Game 3: Cross Chix

OK, I used to think some of the girlie team names were cute, but I'm a little tired of the "chix" monikers now. Tonight's game was against our second "chix" team of the tournament—the Cross Chix. They beat the Flying Beavers on Friday, but they seemed about the same level as both the FBs and us. (This means that our division was pretty well organized; only the Lunachix were noticeably better than the rest of us, and even so, I'm not sure they were *so* much better that they should have been in a higher division.)

If the Cross Chix had an advantage, it was that their bench was deep (I think they had three lines of every position). If they had a disadvantage, it was that their coaches yelled at them constantly. Actually, the latter made us all wonder why any rec player would put up with such rude treatment, but the Cross Chix seemed to soak it in and take the rudeness to heart. I was a bit surprised, for example, when I greeted my opponent at wing with a hearty "hi!" and got a "get your stick on the other side of the line" in return. Uh, right. I *do* know about the line; did you, by any chance, hear me say "hi"?

It's funny, because all this rudeness and outright hostility are the things I remember most about this game; even my notes, written directly after the game, mention only negative vibes, penalties not called, and injuries sustained rather than positive plays. If there was a positive, it was that I remember thinking to myself on the bench, "we can beat this team", "this blister solution [two layers of New Skin, an Elastoplast blister bandage, and a topper of moleskin] is kinda working", and "I can get a goal." In fact, Donna and I made a pact that she wouldn't score until I did. (Unfortunately, I didn't hold up my end, and Donna had to go ahead and score without me; her goal was the only one of the game, and therefore our margin of victory.)

I think the thing that colored my personal experience of the game most was when an opponent and I were both scrabbling for the puck in the corner, and I got control of it—and my opponent promptly switched her focus from the puck to my feet. I felt her lift her stick, wrap it around my ankles, and yank. I went down hard on my face cage first, followed by my hip and knee. It took me a second to even look up, and I did mainly to see why there was no whistle yet (I figured we had possession). When I saw that *they* did, I tried to get up as fast as possible, though I was stiff from the collision with the ice. I was stunned that there'd been no whistle. How could the ref have missed it? We were *on the puck*! He was standing up the boards! Was it the other ref's call? Was her vision obstructed? I couldn't figure it out, and neither could anyone on my bench when I managed to get off.

Unfortunately, I couldn't let it go, and when I went out to the faceoff (at left wing) next time around, I said to the ref, "I was tripped in the corner last time, by the way." "No," he replied, "you fell over her stick. That's why I didn't call it." I was like, FELL OVER HER STICK? ARE YOU KIDDING? "I went down on my face cage!" I said, incredulous. "Well, don't do that," he replied over his shoulder. I was still standing there gaping at his back when he dropped the puck... and my opponent either was incredibly opportunistic or, more likely, was used to trying to tie up the person on the other side of the redline by throwing her body at said person, because that's what she did—knocking me right onto my butt. I felt a few vertebrae bang against each other painfully, and my face burn with shame. I'd just proved the ref's point: I was obviously someone who fell as soon as I got near an opponent.

It took me a while to get over my anger, but I knew I had to if I wanted to function. If I spend my time on the ice and the bench feeling angry and ill-used, I take myself out of the play and out of the game. Luckily my teammates are good-natured and supportive (example: Deanna made Jell-O shooters for us—in three different tropical flavors!—to snack on before and after the games), so I did manage to get it back together. Not enough to score, as I mentioned, but enough to get a couple shots off, anyway.

This time Kelly got the MVP Starbucks card, which came as no suprise; she was obviously the one who confounded the Chix the most. I mentioned my lack of suprise to her in the locker room after the game, but she expressed hers: Apparently the Chix had been complaining about her (and to her) while on the ice, making comments like, "playing a bit below your level, don't you think?" and "stop being so fancy." OK, yes, she and Jess are fantastic skaters (oh, how I wish I could stop and turn on a dime and protect the puck the way they do!), but once again, they never took a shot, even when the score was 0-0 with only 3 minutes left—and after Michele had assured them that she wouldn't mind if they were to score. They insisted that if they entered the offensive zone, somebody had to come with them and be ready to take a pass because there would be no shooting on the net from them. (I loved this idea, because I like assists; usually I'm the passer, not the passee, but I was more than willing to try to score.)

Anyway, hearing about the hard time the Chix had given Kelly sort of cemented my negative impression of the game, and I left the rink feeling the opposite of the "hockey high" Al often refers to. I couldn't wait to get back to the hotel so I could hug my baby and talk to my husband. Thus I was not sorry when we woke Austen by chatting in the room after the game (in fact, it's why I didn't make an attempt to lower my voice); I got a chance to snuggle him, and the conversation helped remove some of the poison festering in my heart. I said to Al that as much as I was enjoying the tournament in general and playing hockey in particular, what really made the weekend special (and any blows to body or psyche bearable) was knowing that I had a family to share it with. So cool.

Posted by Lori in Vancouver Tournament 2005 | May 29, 2005·11:37 AM