The Bubble.

The transition to fall was apparent in the cool September breeze on my face walking home after the first set of classes. Life was somewhat dull, despite a full year on the docket. I still felt the repercussions of covid weighing on my social life, leaving me with more anxiety about the upcoming year than excitement. I needed a change of pace, an addition to my university life, so junior year wasn’t just another checkbox on the road towards graduation.
 
Then a text hit my phone. “I was wondering if you’d still be interested in playing hockey this year,” Cal asked me, head coach of the division three club ice hockey team.
 
“Our goalie situation is dire, so I’d love to get you on board” he bluntly admitted.
 
My heart raced in excitement at the opportunity. I was in no shape to be a goalie on a club team though. My gloves were ripped, and my helmet was the same rusty bucket I had been using since 2015.
 
I did not know what the future would entail but agreed and without much time ponder got ready for the first practice that evening.
 
The captain gave me a ride to the rink twenty minutes from the Ann Arbor campus, a route I know like the back of my hand now. We arrived and I embarrassingly rolled my bag into the rink, completely aware of the stigma around rolling vs carrying in higher level hockey. Despite the heavy weight and bulkiness of gear, especially for a goalie, a bag should be carried like a professional. It is a tell that a player is less skilled before you even step on the ice, and my cards were showing.
 
We walked into the rink through the back entrance and headed to the private locker room, proudly identified with the block M on the door. Inside was a massive room with nearly thirty individual stalls for players, marked by their nameplates and numbers.
 
It was so cool and professional, a complete contrast to my experience in the makeshift floor hockey setups. For years, I got dressed on a folding chair in a crammed gym locker room. Random people came and went as they pleased to use the bathroom, even while our coach divulged the game plans. This was a different vibe.
 
Despite the disparities from floor hockey, I utilized some of the same mental exercises that propelled me to excellence in my unknown Jewish sport. I focused my mind and got ready.

It didn’t help.
 
On the ice, I got destroyed. The skill gap was inconceivable. Pucks lasered past me without even catching a glimpse. Players must’ve though I was the worst goalie. But what they didn’t understand is we came from different worlds; They all played for elite ice hockey programs around the country, while my ice hockey story ended before middle school.
 
My entire hockey experience in the last decade was in a counterfeit Yeshiva League version, with skills barely transposable to the ice. Floor hockey took place on a court with sneakers, not ice with skates. The nets were dramatically smaller in Yeshiva. Sliding, shuffling, T-pushing and many other elementary ice hockey goalie movements were nonexistent. Even the vehicle of the sport was a ball instead of a puck.
 
Yes, I played ice hockey recreationally, throughout high school and college, where my rudimentary skills and insufficient equipment was serviceable and adequate. Not here.
 
That first practice was a massive wakeup call to that fact I had been living in a bubble. I was an All-Star, championship goalie in the MYHSAL , but it meant nothing here.
 
If their situation was “dire” before my arrival, it was certainly not much better with me there. I only had one goal for that first practice: see another day. I worked to be just enough to avoid a one-and-done and earn another invitation from coach. The relatively light skate drained me of a week’s worth of energy. Running on reserve fuels and with dim vision, I hobbled off the ice at the end.
 
My face was red, and I sat drenched in two pints of sweat. The effort was enough for a return invite. I felt accomplished, despite the fact I knew they had no other options.
 
I was determined though to make the most of the opportunity.
 
One practice turned into a few and slowly I found myself deeply embedded in the team, although not really. Two things prevented a full integration:
 
The skill gap and my religion.
 
Each day I took it upon myself to get just a little better. To pick up a tip here and there. To slowly get in better shape and get comfortable in higher caliber hockey.
 
Like a rusting car being remodeled, I slowly upgraded my equipment – both because of safety and performance. The chest protector that soundly deflected plastic floor hockey balls stood no chance against blazing rubber pucks. I lost my wind on any abdominal save and left practice bruised up and down my arms. My helmet was too small, seven years expired passed the safety warning from its purchase.
 
Despite an initial learning curve with a completely new set of equipment, the upgrades put me in a much better place to excel. Nonetheless, I never felt confident in net. I always felt like I had something to prove; and I wasn’t wrong. As a goalie, basically learning how to play the game again from scratch, I never earned a crack at the starting position. Throughout the entire year, I served as backup goalie. Frustrating as that could be, I came to the realization that the chance to improve daily, surrounded by high skill, was all I could have ever asked for.
 
Things got tricky, however, when my love for hockey started to contradict with Judaism.
 
I was the only observant Jew on the team and clearly most of the guys did not interact with anyone of my kind in their lifetime. They loosely knew some of the stereotypical laws – no bacon, no shellfish, etc – but had little understanding for the intricacies of the religion.
 
Games were scheduled on the Sabbath, and nobody seemed to understand why that was an issue. I remember vividly going into the coaches’ office to try and explain my traditions. It was all so foreign to them.
 
Me: Sundown Friday to three stars Saturday I cannot use electronics.
Coach: Just this week?
Me: Every week.
Coach: For the rest of your life? *He chuckled*
Me: Yes *Reciprocating the smile*
 
Like coach, the rest of the team had trouble grasping the concepts of my religion. Early in the season, for example, our team had a major trip planned to Colorado. On Friday morning, we eagerly headed to DTW, thrilled at the idea that this away game wouldn’t just be another tedious car ride to an obscure college on the outskirts of Michigan.
 
We checked in all thirty hockey bags and sticks, cleared security, and settled comfortably at the gate by midday. Everything was going smoothly until the gate speakers announced a delay for our flight. Despite it being early in the day, Sabbath was approaching, and the plane was nowhere in sight. The time kept getting pushed back on the gate monitor, reminiscent of the Waze ETA into Manhattan on a Sunday evening.
 
As the delay crept close to the Sabbath, my heart began to pound. It felt like a test from God. I knew if I got on that plane in violation of the Sabbath, it was going down. I approached the coach, explained the situation swiftly, and with a nod of approval prepared to leave. My teammates were baffled, but I didn’t have time to explain. I’ll always remember the humorous line someone shouted when I announced my departure:
 
Me: Alright, I’m out guys.
Friend: What do you mean you’re out? This isn’t Shark Tank!
 
I attempted to explain, but it seemed futile. I just told them, “Sabbath, can’t do it.” The airline allowed me to retrieve my bag, and I drove home as the sun set. The drive home was somewhat depressing, feeling a pit in my stomach for leaving my teammates.
 
Twenty-five minutes later back on campus, I dropped my bags from my trip to nowhere, grabbed a Kippah (head covering), and hurried over to the Jewish Resource Center, where they welcomed me with opens arms for Friday night dinner. My heart found warmth within my satellite Jewish Bubble. It was unusual contrast, having been so committed to spending the weekend in Colorado and then sitting down to enjoy a bowl of matzo ball soup alongside Jewish friends.
 
As the season wore my teammates picked up more on my habits and customs. The season cap at Nationals in Marlborough, MA was a true test of my character and cemented their understanding of my dietary restrictions. For over two weeks, we lived out of a Fairfield Inn. My meals consisted of chips, pasta, and bread. The Jimmy Johns and other fast food non-Kosher dining establishments did not work for me. I managed and survived.
 
When considering my entire situation, my unsung idol is Jacob Steinmetz. We’ve never met, but he grew up just like me. He went to Hebrew Academy of the Five Towns (HAFTR), another school in the Yeshiva League, a place my father coached floor hockey for several years, and the alma matter of many friends. It is very much entrenched in the Bubble.
 
Jacob has become an inspiration as a baseball stud who became the first Orthodox Jew to be drafted by an MLB organization. He faces similar challenge as I do, outlined wonderfully by an article in the Washington Post, How the first Orthodox Jew in an MLB organization is making it work. It touches on many interesting complications we both face; Questions like, “Would he be able to keep kosher while making his way through the small towns that populate the minor [leagues]?” and “Could professional baseball and Orthodox Judaism coexist?”
 
Another line that struck a chord was, “The tiny stops in the California League are hardly Jewish enclaves, and being an Orthodox Jew on that circuit can be lonely. It also can be complicated.” Those foreign nights in Saginaw, Michigan or Indianapolis, Indiana have evoked that same sense of loneliness for me, even amidst thirty-plus friendly teammates.
 
Despite the constant moral measurements and decisions, I owe my entire life to hockey. It has always been more than just a sport to me. It has been a vessel to learn more about myself, to learn more about the world and its people. I always knew this fact, but it become most apparent over these past few years of college.
 
My experience in Michigan began on a challenging note due to the social constraints imposed by Covid-19. If it wasn’t for hockey, I wouldn’t have made it through. My father, who earned a NY Emmy Award for ‘Outstanding Interactivity’ while covering the New York Rangers’ 2014 playoff run, has always had strong ties to the game of hockey. It is undoubtably thanks to him that my brother and I developed our addiction for the sport. With strong connection in the game, he managed to secure credential for me with the Detroit Red Wings to cover the team and contribute notes and ideas to the daily online publication.
 
The forty-minute drives to Detroit were just as lonely as my doom room in South Quad, the opportunity helped pass the time and regain a sense of importance in life. Despite the eerie emptiness of the arena due to attendance restrictions, having access made me feel significant as one of the few allowed inside.
 
Recreational hockey, although just once-a-week, also gave me something to look forward to, a reason to stay in shape, and an opportunity for social interaction.
 
As the covid-19 restrictions relaxed and life returned to normalcy, I still had a hole in my life. The club hockey team, while leaves me lonely and isolated at times in my religion, overwhelmingly has filled that gap of emptiness and has healed my mental despairs. It has created a social network for me beyond appreciation.
 
It gives me something to do 2-4 nights of the week with practice and games. It takes me to cool places. Living with four teammates has brought a positive change, and I find myself not just navigating through the days but truly appreciating each passing moment.
 
My junior year was unforgettable because of club hockey. I started the year on the couch with a dwindling hockey career, but by March I was a national champion!
 
Senior year has been much more enjoyable. Despite maintaining my role as backup goalie, the noticeable improvement over the last year and a half has been commended by both coaches and players. I work extremely hard to get better every day. In addition to the weekly regiment of practices and games, I skate privately with our goalie coach during the latest and only available ice slot at the rink, often extending past 11:30pm – an expression of my relentless dedication to improve.
 
This hard work has made me truly feel apart of the team and band of brothers. While I may not hold the spotlight as the star captain like my Yeshiva league floor hockey days, I take comfort in the realization that I have made significant strides.
 
Hockey, extending beyond the familiar boundaries of the Bubble, has not only allowed me to share my experiences but has also enriched my understanding of diverse cultures and people. These invaluable experiences will stay with me for life. The sport has instilled in me a deep appreciation for teamwork and the pursuit of collective goals. While granting me the taste of success, it has also cultivated an enduring motivation to consistently improve and refine my skills.
 
Moreover, hockey has been a powerful teacher in handling adversity, guiding me to overcome challenges to the best of my abilities. Above all, this sport has played a pivotal role in fortifying my identity and shaping my values, fostering a sense of pride in the person I have become.