At the ripe age of 26, I played hockey for the first time. I won’t pretend that it was pretty, or even respectable, but I was there; I laced up and I played. Sitting in the change room prior to - watching the other guys to see how they put on their equipment while trying desperately not to be “that guy” in the change room - I briefly wondered whether or not this was a wise course of action.

For a deceptively brutish and violent game the mere act of “suiting up” proved far more difficult than I first imaged. It was no help that I was missing a small, but important piece of equipment - a garter to keep my socks up. I realized my predicament when I saw Justin putting his on.

“What’s that?” I inquired.

“A garter,” he replied.

“What do you need that for?”

“To hold my socks up.”

For some reason it had never occurred to me before that moment that hockey players are all out on the ice wearing shorts and long socks. Without a device to keep my socks aloft, I was doomed to flash some thighthroughout the course of the night. It wasn’t a good look. Unfortunately it was potentially the least embarrassing aspect of my appearance that night.

I can’t skate. Well, hardly at all anyways. I suppose if I were to venture to Africa, construct and cool a rink, and challenge a few of the locals to a race, that I could beat most of them. Unless we had to stop and turn around. I can’t do that, so it’s more of a slow circle. I can’t skate backwards either, so I should probably rule that out too.

I must admit though, there was something absolutely fantastic about it. Something distinctly natural about skating around and chasing the puck. Watching hockey is nothing compared to playing it; finally having the opportunity to comprehend the skill and finesse required to do something so simple as pass the puck. I’m going back for more. It would seem that I’ve got a fever, and the only prescription is more hockey.

I have never been more Canadian. Not even that time I ate an entire package of bacon.