I’m bubbling in my skin, jumpy with excitement and anticipation at what I’m doing this coming Tuesday morning.
For the first time in ages – 32 years actually – I’m going to play hockey! On ice! With a real puck, helmet and even a stick! Yaaaahooo! I’ve been looking around for a chance to play hockey for ages.
Hanging out on the same forum where I stumbled upon a chance to play fake American pizza baker, I found a query about where to play ice hockey in Hamburg. A couple of messages and phone calls later, I’m set up to go Tuesday morning at 8.
Back then, a friend coaxed me into joining him at a weekly game.
“C’mon man,” he said. “You can ski like a pro, and anyone who can ski like you do can skate.”
So we jumped into a van to a rink 50km away, where I borrowed skates, pads, helmet and stick, skated onto the ice, and within five seconds slammed flat on the ice.
I got up, tried to balance – blood splotching the ice – flopped onto the boards, and struggled to the bench.
A guy looked over at me and says: Hey buddy, yer nose is bleed’n’ sump’n’ broodle.
Turns out I actually broke it, but didn’t realise it until eight years later at a routine medical exam.