An Ode to Men’s League
Written by "The Hockey Blogger for The Show to be Named Later on Kare 11."

Defending Hockey.

A few weeks back I headed over to Mariucci for a Friday night game. The Gophers were taking on Michigan Tech. It was a Friday night, and we got our first proper snowfall of the year. As a buddy and I waited for another friend to show up with the tickets, we proceeded to order a pitcher of beer at Stub and Herbs. What is it about blizzard conditions that make the beer taste so good?

About midway through that first pitcher, mentally I was already taking a "snow day." I launched full fledged into a premature good mood. The stories were flowing, and so were the beers, and the ideas.

It took two hours for my friend to arrive with the tickets due to the blizzard conditions. The Gopher game was already half way over, and we were half in the bag. It was decided that due to the conditions the "safe" thing to do would be to crash at my buddy’s place in Uptown. This way we could continue our buzz all the way into the Perkins hours of the morning. All I had to do was check in with the wife. Not a problem I thought, after all we were "socked in." This was the smart decision, this was the safe decision. It had nothing to do with beer.

My conversation with my wife was a short one. She was so disturbed by my sleepover request that she launched into an angry Charlie Brown phone voice. All I made out of the exchange was "You’re 31 years old! And you’re coming home." There were a couple things that bothered me about this statement. For starters, I’m only 30. And since when do you lose privileges as you age? Needless to say I sobered up, watched the Gophers lose, ate and drove home.

When I later confirmed with an older married man, also with kids –that yes, dads don’t usually crash on couches—I felt better, but somehow neutered. That is until the other day when I had this exchange.

"King, you still skate?"

"Yep. Every Tuesday night."

"All year?"

"Yep."

"Wow."

Damn right. I’m 30 years old and I play hockey once a week. I may not be able to take snow days, drink Mountain Dew, or wear one of those cool ass new winter hats with the visor on it — but I still play hockey.

And so can you. There are Men’s Leagues popping up all over the State, it has never been easier to lace ‘em up.

When I’m at the YMCA I see all these guys my age dressing up in matching dry fit to do yoga stretches next to the track. They stand on their heads with their legs spread, they hold themselves up with one arm, and make their bodies pretzels. I play hockey.

A group of us has been playing in a league for over five years. Our team name is El Nino HC, we added the HC for "Hockey Club" because it seemed euro like an old English soccer club. We chose the name El Nino because like the weather, with this squad you never know what you’re going to get. We’re like a tropical storm with weak ankles.

Having played Men’s League for a number of years, there are many things I have grown to love. Here are just a few.


Parking Lot Beer(s)
Make no mistake, this is what Men’s League is all about. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose — but you always have a beer in the lot after the game. We actually wrote this into the El Nino HC player contract. It’s non negotiable. The beer just tastes better after a hard skate with the team. It’s always served in a can, preferably Labatt Blue.

It may be a sub zero February night, but the beauty of the post game beverage of choice is that your body heat from the game will last just long enough to enjoy one beer. The steam will be coming off you and you’ll stand in a circle and solve all the world’s problems. Because most of you probably have bad backs by this stage, I also recommend keeping the cooler on the tailgate of someone’s truck to limit bending over.

It may be true there are things you can’t do once you turn 30, but the opposite is true as well. When I first started in Men’s League I noticed that only the old timers actually drank their beers in the locker room after the game. But we were in our mid twenties, and it just didn’t feel right. We hadn’t earned the honor yet, we needed to huddle up outside for a few years and see if this was a team that was going to last, going to stick together. I’m pleased to report El Nino HC is alive and well and we now sit and sip on the splintered benches of locker rooms throughout the Twin Cities. You catch the beer tossed from somewhere down the bench, and you proceed with getting dressed. Usually the Zam guy will come in, and we move things to the parking lot, but we can start indoors.

When you’re 21 you can finally drink. 25 you can finally rent a car. 30 you can finally drink a parking lot beer in the locker room.


Chemistry
Men’s league is all about chemistry. In no other sport do you rarely see the youngest, most skilled team prevail. Men’s league powerhouses aren’t filled with young guns or D1 studs. The ideal men’s league team has a few finish-each-others-sentences guys. Maybe they’re brothers; maybe they’ve just played together for 10 years. There are always the one or two physical guys. Not dirty, but the skate-through-you types. Someone to make the other team just a bit uncomfortable. A great Men’s league team always has an old soul or two as well. These puck bag guys are like the Chieftains of the tribe. They pass on the stories, the lore, to the next generation.

You should also always have one young gunner. On the opposite side of the clock from the chief-the young gunner probably still has Spring Break, summer, and legs. Mix in a few stay at home defenseman and some lunch pail role-players to score those "roasting marshmallow" type goals on rebounds and you’re set. That, and a goalie that can stand on his head doesn’t hurt.

But chemistry is less about the makeup of the team, and more about a group of guys who want to see each other once a week. Consistently I hear it said of the great professional sports teams that "they’re playing for each other." While this is a bit melodramatic for Men’s League there is some truth in this statement even at this level. In short, you’re giving your Tuesday nights to a group of guys. That huddle in the lot with the steam coming off the top, that inner circle is where people tell each other they’re having a kid, getting divorced, or got engaged. It’s not a place for free agents. It’s not a place for acquaintances. It’s a place for friends, and brothers. As G. Love would say, these guys should be your "Rodeo clowns yeah, yeah. Pick me up when I’m down."


Catch Phrase
Another thing I like about Men’s League is when you play together for a while each member of the team tends to develop a signature move. It’s pretty funny, like Trump saying "You’re Fired" or Jacko’s white glove—you could actually assemble your team in PS2 because of these moves. Here’s a look at the El Nino HC signature moves.

Our Goalie will work in at least one diving poke check every game. He’ll force it if he has to.

One guy is known for his jazz hands. He grew up playing 16 on 16 at an overcrowded Walnut rink in Edina. The place was so over populated they started letting only first born sons skate there.

Our young gun likes the fake slap shot only to pull it back and go around you. One guy takes Oscar caliber dives to draw penalties. He has this awesome rag doll flop that he uses, it never gets old and we’re always on the power play. His flop is so dramatic it reminds me of when kids used to get hit by a pitch in little league baseball. Remember how the ball seemed to always hit them square in the middle of the back, and they would drop to their knees with their hands in the air like the "Platoon" movie poster. Picture that, only in skates.

We have one guy who recently graduated out of young gun status into his distinguish handsome Clooney years, but not without multiple signature moves. He’s known for his "Go Go Gadget" arms where his reach allows him to go through a crowd. He even brings out a nice Savard spin on occasion. We have an ogre of a blue liner known for his Big Bertha from the point that no one would dare try to block.

As for me, I have a much debated signature move. And it’s one of my favorites, and I think it ties into some of the other things I like about Men’s League. I’m notorious for chasing a player into his own zone on the fore-check — and yelling "Boards!" "Over!" "Here!" — whatever, anything to make him think I’m a teammate and get him to accidentally pass me the puck. I’ll also do it coming into our zone by yelling "trailer!" You would be surprised how many times someone will blindly pass or drop you the puck.

It’s been debated on our own team if this is a JV move. It definitely is, but it’s also a gut check to see what we’re up against. Anybody who is going to pass the puck to the other team because they don’t recognize the voice is a team that hasn’t played much together. And they certainly haven’t done the burn barrel thing in the parking lot for any length of time.

Is it a cheesy move? Sure, it’s the on-ice equivalent of up high, on the side, down low—too slow, but who cares. It works. And I’m not going to stop doing it just because I’m 30.

So there.