There was a soft knock at the door, and then it opened. I was sitting in my bedroom, playing Dark Castle on my Mac while Morrissey sang songs about how nobody understood me. I think my dad may have given it to me, and even though I'm not sure, I'm going to imagine that it happened this way: I wish I could remember exactly how I came upon the book Open Net, by George Plimpton. Which was delivered to my house in Los Angeles. Because I had a subscription to The Hockey News. The only thing I liked more than playing hockey was watching it, and when I couldn't watch it, I read about it. I loved hockey with a fever that no amount of cowbell could cure. Many of the rinks we played on were only half-jokingly compared to driveways with crushed ice thrown over them (Van Nuys, anyone?) or so small it was a real possibility that a goalie could score a goal for his team (North Hollywood, anyone?) ![]() What makes this seemingly insane decision kind of noteworthy is that I was a scrawny geek who did all of this while living in Los Angeles, which isn't exactly known as a hockey town. In fact, we can't even explain it to each other it's just something we do because we can't not do it. The thing is, over the years I've learned that some of us were just born to be goalies, and it's something that can't really be explained to people who haven't blocked a net in some sport. I was quick and flexible, though, so I decided to get some gear and learn how to be a goalie. I wasn't that big, so defense was out, I wasn't that strong, so offense was out. I guess the chance of injury in baseball just wasn't great enough, or something. When I was 16, though, I got it into my head that I really wanted to play hockey. ![]() I was never an athletic kid, as I've documented clearly (and painfully). This week, for Things I Love, I've picked out some books that were extremely influential to me in one way or another.
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