Game (back) on

Forty years ago, I would have been one of the best hockey players in the IceHoles-Jackals game last Saturday afternoon at Santa Ana Star Center.

Of course, 40 years ago, only a handful of the players on both teams combined were even alive. Additionally, we would have been in the middle of nowhere, as the Star Center was, circa 1968. We had practiced Thursday from 8-10 p.m., just about the longest two hours of my life. I was walking like Frankenstein the next day.

You see, ice-skating is like riding a bicycle— once you learn, you never forget.

Playing hockey, however, is much different. As we introduced ourselves at center ice, I confessed I hadn’t played hockey since the 1970s.

It wasn’t the only laugh I got that night — some scoffed at my Bauer skates, also from the 20th century.

I thought my best line came when I arrived later than most of my teammates before the big game.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Some fans thought I was Konrad Reeder and I had to sign autographs.”

Hockey fans have no doubt heard of Pittsburgh Penguins standout Sidney Crosby. He was the NHL’s MVP last season.

I didn’t play like him: It w as more like Cathy Crosby.

Growing up in Michigan, I skated at an early age. I remember getting double-runner blades for Christmas one year at the age of 8 or 9 and going skating on a river in Detroit that day — and falling 29 times. (I was anal even then, it seems.)

Soon advancing to single blades, I began playing hockey when I was in the sixth grade, although I was never one of the better players in Fraser, Mich.

I have fond memories of being in a group of 10-12 guys that would pool our resources to get $35 and reserve an hour of ice time at Gordie Howe Hockeyland in nearby St. Clair Shores — we’d play at 4 or 5 a.m., then go back to bed.

And there were numerous holiday vacations when my brother and I would play one-on-one on a local golf course’s small ponds, and at least two winters when we built a small hockey rink in the backyard of a friend’s house.

I remember one winter when it rained, and after the water froze, I could literally skate around the block on the sidewalk; we played hockey on a parking lot at the local elementary school.

I continued to play sporadically through college — I remember playing one day in Ann Arbor when it was 15 degrees — and even occasionally after moving to New Mexico.

In fact, my debut into the media began as a result of playing hockey — which led to some color commentary during some hockey games at Tingley Coliseum, which led to color commentary on Albuquerque Dukes’ weekend home games televised on a tape-delayed basis in 1978, which led to radio and newspaper jobs the following year. (Another story for another time, perhaps.)

I’ve seen pro hockey, of course, with maybe 10-12 Red Wings’ games at old Olympia Stadium, two games attended Maple Leaf Garden in Toronto — and I spent $10 for a standing-room-only ticket in 1972 to see Team Canada play the Russians there.

So, yeah, I know hockey.

Hockey players are great athletes; they must skate fast forward, skate almost as fast backward, be able to shoot (and score), pass the puck and stop on a dime.

They’re not as coordinated as gymnasts, but more so than your typical baseball, football, basketball players —and certainly more talented than golfers.

I only wish I could play as well as I remember once playing.

The media clobbered the IceHoles.

A good time was had by all, with Special Olympics the beneficiary. Nobody was hurt and there was only one fight — two girls got into it, but it was more show than go.

I wish I could have played a bigger (actually, any) role in the outcome. I was an alternate on the fourth line — we had 15 or 16 players on our team, so I got within shooting range of the IceHoles’ goal once each period.

I nearly had a chance to notch the game’s final goal. Peter Olson, the information officer for the State Police, tried to pass the puck from the corner to me in front of the net, but the puck bounced off the goalie and into the net. So close.

The teams may stage a series next season. I’ll be there — but as a reporter/photographer.

I’m hanging up the skates.

Game off.

Gary Herron is a staff writer for The Observer