Lacing Them Up

 

I asked my old man if I could go ice-skating on the lake. He told me, "Wait til it gets warmer."

Rodney Dangerfield 

Rink rats.

 

One does not merely "put on" ice skates, any more than one puts on tactical gear ("Jocks up") or a super-hero uniform ("Suits up"). One laces up.

 

My first ice skates came in a box marked "Skating outfit." In my eleven-year-old mind, that didn't just include skates, but an ensemble. Looking back, I'm not sure what I expected. The skates were enough of a challenge, anyway, since the first time I ever skated was at a birthday party, wearing my newly-purchased outfit. I spent 99 percent of the time either falling to the ice, laying in a heap or struggling to my feet. Only to immediately fall, again.

 

Ever the late bloomer, it was a few years later that I mastered the art of skating. Specifically, I mastered using a hockey stick as both high-wire pole thereby increasing the moment of inertia (whatever that means) and adding a third leg to the unsteady platform. That did the trick, until I discovered goaltending. That is another story.

 

It also began a life-long, if periodic, relationship to both ice skating, and hockey. And this is where we pick up the story, circa 2022.

 

It is possible for a sixty-eight year old man to "lace them up" and remain upright on the ice. Tentatively, uncertainly, but with some effort and a conservative approach it is achievable. I know. I am helping teach my four-year-old granddaughter to skate.

 

Her mom and dad, bless their hearts, have provided significant back-up. They embraced the "skating outfit" principle, buying their daughter not merely excellent skates, but an ensemble that keeps her both warm and safe. Snow pants, a good winter jacket, gloves that stay on (and from which ice shavings may be periodically licked by the tiny skater) and a helmet that is both warm and protective - we are off to lessons.

 

I differ, somewhat, with the approach taken by the young and friendly coaches. Much of the drills are taken up with the young children (all about 4) looking at their feet. If (I learned this in cycling) your body tends to follow the gaze of your eyes, I would prefer something else. But, this is their class and my grandaughter is progressing nicely, so who am I?

 

There is a blast from the past as we lace up our skates. The sound of the rink. The wooden benches, the gear strewn about. The humid cold, even on a beautiful 50's fall Colorado afternoon. At one end of the ice are tweens chasing a little vulcanized rubber disk, whacking at it with sticks and, occasionally, firing it at a net.

 

"How do they feel?" we ask. 

"Perfect," she answers.

 

She adapts amazingly well, since her parents bought great skates that fit her. She is laced up, she walks in them with confidence (and minimal ankle wobble) and we take to the ice. We're on the slippery (but rock-hard) surface for perhaps half an hour before she decides - probably quite reasonably - that she's gotten everything out of the lesson she intends to draw. It's time to go. And, bone tired, jarred by dozens of falls, she runs back to the lobby as though she's worn these skates for decades.

 

It is impossible to tell my granddaughter what a wonderful world she has entered, becoming part of another generation of rink rats. It is enough to be there as it unfolds, to share what was once my own field of dreams, and unlock for her a skill unlike any other. The day will come when a friend invites her to a birthday party at a rink, asking if she knows how to skate.

 

"Of course. My mom and my grandpa taught me."