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I never saw Jerry before he died. And, due to a domestic
dispute, I missed seeing Johnny Cash live, too. So when
the chance to be part of the first official Durango women's
traveling hockey team came up, I decided not to let history
pass me by again. When a desperate coach called me pleading
for warm bodies to fill the bench a few weeks before an
end-of-the-season tournament in Denver, I stepped forward.
Although I could think of a multitude of reasons  not
to go (aside from the fact that I had long since banished
my gear to the basement), there was one overwhelming reason
to go: the fact that, for once in my life, I would be
able to look back and say, "I was there, man." Years from
now, when my grandkids ask me why my teeth are chipped
or why I walk with a limp, I can regale them with tales
of how I heroically took a slap shot to the face mask,
did the human piledriver into the boards or fell so hard
on my ass that their kids will probably feel it.
So, even if we ended up
getting slaughtered worse than the girls who inevitably stall their
car on a dark, deserted road in a B horror movie (which several
naysayers said we would), it would still be a win-win
situation.
Unfortunately, even
before the team hit the ice, there was dissension. A consensus
could not be reached on the name, other than that the official one
the Durango Duranged sucked. Aided by a few beers in one of our
local taverns, a vocal minority decided a better name would be the
Duranghos, in the bawdy spirit of the game. As is often the case,
when the alcohol wore off, it was realized that the name (now
shortened to 'Hos) really wasn't that funny. But it was too late.
The Hos stuck for lack of anything better. Sure it was lewd, but so
are names like the Motherpuckers and Puck Ewes and at least this
one was original. Or so we thought until we showed up at
registration to find someone had stolen our idea and plastered it
all over "We Put the Ho'in Hockey" T-shirts.
We tried to shake it off
so as not to distract ourselves from focusing on our first game
which was somewhere inside a giant structure housing multiple
rinks, which on the Front Range are referred to as "sports
complexes." Unlike our dinky little "Sports Pavilion," which
consists of a snack bar, a few bleachers, tow bathrooms and one
rink, these sports complexes (which typically bear an obnoxious
corporate name as is all the rage these days) are ice skating's
answer to the Megamall. After driving around a massive perimeter
and walking from a nosebleed parking spot, one finds herself
surrounded by a strange and surreal world of Plexi-glass, freon and
glitz. The particular complex that hosted us consisted of three
Olympic-sized rinks, one of which blared Ted Nugent's "Cat Scratch
Fever" while hopeful young Tara Lipinskys and Brian Boitanos
practiced toe loops and sit spins. There also was an espresso shop;
a pro shop complete with carbon fiber sticks, blue-sequined
leotards and skates that cost more than my entire set-up; and, much
to our delight, a real, live sports bar (which we would later learn
was a destination even for the nonskating public). Downstairs,
there was a maze of locker rooms (equipped with their own bathrooms
and showers), and access to the three rinks and their adjacent
stands for the screaming fans.
This was the big
time.
At least as big as you
can get playing in the "Plains" division. See, the teams in the
tournament were of varying skill levels and came from all over the
country. In an effort not to make any "C" players feel inadequate,
the teams were split into three ambiguous categories: Front Range,
Platte and Plains. It didn't take a genius (which for a hockey
player is anyone who can get his or her gear on right the first
time) to interpret that the "Plains" was the least skilled of the
groups, as in "can't get any lower," "nowhere to go but up,"
"devoid of any visual interest," "home to pig swill and cattle
slop." But, like the T-shirt fiasco, we took our basement-dweller
designation in stride, after all we were rookies. Besides, we
weren't just there to win, we were there to take part in history,
to build camaraderie with our fellow female hockey players and
represent the fine town of Durango.
Of course, this all was
conveniently forgotten once we took to the ice against a team from
Steamboat and realized we actually had a shot in hell at winning.
When the final buzzer sounded and we were on top, I dare say, we
even got a little cocky. With the refrain from "We Are the
Champions" resounding through our heads, we again took to the ice.
But, as is often the case in the fast-paced world of hockey, we
were soon eating our breezers as female Wayne Gretzkys skated
circles around us. I will not divulge the scores, only because I
lost count when they hit double digits. But, as I mentioned
earlier, that's not important. What's important is that when it was
all over, we skated off the ice with our heads held high and with
no profuse bleeding.
After a long drive home,
we arrived with nothing to show but some trashy magazines, empty
Frito-Lay bags and a roof-top box full of sweaty gear that was more
befitting crime scene tape than ticker tape. In fact, not only did
no one seem to care, but no one even seemed to notice. Summer had
arrived, and ice, cold and hockey were the furthest things from
people's minds. I lugged my bag of gear inside the house and gave
it a little drop kick down the cellar steps. I then let the trap
door slam shut, effectively closing the door on my personal chapter
in history at least for the time being. Perhaps the world was not
quite ready for the Hos, or vice versa. But whatever the case, in a
few short months, the call of garters, thigh-highs and black
lace-up boots would again beckon me to the cellar door, and then
there was no telling what sort of history would be made.
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