Everyone marks the start of a new hockey season in their own way. For me, it was always about gear and what would be needed that season. It was a different era. It was the time of hand-me-downs rather than scouring Amazon. Most of what a player needed could be found in the storage sheds, basements and garages of hockey towns. If your house didn't have it, your neighbors did.
Helmets and gloves didn’t always match. Neither did the pants. I know, heaven forbid. One season, I wore a red Cooper SK 300 helmet, red and white socks, green Cooper gloves with the palms cut out from the previous lacrosse season, maroon pants and a pair of plastic Lange skates. Google that mess, kids.
My dad used to call me down to the basement, and there would be two canvas hockey bags unzipped with their contents spilling onto the painted concrete floor. My stuff and my older brother's. I would try mine on, and dad would try to see if we could get another season out of my shin or shoulder pads or skates. If something looked a little snug, he'd reach into big brother's bag to see if the breach could be covered.
Only when the gap was too large did we get into his Plymouth Fury II and slide across its nylon seats and head down to one of our town’s two sporting goods stores. Windows down and no seatbelts.
Whatever strategy I may or may not have had cooked up to try and get new skates was always undermined by the stick rack with all the new wood models for that year. Sher-Wood. Canadien. Koho.
And the dreaded Northland. Better for cross checking than shooting. And near unbreakable. So, until my paper route savings would allow me to pick and pay for my own twig, my pop's budgetary favorite always ended up in the trunk with one roll of haggled black tape.
By the time I had leaned on every stick and studied every curve, the store owner had been conscripted by the elevator repairman named Frank Lawless and a pair of used Bauers were brought out from the back. Some kid had worn them the year before and had already been in for his yearly new pair. I got his trade-ins. And by the time we left the store, I was thrilled to have them.
They had maybe one goal per season in them. I could blame the skates but even then, I knew better. Some of the kids in my hometown reached the NHL. Some of us wrote about them from the press box.
