockey rink backdrop. I send a photo to Bertie Boy, and he is so proud, but that photo will eventually become a symbol of nothing but heartbreak.