It’s a question that must be on the minds of goalies everywhere: do goaltending skills translate from sport to sport?  I decided to find out.

Fundamentally, goaltending in all sports is a matter of geometry and timing.  There are obvious differences in the projectiles, net dimensions, and game rules, but the basic idea remains the same: prevent the opposition from scoring by either catching or deflecting the shot.

My friend Tyler (of waterfall and grizzly bear fame) happened to be in New York for the week on business when I arrived in the City.  He had connections to the indoor soccer community from back when he lived there, so he thought that there might be a way to finagle me onto a field for at least a few minutes.

I arrived at Chelsea Piers in the evening.  I had played hockey at the Sky Rink earlier in the day; in my return, I was to experience the field house portion of the expansive complex.

On my walk over from my friend Travis’s apartment in the East 20s, I had stopped by Modell’s on Avenue of the Americas to pick up the only really specialized component in a soccer goalkeeper’s ensemble: gloves.  Fortunately, basic gloves can be had for under $20, so it was nothing like the bank-breaking experience of getting together my current set of hockey goalie kit.

Tyler was subbing for one of the teams playing that hour.  We reached an agreement with the team captain that if the score was decisive in the last few minutes of the game, they’d send me in.  It was not to be; the game was within one goal until an empty-netter was scored in the closing seconds.  I stayed on the sidelines.

Tyler, who actually is a soccer goalkeeper, makes a save on a shot by a celebrity (blue #12). Bonus points if you can identify the celeb.

We were left with a few minutes between the end of that game and the start of the following game.  It wasn’t much time, but it would be better than nothing.  I jogged to the goal and started taking shots.

Since we were on an indoor soccer field, there were immediate similarities to hockey: the field was the size of a rink and was bounded by boards.  There were differences beyond the obvious lack of ice: the goal was set into the back wall instead of being in front of it, the penalty area (where the goalkeeper is privileged) was far larger than the crease, and the net itself was much larger than a hockey net (though smaller than a field soccer goal).

Taking shots felt similar to hockey.  I had to think about angles, predict whether the shots would be high or low, and so on.

Although I wasn’t very aware of it in the moment, inspection of photos from the event shows that I executed the saves themselves in a hockey-esque manner.

Making a save. It kind of looks like I'm trying to butterfly. Note how my ankles are locked: it isn't possible or desirable to have much lateral flex in one's ankles while wearing skates, so my instinct apparently carried over to the turf. (Photo: Tyler)

When shots were low, I butterflied.  When shots were high, I moved into them as if to block with my chest (though in fact I used my hands).

The most notable carryover from hockey was in my feet.  In hockey skates, it isn’t possible or desirable to have one’s ankles bend laterally.  Shoes don’t have the same restrictions, but I think that instinct got the best of me: my ankles were locked in almost all of the photos I have of me playing that night.  It was as if I was trying to have my non-existent skate blades bite the ice.

Again, my trailing foot is not planted. I'm not sure what motivated me to move like this. If a similar shot were coming at me on the ice, I'd probably be using a butterfly slide, and for that my legs would be in entirely different orientations. (Photo: Tyler)

It was nice to have the object coming at me be so large.  A soccer ball appears as a circle about 8.5 inches in diameter.  Compare that to a puck, which, when properly shot, appears as a rectangle 1 inch by 3 inches.

I’m not sure how fast the balls were coming at me on the shots I faced, but they certainly seemed slower than the hockey shots I face on a regular basis.  I did notice the sound of the ball flying through the air more than I notice the sound of the puck doing the same.

So, how was it?  For the few minutes I was out there, it was fun.  Enough fun that I’d like to try it again — hopefully in an actual game.

“When are you going to Hawaii?” “So, are you doing Hawaii?” “Wait, they have ice rinks in Hawaii?”

Not only does ice hockey exist in Hawaii, I’m going to experience it first-hand!  I booked my flight this morning, and I’m going to be there November 12-16.

Anybody want to start a betting pool on how much extra United charges me for my hockey bag and sticks?

EDIT: Looks like I’ll have to make this trip “powered by Subaru” in only 49 of the 50 states, since you can’t rent Subarus in Hawaii. 🙁

NOTE: In this post, we skip ahead to Connecticut, but don’t worry Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island: I’m working on your posts, too.  I’m just going out of order for a bit.

Remember how the rules of the trip were simply that I be on the ice and make at least one save?  Or, more specifically, remember how I never said I needed to play an entire game?  Well, I had to use that loophole in Connecticut.

My plan had been pure genius: I would go into the belly of the Yale Whale and emerge with Connecticut checked off my list.  State number 30 would be glorious, I tell you; glorious!

The smile on my face got a big slap when I walked into the rink.

“No goalies allowed”

Ok, not really.  There was no sign, but there was another goalie.  He told me that the lunchtime skate registered its goalies ahead of time.  Both nets had already been spoken for.  Would he mind rotating, I asked?  No, he replied, and suggested that I come back some other day.

In Calgary, I capitulated, but I wasn’t on such a tight schedule back then.  I couldn’t wait another day in Connecticut, and it wasn’t clear that waiting another day would have gotten me a net anyway.  Thus, I did the only thing I could do: I played the trip card.

“See, I’m on this trip to play hockey as a goalie in every state and every province, and this was supposed to be my Connecticut stop.  I’m leaving for New York tomorrow morning.  Is there any way we could work something out?”

“Well…”

“Please?  As a favor from one goalie to another?”

“So you just need to play a little while?”

“Yeah, I just need to be on ice and make at least one save.”

“What if I give you my net for the first 10 minutes?”

“You’d do that?”

“Yeah, I mean, that trip does sound amazing, and we wouldn’t want Connecticut to be a black spot on the record.”

“Great!  Thanks!”

Bill, for that was the goalie’s name, looked to be pushing 50 and spoke in an assertive manner.  It was no surprise to learn that he owned a metal casting company specializing in lead.

In the dressing room, all of us skaters and goalies shared laughs and told lies of past glory.  It was a decidedly older crowd, but it’s amazing how sport has a way of melting away the years.

On the ice, I took warmups for a while and then guarded the net for real.  I could tell that something was wrong with the middle of my left skate blade, but I played hard regardless.  I was pretty solid.

The only goal came on a rebound.  The shot came from the high slot a bit left of center, near but not quite on the ice.  I flared my right leg out in a half-V near the top of the crease and made the pad save.  I directed the rebound way out to the right, but I had failed to check the destination first.  The puck went right to the stick of an attacker sitting in the face-off circle and he one-timed it.  Because of the mechanics of the half-V and my position in the paint, all I could do was dive across the crease, but the puck was in the net before I got over.

After 10 minutes of play, I slapped my stick on the ice a few times and looked at the bench where Bill was sitting.  He motioned for me to stay a bit longer, and I happily obliged.  Five more minutes went by before Bill hopped over the boards and skated to the net.

I tagged out and headed to the dressing room. It was a short skate, but it was enough to let me bag another state.

One of the great things about this trip is that I’ve been able to visit places that I didn’t know existed.  For example, before the trip, I was at best only vaguely aware of Prince Edward Island, but now not only do I know where it is, I can say I’ve been there!

They love three things in PEI: potatoes, the Confederation Bridge, and hockey.

The view from the driver's seat as I drove towards PEI on the Confederation Bridge. Hockey lay yonder!

I couldn’t believe how much hockey was in PEI.  Recall that it’s just a bit larger than Rhode Island in land area and has the population of a mid-sized suburb: 140,000 souls.  It’s remarkable, then, that almost 6% of the island residents are registered with the provincial hockey governing body, Hockey PEI.  Only 1% of Minnesotans are registered with the equivalent organization.

Consider, too, that there are 27 rinks in PEI, which works out to be the highest rinks-per-capita of any province.  That’s even higher than the rinks-per-capita value of Blaine, MN, which boasts 10 indoor sheets and a population of 57,000.

I’m not sure if I would have had trouble finding a game on the island, but fortunately, Wes did the legwork for me.  He very enthusiastically commented on my blog about hockey in PEI, and then he emailed me before I had a chance to respond to his comment.  He’d find me a game, he assured me, and he came through.

Wes normally organized his own pickup hockey group, but they weren’t going to be playing while I was in town, so he sent out feelers to his friends and their friends for other pickups and league games.  That’s how he came upon a team needing a goalie the first night I would be in town.

When I got to the rink, I found that not only was the team short a goalie, they were in need of more players in general.  There was much celebration when the sixth skater walked in about 15 minutes before the game, thus giving us a token sub on the bench.

Wes was at the rink to meet me in person, and when he saw how sparse the dressing room was, he casually offered to suit up and help with the effort; he had his gear with him in his car trunk.  I guess in Canada you never know when a hockey game is going to break out.  His proposal was gladly accepted.

Despite the numerous blank lines on the game roster, the skaters were in high spirits in the locker room, and it wasn’t just the beer.  The ages of the group ranged from mid-20s to early 40s, and the way the guys talked and skated implied extensive previous hockey experience. A couple guys worked in construction, and at least two more were farmers.  Wes and I were outliers of sorts, with our university degrees and white-collar jobs, but we all got along with the rest of the team regardless.  Whenever I couldn’t understand what one of the guys was saying — we were getting towards Newfoundland, after all, I’d just smile and laugh along, and that seemed to do the trick.

We started the game strong, but after about 20 minutes we (or at least I) started to run out of steam.  A few more players for our side showed up during the game.   Sadly,  it wasn’t enough. We fell to our opponents.  They were as gracious in victory as we were in defeat.

Group photo after the game in PEI. Wes is to the left of me (my right).

The young ref who took the post-game group photo skated up to me as I was collecting my water bottle from the net.  He was lanky and a bit shorter than me, and he couldn’t have been older than 16.

“You’re on some sort of trip?” he asked.

“Yup, I’m from Minnesota and I’m traveling to every state and province to play hockey,” I replied.

“Wow.  Sign me up!  What did you think of the hockey here?”

“Well, if you guys grow potatoes as well as you play hockey, then Idaho has a lot to be worried about.”

He gave me a confused look, laughed, wished me luck, and skated away.  Note to self: international commerce jokes best avoided during small-talk on the ice.

If I didn’t have a strategy for dealing with the smell of my hockey gear on this trip, it would eat me alive.

Hockey gear, hockey gear, why do you smell so?

Not like raindrops and lolipops but like death and skid row.

— Me, trying to be poetic

The smell of hockey is familiar to anyone who has spent time in a rink or with a player.  It’s a very distinctive smell, one totally unlike normal body odor and only vaguely similar to those stenches associated with other sports.  The combination of ice, sweat, and bulky pads seems to provide an ideal reproduction environment for some hockey-specific cocktail of microorganisms.

The smell of a hockey bag or locker room is as much a part of the game as sticks and pucks. Even though the odor is synonymous with the game, it’s pretty tough to describe to those unfamiliar with its aromatic nuances.

— Chris Peters, “Sink the Stink“

The details of the smell vary from person to person and from year to year.  Sometimes, it conjures thoughts of aged cheese.  Other times, the chewy aroma of bread fills the air.  Still, despite the minor variances on the olfactory theme, the dominant underlying notes remain clear: hockey smells like hockey.

The odor is not necessarily repugnant.  To hockey players, it brings to mind the thrill of the ice.  To hockey parents, thoughts of their kids and their bygone youth.  To fans, great games won or lost by the home team.

When I smell hockey, it means that fun is near.  The smell of hockey means that I am about to either observe or participate in the greatest game on earth.

I admit it, my goalie gear smells a bit.  Even thought the smell can have some appeal in certain contexts, I want to be able to escape it, too.  There’s no way I’d be able to tolerate the hundreds of hours spent driving on this trip if I were forced to smell my pads the entire time.  Fortunately, I’ve worked out a three-part solution:

1. Segregation: I do not transport my gear in Sam‘s cargo area.  Instead, I use a cargo box to physically separate my equipment from the air I breathe in the car.

It’s not your typical roof-mount cargo box.  Instead, it’s a Thule Transporter box that mounts to any Class II or Class III receiver hitch.  You can see my review for more details, but the gist is that by being hitch-mounted, it’s easy to access my gear, my gas mileage isn’t affected, and I don’t have to worry about driving under low-hanging beams.

The Thule 665C hitch-mount cargo box holds all of my goalie gear, but the fit is like a glove.

2. Chemicals: Febreze is a wonderful thing.  I keep a bottle in my gear bag.

3. Drying: I always set my gear out to dry after games.  Not only does that help to reduce the smell, it also frees me from having to don cold, wet pads at the next ice time.  At home, I had a drying rack for my gear.  On the road, I’ve had to improvise.

The best place I’ve dried my gear on the trip was at my dad’s house in Phoenix.  There, I set my gear on the balcony, and the 10% humidity coupled with the 110-degree air temperature left my pads bone-dry in about 5 seconds.

In many other cases, I’ve had to do the airing-out indoors.  Apologies to my friends and family who have dealt with that.  As for the various motel rooms that I’ve left smelling like ice arena dressing rooms, well… as a good Minnesotan, I feel bad about that too.

In hotel rooms, I set out my gear wherever there’s a chance of good airflow.  If the windows open, I open them.  If the bathroom has an exhaust fan, I turn it on.  I hang some items in the closet area, and I drape others over the shower curtain rod.  If a washer and dryer are handy, I’ll run my hockey undergarments through the cycle.

Perhaps one day they’ll invent hockey equipment that doesn’t smell, but in the meantime, my strategy of technology and discipline seems to be good enough to keep the trip going.