There’s an indoor skating rink about a half-mile from my house and, for the past couple of years, whenever I pass by, the place whispers to me: Ice Ice Baby, Ice Ice Baby…

First, a little background: I skated regularly throughout my childhood and teen years.  While I was never exactly graceful, I had good balance and could move at a steady clip.  The last time I was on the ice was during college and, after that, my skates were left abandoned in my parents’ basement.  Eventually the leather dried and cracked, and the skates got tossed.

Over the years, I replaced skating with spectating and, as evidenced by my past blog posts, I not only love hockey, I am hopelessly devoted to the Boston Bruins. 

Because my Bruins make it look easy, and because this charming old rink is walking distance from my house, it was only a matter of time before I got the urge to lace up and get back out on the ice.  What better way to get in some cardio and burn a few calories, right?

On a whim, I bought a pair of ice skates.  Then brought them to be sharpened.  And, realizing I was sorely out of practice, and considerably older than the last time I went skating, I picked up a set of knee, elbow, and wrist pads.  I was ready to go.  Ice Ice Baby, Ice Ice Baby.

I skated about twenty minutes before I stumbled.  Suddenly, I was airborne and, arms out-stretched, went leaping through the air as if I were about to dive into a swimming pool.  Only this water was a frozen block of ice.  I came down on my stomach and chest, remaining prostrate and stunned until a nice stranger helped me up.

The pain was immediate and sharp and I figured I’d pulled a muscle in my arm.  I left the rink and, as soon as I got home, I reached for the Ice Ice Baby.  The next day, when I couldn’t move my arm at all, I sought medical care.  Turns out I fractured my shoulder.  Specifically, the ball joint of my humerus bone.  Note the spelling: that’s humerus, not humorous.  Because there is nothing funny about it.

For the past week I’ve been mostly immobile, sprawled out on my chaise, popping ibuprofen for the pain, and eating ice cream because, clearly, I need more calcium in my diet.  The one thing that could drag me from the chaise and back out into the world?  Tickets to the Bruins/Vancouver game.

As my brother and I approached the Garden, I spotted the bronze statue of Bobby Orr that immortalizes his famous “flying goal.”  Pointing to the statue, I exclaimed, “Hey, that’s what I did!  I went flying through the air just like Bobby Orr!”

Only Bobby Orr didn’t suffer a fracture.  He scored the over-time goal that won the Bruins the 1970 Stanley Cup Championship.  Ice Ice Baby!