I used to think of recreation-league sports as friendly, casual competition — a chance to get a little exercise and hang out with friends.
In reality, the Red Deer rec leagues have become a gladiator-like experience populated by ultra-intense, ’roid-raging weirdos who seem to believe there are pro-league scouts in the stands.
I’ve vented on the topic of ‘rec-league heroes’ before during the winter ice hockey season — but the silliness I witnessed this winter pales in comparison to the shenanigans that take place on a nightly basis in the Red Deer ball-hockey scene.
In my hometown, we played street hockey almost every week. Somebody would show up with nets, sticks and 12 cases of beer in the back of a pickup truck and we’d play until dark. Guys joked around, showed off and we typically lost track of the score by the end of the day.
Envisioning a similar experience, I signed up to play ball hockey in Red Deer this spring. By the end of our first game — which we lost by a score of 14-1 — I began to think I’d made a terrible mistake.
We were down 10 goals before we even realized what was happening and the opposition didn’t let up one iota, continuing to run up the score as if every goal came with great financial incentive.
There were guys tearing around like jackrabbits on Red Bull, screaming and fist-pumping to celebrate goals.
With less than two minutes remaining in a game we were losing 11-1, I received three stiff crosschecks to the kidneys while pacing around the offensive zone.
I turned, looked at the guy and asked, “What the hell are you doing? This isn’t the Stanley Cup final buddy!”
With veins protruding from his face and neck, he stared at me with bulging eyes and screeched his reply:
“I play every game like it’s the Cup final! I never quit!”
I immediately burst into laughter, which incensed the rock-smasher even more.
“F--- you! F--- you! F--- you!” he roared as he followed me down the rink, no doubt on the verge of a violent episode.
And this unstable fellow is not alone. It seems every team we’ve encountered has at least one or two exceptionally volatile personalities on the roster.
My personal favourites are the guys who clearly don’t know how to skate, but fancy themselves ball-hockey superstars. They are easy to spot, as they often breach the unspoken bits of etiquette that most real hockey players understand — things like controlling one’s stick, or not blasting head-level slapshots through traffic.
Being a ball-hockey superstar is kind of like being a standout potato-sack racer. Sure, it impressed your friends in junior-high gym class — but nobody cares when you’re 30.
Perhaps the most dangerous characters out there are the aging wannabes who are determined to show the world they’ve ‘still got it.’ These are typically the guys throwing elbows in the corners and flailing their sticks around like cheerleader batons.
To some degree, I guess you could chalk my bitterness up to sour grapes. I mean, what semi-competitive male enjoys getting thumped by 12 goals every night while dealing with spastic apes who appear ready to start throwing punches at the slightest provocation?
I enjoy hanging out with my teammates and ball hockey is truly an excellent form of exercise, but I’m not sure I’m prepared to tolerate all the BS again next year.
In the meantime, I’ll be looking around for some good old-fashioned street hockey games that are more my speed — the kind where everybody understands they are playing a game with no professional future.
