I play ice hockey; have since I was 10. And I’m a goalie. People are always surprised when I tell them this. “You play hockey? …Like on the ice?” No. Like in space. I play on the moon. Anyway, it’s probably just because I look like—and play sports like—a gorilla…so I understand why I don’t seem like I belong on the ice. I forgive you.

But this particular game was special. … I’m on a Sub List at a local rink; people call me when they need subs to fill in when they’re goalie’s out of town. I do it all the time.

I should have known I was in for trouble when the guy from their team called me. He tried five times to say my name before he got it right “Jarmz?, Jinty? Andry? Jartnnee? Jam?” Sure, buddy. Call me Jartnee. I couldn’t understand a fucking word the guy said. I thought he was a telemarketer.

But I wound up at the rink. I walk into the locker room and…Everyone’s Russian. Speaking Russian. Not like, “Oh snap! You’re of the slight Russian heritage too?” This was full-blown, straight off the boat shit. No one was speaking English. Hell, a few guys on the team DIDN’T speak English. And there’s me. Whitey McWonderBread. I didn’t even know at first…I had to ask them what language they were speaking. I thought it was like Armenian or Spanish….or Ebonics.

Again, the red “trouble” light should have gone off when I actually met the man that called me. (his name was either “Lean”, “Gene”, or “Ween”. I have no clue. I couldn’t understand him. But let’s just call him Weenie.). And Weenie told me that they had to kick their last goalie off—and I swear this is true—because he showed up to games too drunk. They said “Now, it’s OK for us to be drunk. Goalie need to be not as drunk.” I guess this last guy guy pushed the limits. Really? When it’s too much drinking for Russian hockey players, maybe the guy has a problem? Maybe you guys should steer him in a better direction with his life? Help him get on the right path?

I digress. So we get on the ice and I immediately realize the trouble I’m in. The level of play is very good, which I can handle, but these guys play NO defense. They weren’t kidding about the drunk thing. It’s all breakaways and odd-man rushes. Literally almost every shot. Breakaway. Or 3-on-1.
But that’s not so much the problem as how insanely violent these guys are. Picture the movie “300” …on ice. Only replace the cool special effects with drunk Russians. Don’t change anything else. It took exactly two minutes and 14 seconds for the first fight to start. After that, the other team was, and remained, pissed off. And it slowly spiraled out of control from there.

People were hitting eachother with the vengange of John McClane on Christmas. Bodies were flying. Penalty minutes ran longer than the actual game. There was a point in the second period where there was 5 guys from each team in the penalty box. No joking.

But all this build-up, all this excitement, was not for nothing. The fireworks show at the end was truly amazing. In fact, the game never actually ended. With about 3 minutes left, there was a full out brawl. People just started fighting. The benches cleared, and people were getting thrown out of the game left and right….Ejected. Off the ice. One after the other. To the point where there wasn’t anyone left. Just me and a few players on the other team.

And in the debacle—One guy on our team actually went after the Referee. Not just a verbal threat (believe me, that was there too), But he actually took a swing at him—hit the guy. I have never seen that in my life. Fighting the ref. Needless to say, I didn’t feel safe either.

Once everyone was thrown off the ice, I made my way into the locker room, where…it was chaos. People screaming, cursing violently in Russian—throwing shit, breaking shit, turning over trash cans. There was literally no English. But I’m sure there was death threats. Lots. In Russian. Needless to say, I was terrified. I had no idea what they were saying. Or what the were plotting. Or against whom. I thought for sure they were going beat me unconscious and do vodka body-shots off my lifeless body.

So I hurried the fuck up, got undressed, said thank you, and was the first one out the door. Weenie was like (first English I’ve heard since the game started), “Ohh Thank you much, Jermzs. I’ll call you. See you soon, huh?” Not if I seen you first Weenie.

The lesson? Next time you get invited to play on a team with Russian mobsters, you should do it. It is certainly an experience I’ll never forget. Just make sure to arrive prepared. Bring a bottle of vodka, ten years of pent up rage, and a can of mace. And next time, maybe I’ll even get “too drunk” before the game. Just to fit in.