Net Loss
The odds of making it to the NHL are roughly 0.16 percent.
For goalies, those odds plummet to something approaching the likelihood of being struck by lightning while holding a winning lottery ticket.
But at thirteen, huffing on a Newport between my bloated fingers in the parking lot behind Dairy Queen, I had already solved this mathematical impossibility through sheer force of ignorance.
"You know there are only two goalies on a team," Coach Miltenberger explained patiently, adjusting his mesh snapback hat for the third time. "And one of them watches from the bench."
I took a drag that would have made a jazz musician proud and exhaled with the confidence of someone who had never encountered doubt.
"Don’t worry, Coach,” I consoled. “I'll let the other guy play sometimes. You know, like end of the 3rd period, when we’re up by six or seven."
Coach Miltenberger's eye twitched. A reasonable response.
Equipment and Expectations
My delusion required a significant financial investment from my parents, who, in their infinite wisdom or perhaps their own strain of inherited madness, purchased approximately $1,400 worth of goalie equipment for their son, who possessed all the athletic grace of a refrigerator falling down stairs.
The gear itself was magnificent. Real leather pads, CCMs that made me look like a cross between Ken Dryden and the Michelin Man. A blocker that doubled as a small shield, and a catch glove that swallowed pucks like a black hole.
The mask, pearl white and unadorned, waited for the battle scars and custom artwork that would never come.
I practiced my stance in the hallway mirror, perfecting what I believed was a menacing glare but probably more closely resembled a pudgy schoolboy straining to remember where he’d left his Ho Hos.
Game Time Mathematics
The scoreboard told a different story from the one playing in my head.
While I was busy choosing which team I’d win the Stanley Cup with, based on how cool their jersey was, of course, opposing teams were calculating how many goals they could reasonably score without making their parents feel bad for us.
Typical game: Them fourteen, us zero.
The mercy rule didn't exist in our league. Apparently, someone thought public humiliation built character. The kind of character that comes from lying face-down in a puddle of your own tears while parents in the stands debate whether watching this constitutes child abuse.
The other team's coach would eventually approach our bench with the diplomatic delicacy of a UN peacekeeper. "Maybe you should pull the kid?"
"No way!" I'd wheeze from the crease, spitting out pieces of what I hoped was ice shavings and not fragments of my remaining dignity. "I got ‘em right where I want ‘em, coach!"
Incremental Improvements and Persistent Delusions
Eventually, through some combination of repetitive humiliation and accidental competence, I began stopping more pucks than I let through.
I accumulated a few shutouts, mostly due to my teammates sacrificing themselves in front of every shot to avoid the humiliation I often subjected them to when they trusted me to do my job.
Coach Miltenberger, to his eternal credit, never once suggested I consider a different position or perhaps a different sport entirely.
Instead, he'd offer encouraging observations like, "Well, you definitely improved your save percentage this game," which, while technically true, was roughly equivalent to saying someone improved their marathon time by not dying before the finish line.
Reality and Other Inconveniences
The closest I ever came to NHL-level play was during a summer hockey camp when I made an absolutely spectacular glove save on a breakaway.
The puck hit my glove purely by accident—I was actually returning my water bottle to the top of the net—but for approximately 2.7 seconds, I felt like I'd glimpsed my destiny.
The other players stopped and stared. Even the shooter nodded with what I interpreted as professional respect, but was probably confusion about how someone could accidentally achieve competence.
"Did you see that?" I called to Coach Miltenberger, busy studying his clipboard.
"I saw something," he replied. “That was really something," which I chose to interpret as high praise.
Epilogue: Present Day Wisdom
These days, I can watch NHL games and appreciate the actual skill involved without mentally inserting myself between the pipes.
I understand now that my teenage confidence wasn't based on ability but on a complete absence of self-awareness, which, while useless for professional athletics, has proven remarkably valuable in other endeavors.
Like writing essays and other such nonsense.
The Newports, thankfully, didn't make it past high school.
The delusions of grandeur took a bit longer to fade, but eventually even they succumbed to the overwhelming evidence of reality.
Sometimes, though, when I'm watching a tight game and the goaltender makes an unbelievable save, I'll think: "That could’ve been me. I could have done that."
And then I remember that I couldn't even do it when I was actually trying to do it, and order another beer.