By Ryan Ernst
The Cincinnati Enquirer

Enquirer reporter Ryan Ernst got to play hockey with the Jr. Cyclones. (Tony Jones photo) | ZOOM |

When my editor came to me with the idea of a "winter recreation" series featuring me taking part in the season's sporting opportunities, hockey immediately came to mind.

Playing hockey with people my own size or age, however, did not.

So off I went to the Sports Plus complex, to be put through my paces by the best hockey team in the state. Granted, coach Don Biggs' Jr. Cyclones is a team of 9- and 10-year-olds, but they're 10-0-0 in one of Ohio's top youth leagues.

When I first arrived at the rink, I sized up the team as it worked on a two-on-one drill. It quickly became obvious that I was in for one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. With every quick cut on the ice, every precise pass, every top-shelf wrist shot, it became less a question of if I'd get hurt and more a question of which emergency room was closest.

After renting my skates, which happened to be a shade of light red best described as a very manly pink, I went over to talk to the coach.

Biggs, one of only two Cincinnati Cyclones to have his jersey retired, played in six leagues over 19 seasons, including two stints in the NHL. A native of Toronto, he is the embodiment of hockey in Cincinnati.

The coach greeted me with the kind of smile one gets when anticipating that something funny is about to happen. It was the kind of smile you get when you're watching America's Funniest Home Videos and you know that little kid is going to hit Santa in the crotch with that Wiffle Ball bat. He was giving me the "I hope you brought a cup" smile, and I responded with the "I'm in way over my head" grin.

Biggs pointed me toward the locker room, where I found a bag of gear. There were pads and straps and leggings and flaps and drawstrings. And everything smelled like a foot.

After five minutes of trying to figure out where everything went, then 10 more minutes of pulling and cinching and tying and strapping, I was suited up and headed for the ice. One of the dads asked me if I was there for the men's league. I still don't know if he was being sarcastic, but it was the last time I felt like a man that night.

Once I was on the ice and on wobbly ankles, Biggs said, "You're gonna want to put on that helmet."

I laughed.

He didn't. Uh-oh.

He then looked down and added, "You forgot to put on your shin guards."

I didn't forget my shin guards. I was wearing them on my elbows.

And with that, I was learning how to play hockey. Ryan Matthews, a defenseman, was given the daunting task of teaching me the basics of skating, which I had done only once before, and handling the puck.

My first lesson was this: If a person does not know how to skate, it is impossible for that person to look cool on the ice. I would have been more comfortable at a National Organization for Women meeting than I was in that rink. I looked ridiculous. They should have just given me a pink dress; at least that would have matched my Nancy-looking skates.

But amid the arm-waving and board-hugging and all the awkward half turns, I found a bit of a rhythm while passing the puck on the sideline with a kid half my size and almost a third my age.

Then I heard a whistle blow, and everything changed. Scrimmage time.

In an instant, I was out of the baby pool and thrown into the Amazon River. With a few exceptions, it was the coaches vs. the kids. I, ironically, was on the coaches team. But the only thing I taught the kids was how to play hockey like their little sisters.

I couldn't get back on defense. I had a knack for not being around the puck, but when I did, I was in the way. The other team scored on one of my errant passes and again when I obstructed our goalie's angle to the puck.

I was the worst thing on ice since The Cutting Edge. Not that I saw it.

And I fell. Only once, but it was bad. I didn't fall when someone tripped me with his stick. I didn't go sliding across the ice after a high-speed collision. I was bumbling along when I saw a coach coming my way, and the arms started flailing and the ankles finally gave way.

Even worse, the coach kind of caught me and laid me on the ice so I wouldn't have a little boo-boo on my backside. Humiliating.

On a rink full of 9- and 10-year-olds, I bit it like a 5-year-old. Or so I thought, until Biggs told me most of the kids have been skating since they were 4.

Epilogue

Shins: bruised. Ankles: sore. Back: stiff. Ego: badly bruised. Despite a childish self-pity, I am not 9 anymore and my body is not conditioned for hockey. But there are still three weeks left in this series, plenty of time for me to find my winter sports calling. Next week: curling with toddlers ... and their grandmothers.

E-mail rernst@enquirer.com