Gretzky He’s Not Author’s Try At Underwater Hockey A Last Gasp For Excitement?

Underwater Hockey. It sounds like a remedial Phys Ed class for art students. Or the punchline to a stupid joke. It sounds like just about anything but an actual sport played by intelligent people. But it is, and Australian men have been the reigning world champions of underwater hockey for the last decade.

Underwater hockey, or Octopush, has been a sport since the English - the same people who brought the world cricket - invented it in 1954, perhaps as a way for cricket players to stay in shape in the off season.

Although not as popular as its cousins, ice hockey and field hockey, underwater hockey is making gains. Tens, twenties, perhaps even hundreds of people currently play the game.

How does one play hockey underwater? That’s what I was trying to figure out when I got into a pickup game with the Underwater Hockey Club in Brisbane’s Valley Pool. I’ve played ice hockey for years, I can snorkel, and I usually sink to the bottom when I swim, so I figured I was a natural.

Because only six of us showed up for practice - not the normal 12 required to make two full teams - Jean, the club president, decided we’d play three-on-three, half-pool. She said we had to take the puck back to a designated spot (presumably like the three-point line in underwater basketball) before we could go on the offensive and try to maneuver it into the goal, a 6-foot-wide metal tray on the bottom of a 6-foot-deep pool.

Rand, an Aussie who’s been playing for 14 years, let me borrow some of his gear. I got one of those cute little water polo bonnets with plastic ear protectors, a mask, snorkel and fins. The underwater hockey stick, also called a bat, is much smaller than an ice hockey stick. It looks like someone broke a wooden coat hanger in half and attached a little wristband at one end to keep it from getting away. I wasn’t sure how to hold it, but I figured at least I wouldn’t have to worry much about cross-checking in this game.

The last, and by far most interesting piece of equipment, is the protective glove worn on the bat-holding hand. All the players seem to make their own by coating a cotton garden glove with layers of latex. This gives the glove a yellowish, rubbery look, like someone wiped their nose on the back of it about 3,000 times.

Tim, the most experienced player on my team, explained the basic rules:

Offense: “Try to push the puck along the bottom until you run out of air, then pass it to one of us.”

Defense: “Get the puck back.”

Major “Don’ts”: “Don’t go for the body, just the puck.”

Reassurance: “You shouldn’t have any problems.”

Greg, the other player on my team, normally an ultra-marathoner, told me sometimes there’s fighting.

Underwater.

If this happens, apparently the players have to go to the penalty box. I couldn’t see one around. I just hoped it wasn’t underwater.

When the game started, Greg and Tim let me take the puck (slightly larger than a regular hockey puck, about five times as heavy, coated with plastic and sometimes called a “squid”) down the pool. I pushed it toward the oncoming defense, then stopped to contemplate my next move.

I figured I had about three seconds left before my lungs exploded. With a firm wrist flick, I tried to pass the squid to Greg, but the thing only went about 16 inches before stopping. Evidently, I wouldn’t have to worry about icing in this game. (In fact, a three-yard pass is practically long-distance.) I sprang to the surface for a breath of air while Jean took the puck.

She brought the squid back to the “half-court line,” passed to Rand, and he came down on offense. I swam out to stop him. He paused as I had on offense … and paused … and paused. This guy could hold his breath for three days.

Eventually I popped up for air and Rand continued past me with the squid. Tim and Greg converged on him, and Jean and Kerrie went to his aid. I watched from above, sucking air through my snorkel and waiting for another opening. They looked like five piranhas fighting for a meatball.

I spent a fair amount of time on the surface contemplating where I should swim to next, mostly because it was easier to think while breathing.

If you haven’t gotten the picture yet, I was a horrible player, mainly because I couldn’t hold my breath for more than 15 seconds. Also, I couldn’t get my slap shot going.

I couldn’t tell what was happening half the time, but to the best of my knowledge, we didn’t score a single goal.