In the beginning, there was doubt.

It all started just before Christmas, 2005. My husband said he wanted to buy goalie gear for me, and at the time I refused. There were oh so many reasons why I “couldn’t” be a goalie, and would just have to be satisfied with watching them and reading about them instead of joining their ranks. I wasn’t flexible enough. I had the wrong temperament. I was too sensitive about letting people down. I just flat out wouldn’t be able to do it. I thanked him for offering, but said it wouldn’t be a good idea and I’d end up frustrated and upset. He respected that and instead found a way to get me a jersey all the way from the Swedish Elite League instead.

But the seed had been planted. As much as I tried to push the idea away, it kept coming back, until one day when I read something a friend had written about the drive, the passion he had for playing hockey, which pushed him past limits he thought he had and made him welcome the feel of his head soaked with sweat and his muscles sore from overuse. I just knew that same passion was within me, and all this time I had been denying myself the chance to see what it could do. I decided to come out and watch my husband and my friend one Sunday morning as they braved the February chill to do what they loved. Coffee in hand, I paced the bench to keep from turning to a block of ice and watched. Everything enthralled me, from the chatter on the benches as they donned their equipment, to the way nothing but the game existed as they worked up a sweat in the 25* air. And of course, watching the goalie. I stayed for an hour and a half before I had to leave to finish a freelance project that was due that evening. But the atmosphere stayed with me; I’d been bitten hard by the bug.

I later announced to my husband that I was ready to give it a try, and off we went to Play it Again Sports to buy some used equipment. I got by many accounts a set of one of the best pads for butterfly goalies (of course not knowing that at the time), beat up, torn in places, and stained with sweat and who knows what else, for $50. (Bauer Reactors, in case anyone’s curious. I wish they still made them, I’d buy them in a heartbeat.) The guy in the store helped me find the rest of the equipment I would need, all of it “junior”sized to fit my small frame. The only thing I was missing was a mask. As luck would have it, a sizeable snowstorm rolled in that night, and for the next week I was unable to go outside and practice my new craft. Not to be deterred, I donned my gear and stood in the living room attempting to deflect the cat toys my husband shot at me.

The delay caused by the snowstorm gave me time to find a mask. None of the inexpensive street hockey masks in the chain sporting goods stores fit, so I called around looking for a place that sold smaller masks. It was at this early stage in my journey that I experienced the natural assumptions of others that a woman asking about hockey equipment must be asking for her son. (Stay tuned, more on this later). We ended up at a hockey specialty store, and fiddled around with a junior sized Itech ice hockey goalie mask until it fit just right. It was pretty expensive, but my husband and I both figured that was the most important piece of equipment in terms of protection, and not a good thing to skimp on. Besides, I had dreams of one day playing on ice, and with a quality mask like that I could make the transition without having to buy another one.

So finally, fully outfitted, I could start the process of re-learning the response to move away from things hurled at me at high speeds. But before I did that, I felt I needed to work on something that’s widely disregarded by those who don’t play the position, but crucial to one’s success at it: skating.

(Next up: And Then There Was Skating)