The Bubble.

Elastic bands, hamstrings, groins, quads, calves, ankles, hips, arms, shoulders, forearms; A routine superstitiously precise in its repetition. Isolated in the Lawrence Middle School hallway, nobody dare talk to me. The electric dance music of my Soundcloud “Tech 2.0” got the juices flowing, but the transition to “One” kicked off the Metallica playlist and signified gametime.

 

Once the body was loose and mind rocking out, it was time for my circus act. I juggled three bright green tennis balls off the wall, dialing in the hand-eye. My tunnel vision wouldn’t allow my eyes stray away, but I could feel the questioning looks from the bystanders piercing through my periphery. Blocking them out just helped me lock in more. They say hockey goalies are weird, especially pregame, but they just don’t understand.

 

I topped my Red Bull and headed to the locker room to suit up. As I walked through the hallway lined with blue lockers and a screeching clean floor, it felt funny to consider the idea of just another day ensuing a few hours from then. The Yeshivah league rented this public-school gym for our annual championship because it had greater and provided a neutral site. Over the years, it had become a floor hockey sanctuary, embroidered with years of championship history.

I tugged my jersey taut and centered the logo. “My World” coursed out the headphones and into my veins.

 

It was time.

 

I led the squad out the tunnel and onto the big stage. It was surreal to take the court with my brother – objectively the league’s best player at the time. The rich history of the gym added pressure, but we would not implode now. Not after everything we worked towards this season.

 

The ball was dropped, and my brother took over. One goal, two goals, three goals, four goals, five goals. This guy really went out and scored five goals in the championship!

 

We won 5-1.

 

On the shoulders of my brother, we handled business on the brightest stage, earning the first varsity floor hockey championship in program history. I’d like to feel like I played a part, slamming the door shut on our end of the floor – but Gordie truly stole the show, as he did his whole career.

 

https://www.riverdalepress.com/stories/sar-wins-first-ever-hockey-championship,65260

 

It is hard to think back to when it all started. Like dual curriculum and kosher dining, floor hockey just existed in my world and was normal for us. Only later did I question the uniqueness of the sport, given that only Jews seemed to play it in an organized fashion.

 

My origins really stem from my father.

 

I remember riding around on his golf cart at a young age, soaking in the five-day, hockey camp extravaganza. Before I was born, my dad and his pal decided to start an end of summer minicamp. It was only for Jews, and its only activity was floor hockey.

 

It was insane. And quite genius.

 

A few weeks before school, tri-state Yeshiva League hockey players shipped up to Pennsylvania for a floor hockey extravaganza. Kids were divided into teams that were carefully crafted to equally disperse the skills within their respective age group. Then quickly the action began.

 

Each team played three games per day, Monday through Thursday. After ‘regular season,’ playoffs ensued. It was a crazy scene, especially as the camp winded down. As teams were knocked out of competition, they gathered around the other games and the buzz grew.

 

On Friday, while the coach busses waited to bring everyone home, the championship took place. The bunks were empty and place closing – so the entire camp packed around the game.

 

It was truly grueling on the body playing so much hockey within a short time span. Add in the heat of the summer since these games were played outdoors on concrete rinks and dehydration was a big factor. I recall year after year coming home unable to move for several days, bruises spotted up and down my body.

 

There was truly nothing like it.

 

Although Camp Dovid was not officially affiliated with the MYHSAL (Metropolitan Yeshiva High School Athletic League), it essentially served as a formal training camp for the season. It was a hub for Yeshiva League socialization, where I could get to know fellow Jewish kids from across the NY/NJ areas.

 

When the season rolled around, playing against familiar names made it extra fun and competitive. That familiarity contributed to what makes The Bubble, a bubble. Everybody always knows someone through the grapevine.

 

The sport really was so unique and were so immersed.

 

The battles were legit. Players locked in and took it to heart. Me the most.

 

I spent years perfecting a craft that didn’t exist. But I’ll never regret it. That was all I knew, and I made the most out of it by being the best player possible. I gained unbelievable memories that will last a lifetime.

 

One game during our championship run was a marquee matchup between our sizzling hot team and the defending champion DRS. It was an all-boys school, which meant hostile environment. We loaded the yellow school busses and made the far trip to Woodmere from the Bronx. It was more quiet than usual.

 

We pulled up late and had to rush. But I couldn’t rush a ritualistic process. Elastic bands, hamstrings, red bull… then I was ready. DRS was out for warmups well before us. An antsy cloud of murmurs filled the gym air. We didn’t care – we just did our thing.

 

Each team returned to their locker rooms after warmups. Coach pepped us up and stepped out. The pregame ceremony began. Everyone bucked their helmets and gathered by the door. We cranked the speaker up while the fog heated up. There was no way were undefeated without this process.

 

DRS were first to take the court. They gathered around the net hyping each other up, knowing what was at stake. Half the crowd lined the entrance to the rink, ready to shame us with boos. The other half roared the patented chant from the stands. One guy yelled “DRS on the droppppp!” Every followed with a loud “Ohhhhh!” Then altogether: “D-R-S! D-R-S! D-R-S!”

 

Adir hit play on the speaker. Joe fired off the fog. Our locker room was like LIV in Miami.

Then at the peak of all this madness, it all came to a screeching halt. The fire alarm was detonated. We all knew right away and began to laugh. DRS was puzzled – it through a wrench right through their mojo. Same with the crowd.

 

Everyone emptied the building moments before the tensest matchup in recent school histories. We stood with our equipment loose and ready to go.

 

Eventually we got the all-clear and everyone returned to the gym. The fans tried to reignite their team before the opening faceoff: “DRS on the droppp.” They roared, but we were stoic and played our game.

 

It was a close back and forth battle, but our championship roster found a way to scrap out the 2-1 victory.

 

Coach announced me game ball and we all danced to a blaring “Fire Burning” by Sean Kingston. The ball sits above my desk at home with the date, score and “911” scribed on it – capturing the unforgettable memories of a massive victory and humorous pregame antics gone wrong.

 

Most people look confused when I try to explain floor hockey. Probably because it is inexplainable. But I know what it is, and I know what it has meant to me.