Hockey

Since the end of August, I have been dutifully donning shinpads and long socks, shorts and T-shirt, gum shield and sweatband, before unleashing my stick from its scabbard (a rucksack) in order to play hockey.

Ever since I ran the marathon 3 years ago, I have felt a spiritual emptiness in all of my exertions. There was no real goal to the individualistic sports I took part in — cycling, swimming, darts — so this year I decided to start playing hockey again.

It had been fifteen years since I last played and I had worried that I might not remember what to do. But the muscle memory lingered and I soon got back up to speed: pushing, hitting, and dribbling like it was 1993 and I was playing again for Leicestershire (as I did when the poshos from Oakham and Uppingham were away).

The game has evolved considerably in those fifteen years. New techniques like dragflicking and scooping the ball have added variety. New water pitches have increased the speed of the ball. The basic game remains the same, though: a combined effort to get the ball into the goal.

Team sports are curious phenomena: no matter how much belief and will you have, an individual cannot play for everyone. Team psychology is the key. Too often, one bad pass angers everyone and undermines all efforts. By contrast, a good early goal can make people play beyond their capabilities.

Yesterday, my team Hillhead played Glasgow Academicals in a league game, losing three-nil. It was a disappointing day for me particularly as I somehow got in the way of one of our own shots and was clattered in the knee.

In the evening I stayed in and watched Match of the Day, hoping to glean ideas for my hockey from similar sport of football. What you see in the best teams is that they always manage to find space, the passes are neat and quick. In scoring, the best players have a ludicrous athleticism: Florent Malouda, I noticed, has the grace and speed of a leopard.

I think I had better go to the gym.

19 Oct 2008