I�m one of them, a legend in my own mind. Gretzky and Lemieux can�t even come close to my speed or prowess with a stick, let alone my good looks and potential for lucrative endorsement contracts. Sure, I�m 40-plus, but many NHL rookies started at that age. The fact that they were all coaches is incidental.

I�ve shrewdly convinced my wife that I only play hockey to prevent a coronary, which would leave her widowed with a carload of rink-rats. �I�m doing this for you dear!� I shout, donning the latest NHL expansion-team cap, as I head for the door. I drag two meticulously taped sticks (one cracked) and a hockey bag the size of a four-man tent with me to the car.

At the arena, I proceed to the closet, labeled �dressing room.� The stench of sweat, mildew and liniment quickly clears my frosted nostrils. It�s time to prepare for battle.

Opening the bag, I peel apart my sweaty long johns which froze in the garage like a Stanfield icicle. Balancing on one foot, I acrobatically slip into my tattered jock. A cramped teammate to the left unintentionally elbows me in the ribs when his shredded shoulder-strap breaks. To the right, the sprawling goaltender unwittingly jabs a buckle into my not-yet-padded derriere. I haven�t even stepped on the ice and already I need the first-aid room.

In the spectral array of equipment, tonight I�m playing on the Mostly-Red Team, with two yellows and an orange, against the Almost-All-Blue Team, plus one black. I hope their goalie shows, because otherwise we�re playing against �The Sweater.� It�s mortifying. It just hangs from that net, with an attitude no-less, waiting to be tested. If only my stick would raise the darned puck better. That rag reeks, flutters and stones me every time I shoot. It�s Vezina-trophy awesome!

Twenty-seven layers of tape fortify my ankles and finally I�m dressed. I slump to the bench, lulled into a trance by the rumble of the Zamboni and the late hour. There�s got to be a better way to do this.

How do rich people play hockey? My mind conjures up decadent images.

� Rich people play hockey at a time of day when they are normally awake.

� Rich people have every NHL hockey sweater (even the Senators), with socks to match.

� Rich people use Gucci equipment bags made of fine Corinthian leather.

� Rich people have reserved private dressing-suites.

� Rich people employ locker room valets.

� Rich people use custom-made hockey sticks that weren�t purchased on sale at a gas station.

� Rich people bring their own opposition goalies, who let them score on every shot.

� Rich people install little trampolines at the bench to help them jump over the boards when they�re tired.

� Rich people pipe oxygen and Perrier right to the bench.

� Rich people send their equipment to a laundry service.

� Rich people don�t repair their worn equipment, they simply throw it away.

� Rich people leave cash in their pants in the dressing room and don�t worry.

� At the end of the night, rich people never search for pucks shot off the ice.

� Rich people play in arenas with enough hot water for showers for the whole team.

But then... �Hey. Wake up!� And I�m over the boards for the next shift.