Behind the house at 1777 South Street were three ponds tucked into a wooded area. They were imaginatively named “The First Pond”, “The Second Pond”, and “The Third Pond”. Rarely were they ideal for skating because the surface would perpetually be leavened with leaves, twigs and branches, or snow. For early efforts at learning to ice skate, however, they were perfect. There were frozen streams, too, that connected the three ponds, allowing you to conveniently skate from one to the next. I was forever pursuing my brothers, who without warning would all race off to the next pond. I think I cried a lot when they did that, not because they didn’t see me as their equal, but because of scary woodland creatures who would then be able to easily pick me off. And that comment about “equal”, how could they consider me one of the gang when, on the ice, all I managed to do was tentatively walk around – in my skates – with crooked ankles nearly grazing the ice, arms akimbo? It was a style that forced my body to do splits every ten feet or so. Whenever the command “move!” was issued as I crossed into areas where frenzied hockey action was taking place, I responded with a fresh startle reflex much like an infant who has been presented with a sudden loud noise or a bright light, my feet shooting out from under me and my arms splaying. And I cried. I was better at locating logs to sit on. . . and even better at experiencing hypothermia. I should add that I did have an important role; whenever the puck sailed into the surrounding woods, I was sent to retrieve it. Consequently, my skates required frequent sharpening. (pfff! As if!). I grew up not very fond of skating. . . until I met David, and Johnson’s Pond in Raynham provided a new venue for that dance that teenage boys and girls do in large unsupervised groups. My feet were just as cold then, too, but I didn’t mind. At least I didn’t cry.
Up for some shinny?
Have I mentioned that our family was BIG into hockey? Well, it bears repeating. All my brothers were groomed from an early age to be ice hockey players. Mom and Dad imagined themselves, at least in the beginning, as devoted hockey parents. So, I remember as a child watching my brothers in training, each, in turn, skating around the various ponds in Bridgewater, pushing a wooden kitchen chair in front of them. Youngsters throughout Bridgewater likewise took to the area’s frozen bodies of water; there were several ponds and lakes that provided great conditions for skating: Carver Pond, Skeeter Mill Pond, Sturtevant’s Corner, and the Ice Pond (aka State Farm Pond). It didn’t strike me as especially fun; therefore, despite all the enforced hours logged on area ponds, I never progressed. Impressed as I was with Peggy Fleming, her moves just totally flummoxed me.
The 1960’s and 70’s were the sweet spot, I believe, for pick-up games in which teams were naturally selected by blood ties. The baby boom generation – lots of families with lots of kids – provided a ripe culture for casual team sports. The Bruins’ success, too, in the early 70’s converted young spectators into NHL aspirants. Although gear was optional, hockey gloves were one of the more prized pieces of equipment, given that rules of engagement were rather loose, and hands were constantly getting smashed. It didn’t matter if they were mismatched, or had holes, or even fit properly. On the other hand, a helmet, perhaps the most important appurtenance from a long-term health standpoint, was alarmingly absent. Although randomly assembled teams were a perfectly acceptable option, in many cases entire teams could be made up of a single family or a neighborhood combination of families. Hence, there were rivalries that evolved rather organically; the Morrisseys and Maloneys, for example, nurtured a competitive relationship that regularly included family sponsored fighting. Kevin, of course, in his typically zealous manner, nobly did his part for the Morrisseys. As feared as he might have been by his foes, there was great admiration of his skill set, which extended even to ice surface management. Few kids, for example, would risk submerging their own vehicles in order to clear the ice of snow. As the baton was later passed to younger brothers Marty and Bob, the family names changed; the Heslin brothers and the Blakelys brought greater finesse and skill to the pond hockey scene. At this point, kids could just generally boast a more expansive indoctrination. Organized hockey had arrived in Bridgewater.
Pick-up style hockey continued to enjoy popularity in subsequent decades, but, naturally, the game has experienced a metamorphosis. What we observe today is akin to a coming-of-age; rarely do we see genuine, improvised games on local ponds. It catches our eye when we do see a small handful of kids with sticks in hand, movement back and forth between two makeshift goals on a suitably frozen pond. Even the length of the season has shortened; in earlier years it might have been possible to take to the ice in November; extended periods of cold are much rarer these days.
Baby boomers never really left their passion behind, however. Pick-up games now more readily conjure ice rink settings, and schedules are firmly set. And if you live in cold winter states such as Minnesota or Colorado, outdoor pick-up tournaments, which draw thousands of participants and are often sponsored by big-name purveyors of beer, bring you that much closer to your unfulfilled dream of playing professionally. They’re highly organized programs, with perimeter boards and goalie nets that are the real deal, (one even boasts Zamboni service!), so prepare accordingly. Make sure you arrive with matching gloves, fashion forward attire, and a mouthguard for your few remaining original teeth.
