AMHL Glory Introduction

Updated: January 27, 2012

Camaraderie and morning donuts is what makes the AMHL (as in every Tuesday and Thursday at 6:30 AM Hockey League) unique. Hallowed friendships and high-fructose foods: these were the primary elements of the story I was prepared to write.

In his book, Home Ice, Jack Falla reminisces about playing hockey on his backyard rink with his son and two brothers. When one player—in what was supposed to be a friendly “no-check” two-on-two game—took to tripping the other, a good-natured revenge match ensued. The trippee became the tripper and then yelled, “That is what the fans came to see.” Falla summarizes the spirit of his familial competition in front of the “fans” as if he was born to play in the AMHL: “There were, of course, no fans, and it didn’t matter.”

You hear the same types of comments before, during, and after AMHL games. We joke about the imaginary fans watching on ESPN, TSN, or the CBC’s fictitious Hockey Morning in Canada. And, we vocalize our half-baked dreams of NHL scouts discovering a bona fide prospect from our obscure morning hockey—that one AMHL player who might have a shot at making it to the Show. Even though we have jerseys and officials to give our game more structure than Falla’s backyard battles, we AMHLers struggle with the same love-loathe relationship with the NHL as most anyone who skates on Falla’s Bacon Street Omni in Natick, Massachusetts. Our games at Valley Sports Arena in West Concord, like Falla’s home ice games, are unencumbered with the trappings of NHL hockey: TV timeouts, forced enthusiasm, and eight-dollar pretzels. Yet, these elements of the professional game, fused with the would-be fans (and exaggerated game summaries), fuel our fire to play for a tangible prize. The Fallas compete for the right to write their names on an empty aluminum beer keg; AMHL team members play to have their team’s name adorned on the AMHL’s version of the Stanley Cup: a hideous—yet holy—hunk of homemade hardware called the Koffey Cup. The trophy consists of a semi-wooden base (faux donuts pasted to it)—from which rises a shiny thirty (or so)—cup coffee maker, the lid sprouting four inches of a black hockey stick, which is topped by the pièce de résistance, a standard-sized coffee cup emblazoned with none other than the Maple Leaf.

I had intended to pepper this saga with hockey stories of these players who transform the AMHL, an obscure league that might seem like your run-of-the-mill, often over-the-hill collection of hockey players, into a dream league for the common man (and woman). I had chosen to frame the story around one season, adding insight about why each player would drag him- (or herself) out of bed at 5:00 a.m. to brave the darkness, harsh elements, and mad Massachusetts drivers to play a game that likely wouldn’t be witnessed by a single fan. I was going to highlight morning hockey’s allure for all who pay to play in a dimly lit arena and who aren’t destined for the big salaries and bright lights of the NHL. In short, I wanted to write a story for and about those who would never play in the parallel universe called the NHL, but who love hockey as much as Wayne Gretzky or Bobby Orr does.

I hadn’t intended to make this a memoir and include aspects of my humdrum life away from the ice—until Jack Falla told me I owed that much to you—because I hadn’t realized how hockey was, and still is, so much of my life. I couldn’t count how many times I found myself reflecting upon hockey memories. The more I paid attention to the details of the present, the more I flashed back to the collective minutia of my hockey history. The more I immersed myself in the total literary and hockey experience, the more attracted to hockey I became. It didn’t matter whether I was playing or observing others who were tapped into our collective craze.

People ask me about that shining moment when I first fell in love with hockey. I had no such epiphany. Realizing hockey had been in my blood was more a prolonged dawning than a flash of recognition—just like my respect for Canada. Unlike Orr, Gretzky, and most other professional players, I didn’t play the game as a youngster. My earliest hockey memory is as an eight-year-old, watching the Rangers against the Bruins in the 1972 Stanley Cup Finals. I don’t remember a single detail of the game—only that I was with my dad.

I’ll tell you all about my hockey memories, from adolescence to adulthood, later. I can, however, share this much with you now: I was raised in New York, Oklahoma, and Colorado, so I rooted for the Rangers, Blazers, and Rockies. But I grew up in Massachusetts, home of Bruins and the AMHL.

Only from playing in my morning hockey league and writing this book have I learned I’m blessed not only with a wonderful hockey past but also with the chance to make new memories with others, connected through the same passion, in many cases with others who had spent considerable time away from the game, too. I began to marvel at miracles on and off the ice. And I forgave myself.

I also wondered…would I score a goal? Would we win the championship? How might losing affect me? Away from the ice, what would I learn? What kind of characters might I meet on a road trip with my wife to watch a hockey game? How would my affection for Canada fit into the story? Would all this matter to you?

As the season progressed, I stared face to face with my fears, frustrations, and foibles. How I confronted my weaknesses—not only as a hockey player but also as a human being—and how I dealt with the sometimes glorious, sometimes gut-wrenching vicissitudes of life became a key to my happiness. I had already begun a more spiritual journey before joining the AMHL, but being a member of this donut dream league sharpened my focus on that expedition in ways I could not have predicted.

Along this sacred sojourn, I have developed a deeper relationship with my family and have established enduring relationships with Canadians and the glorious game they—and I—treasure most.

I trust that AMHL Glory will affirm or rekindle your passion for hockey (and/or donuts), no matter where you live or whether or not you still play the game.

[1]. Home Ice (Tampa: McGregor Publishing, 2001)