So I decided to figure out this hockey team joining thing cause my kid kept bugging me about ice sports after watching some game on TV. First step was straight up asking neighbors who play hockey – nobody knew squat about North Jersey Avalanche specifically. Typical.
The Wild Internet Search
Jumped on my laptop around midnight when kids finally slept. Googled for two damn hours getting useless ads and expired pages. Finally found one local parenting forum where some random dude mentioned “just show up at Floyd Hall Arena on Tuesdays with skates and insurance papers.” Didn’t even believe it at first.
The Arena Adventure
Dragged my reluctant butt to that ice rink next Tuesday. Cold as hell inside, smelled like wet socks and stale popcorn. Found this bald guy with a clipboard yelling at teenagers near locker room 3 – turned out he was the coordinator. He just grunted “fill this” and threw a wrinkled form at me. Required stuff:
- Proof of residency (water bill worked)
- Medical clearance (had to nag our pediatrician)
- Signed waiver thicker than my thumb
The Gear Nightmare
Thought we had everything until practice day. Coordinator pointed at my kid’s bike helmet: “That ain’t hockey helmet.” Rushed to used sports store same afternoon. Salesman dumped this stinking pile on counter:
- Stained shoulder pads smelling like old cheese
- Elbow protectors with broken straps
- Twig-looking hockey stick some kid outgrew
Cost more than our damn car payment. Kid looked like oversized marshmallow wobbling on ice.
The Actual Joining Part
Came back Saturday morning, kid still struggling to walk in gear. Coordinator barely glanced at papers: “Pay now or leave.” Forked over cash – hurt worse than stepping on Lego barefoot. They tossed us this faded purple jersey reeking of bleach. Suddenly we’re team members? Felt like joining some sketchy club behind Walmart.
First Practice Disaster
Coach blew whistle and chaos exploded. Kid fell six times in ten minutes. Got tangled in netting once. Tiny Russian kid with yellow teeth zipped past scoring three goals while mine hugged the boards crying. Coordinator shrugged: “Happens every season.” We drove home in silence chewing cheap pizza.
Six weeks later? Kid still trips over blue line but stopped crying. Worth it? Hell no – but at least they stopped bugging me about joining hockey. Just do exactly what I did: 1) find arena location 2) hound coordinator 3) buy overpriced smelly gear 4) prepare for embarrassment. Boom – you’re officially terrible at hockey just like us.
