15 August 2000
I picked up my Wings jersey last night; I'm number 46 ("lucky 46," as John called it). Woo hoo!

The ice was great after the two-week repair break, clear and level. It would have been better if we'd stayed off it for 10 minutes after the Zamboni was through—skating on the still-wet surface made it pretty rough when it finally froze. That, combined with the too-warm air in the rink, made for velcro-like ice that had everyone coming to an abrupt halt on the knee-dropping drills.

I sucked on the passing drills—couldn't make a backhand pass to save my life, and the velcro ice kept grabbing the puck, making it hard to mind. It was fun working on them with Al, though. He's such a good sport. (Al plays for the B league teal team, the Canadians.)

The after-drill scrimmage in progress

Mike mentioned in the locker room after the scrimmage that he was trying to get a group of people together to go to the Sharks-Bruins game on October 14. A bunch of us (including Mike and Al) grew up in Massachusetts, so it wasn't a hard sell. I'm so eager to watch professional hockey again that I said yes immediately—I don't really care who's playing.

I must admit for the record that I don't remember ever going to a Bruins game when I lived in MA, and the only Bruins player I can name is Bobby Orr. My mom found some Bobby Orr sweatshirts in a bargain bin when my sister and I were 4 or 5 years old (and my family none too rich), and we wore them proudly despite the fact that we knew nothing about hockey. I remember hockey being a regular sport (as in, not an unusual one), and some of my friends in high school played (actually, one of my grammar school girlfriends did, too), but it never occurred to me to go to one of their games. That probably had more to do with the attitude toward sports at my school, though; only players went to games.