Thursday, March 1, 2018

SHARPENING PRICES

We've always tried to keep our prices as competitive as possible. As such we've offered the same low price on skate sharpening since 2011. Due to increases in employee wages and operating expenses, we will be aligning our prices more closely with what our competitors charge.

On March 31, 2018 our skate sharpening price will increase to $7.00. The sharpening PASS price will increase to $56.00 for 10 sharpenings. This increase will not affect your current sharpening pass. AND until the price increase goes into effect, you may purchase sharpening passes at the current price up to a maximum of 50 sharpenings on your pass.

We firmly believe that our sharpening process and quality is far superior to any other. Even with the price increase, we have no doubt this is still the best value in the area. We look forward to continuing putting the Best Sharpening in the Universe on your skates!


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© 2018 Scott Noble. 
All Rights reserved. Reproduction of this article in whole or part is strictly prohibited without the author's prior express written permission.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Remembering Butchy

Meeting Butch
          It seems like everyone who knew Butchy remembers the first time they met him. For me, I was working in my first hockey job, selling gear. The owner asked me to help this big, friendly guy find a new pair of skates. He was affable . . . nope, that doesn't even come close . . . he was enthusiastically gregarious. If I didn't know better, I would have thought I'd known him for years. Butchy told me I was fitting him for his last pair of free skates. Certain that my penny-pinching employer wasn't giving anyone anything for free I asked, "How's that?"
         Butch told me the NHL was paying for them. Given the big guy's . . . erm, decidedly non-athletic build, it didn't make sense until he told me he was an official. Working the big show is something a guy could brag about. That wasn't Butch. He just was making conversation. Having met him about 5 minutes earlier I knew he wasn't bragging. I instantly liked him, but little did I know how much I'd come to appreciate him.
          I've been thinking a lot about Butch these last days. I came to a realization. The presence of a referee is not unlike that of a waiter:
  • A bad one often ruins the evening.
  • A good one is nearly invisible.
  • A great one almost always improves the event
          Butch's presence on the ice made every game better. He always brought a smile. He was quick with a compliment. Somehow he made time to visit guys on the bench without missing a call on the ice. He did so much more than just that though.




He Kept Us Sane
It's a rare referee who has such control over a game that participants never seem to lose their control. In several years goal-tending in a league where Butch was frequently our referee, this was certainly the case. Butch was always quick with the right word or proper question to diffuse a situation before it actually became one. Guys who were bordering on angry often ended up laughing at themselves as Butch escorted them to the sin bin.
          This was a phenomenon I strictly attribute to Butch. Games he didn't ref those seasons were very different. One kid, certainly a bit immature to be reffing angry adult-league players, was famous for escalating tensions on the ice. When a player questioned a call the kid tended to resort to swearing and name calling. Nothing diminishes tensions like being heckled by the official. Well perhaps nothing except having a guy return to the bench, his sentence served, answering his own question, "You know what that ref said to me? He called me a . . . " (Sorry, if you're not accustomed to sarcasm I likely lost you there . . . also I'm not actually sorry about being sarcastic).
          Even without that type of provocation things often went sideways without Butch. One memorable game sans Butch involved all ten skaters on the ice in an all out brawl. While ten guys pummeled one another with more than harsh words I looked on from my end. The other goalie, Al, skated to my side of center, away from the fracas. With a huge smile on his face, he tossed off his gloves. We mocked our teammates by attempting to pull the jerseys over each other's heads.
          When Butchy was around, things like that just didn't happen. I remember one game when Butch was partnered with a less talented partner (to protect his identity I shall call this other official Blind Mustachio). Playing defense rather than keeper that night, I was the victim of a terrible call. Mark, a guy on the other team had gotten behind me and was breaking to our net. I was so far behind him I probably couldn't have hit him with my stick if I threw it. However, as Mark drew back the puck to shoot, I lunged. This was done with the desperate hope my stick would appear in his peripheral vision and somehow terrify him. I doubt he even saw it leering at him from ten feet back. But lo and behold, he managed to trip himself up, lost the puck, lost his feet and crashed headlong into the boards. I picked up the puck; a whistle instantly blew. I skated to Mark, a longtime friend, to ask if he was OK. Blind Mustachio pointed in our general vicinity yelling, "Get in the box."
          Both of us looked at each other unsure to whom he was talking. In unison we asked, "Who me?"
          Blind Mustachio pointed to me, "Two minutes tripping."
          "What?!"
           I don't remember another call so bad that a member of the team it benefited protested, but Mark complained even more vehemently than I. "I just tripped! He wasn't anywhere near me."
           "Easiest call I'll make all night. I could have seen that from a hundred miles away." the ref replied.
          I went to the box, no doubt shaking my head. When my team managed to clear the puck, Butch skated slowly by. He showed me thumbs up, thumbs down then gave a questioning shrug. I replied with an enthusiastic thumbs down. He gave an apologetic smile and skated back to work. Later when I had returned to the bench and Butch was patrolling the blue line he told me, "I figured that was a bad one, Scotty. I never heard you complain about a call."
          In another instance, the other team managed to skate for almost a minute with an extra player on the ice. This wasn't the sort of thing Butch tended to miss, but it was an odd situation. Somehow the sixth guy jumped on the ice during the first shift. Even with the extra skater, my team kept them pinned in the other end. I was screaming, "Six skaters on white! Six skaters on white!" At the other end of the ice all anyone could have heard was Charlie Brown's dad swearing loudly. When there was a whistle and shift change I skated to my center to inform him of the missed infraction.
          Minutes later when the other team finally visited our end, Butchy skated to the side of my net. The action was pretty lively in our end. I was trying to focus on the game. Admittedly, I can be a bit chirpy when I'm in net. But, I tend to quietly down when giving the appropriate attention to action near my net (go figure). Nonetheless, as players and the puck were cycling around me, Butch said, "Six guys for a full minute huh? Your team just had the worst line change I ever saw. There were like eighteen guys on the ice there and I let you slide. Can we call it even?"
          In the midst of the action, he came to my net to essentially crack a joke. Even with imminent shots which needed to be saved, I couldn't help but laugh. That was classic Butch and it was how he kept tempers cool.

He Kept us Safe
          Most of my experience on the ice with Butch was as a goalie. Even in net I'd hear him warning guys, "Heads up," or "Take it easy." He wasn't just there to enforce the rules. He was there to keep players from injuries which could be avoided. He was pretty good at it in my opinion.
          I was extremely thankful that he was there one night. I took point-blank snapper right in the gap between my pads and thigh guard. The bruise it created would eventually fall short of wrapping all the way around my thigh by about half an inch. Needless to say it hurt. I had come out pretty far to make the save. Immediately, the pain reduced me to crawling. The puck had rebounded toward the open side. I was far too tenacious (that's goalie lingo for stupid) to give up. I was less worried about the oddity of my current orientation, which left my ribs, legs, and neck rather exposed, than I was about the imminent threat of a goal against. I crabbed painfully toward the battle for the puck. Butch spotted my predicament at once and blew the whistle. With my relief dawned the realization that I probably would have taken a bigger thrashing if I attempted to make another save.

We didn't always pay him back in kind
          My favorite two stories about messing with a ref involve Butch. They both go together. I attest that they both were unintentional.
          The first story involved a breakaway. My opponent was skating hard. He shot from pretty far out. I gloved the shot. As it should be, he continued to skate--crashing my net. So, I held up my glove. The act was about 50% "Ha! Stopped you!" and 50% "Please don't fall on me and tear my hamstring." Seeing my Statue of Liberty impression, Butch blew the whistle. The shooter threw his stick in the air yelling a single agitated obscenity. I turned around to see that the puck was actually resting a foot behind me. Without the premature whistle my opponent would have had an unimpeded path to the net.
         Butchy skated to my net, clearly chagrined at his bad whistle. "Why'd you hold your hand up, Scotty? I thought you had the puck."
         I apologized, "Sorry, I thought I had the puck too."
         Not coincidentally, the second story also involved a breakaway. In fact it was one week later when almost the exact same situation materialized. I faced a shot on a breakaway. It hit my glove, but as the guy crashed the net, I wasn't sure where the puck ended up. Not wanting to cause Butch another faux pas, I looked everywhere to determine the location of the evil little piece of rubber. It wasn't behind me, but I had no idea where it could have landed. After an excruciatingly long time, Butch blew the whistle. He skated over to me and asked, "Where's the puck?"
         I stood up. I looked in the normal places pucks try to hide. I tried to shake it out of my pads. Eventually I shrugged. "I have no idea."
         "Open your glove."
         I did. To my surprise the puck was there. Butch shook his head. "You're killing me, Scotty."
         Yeah, sorry about that Butch.

Farewell, my friend
         I'd say I was privileged to count Butch as a friend. But honestly, it wasn't as rare a thing as privilege implies. Butch was a friend to almost everyone he met. He was that rare person who loved everyone and found that love reciprocated. Still he was such a kindhearted, genuine person that even lacking any rarity, it was a privilege.
         A bit of light seems to have faded from this world without Butch. The smile Butch always wore leaves a void which will be impossible to fill completely. Butch's time on earth was all too brief. His departure was too sudden. Our hearts feel slow at the random, nonsensical nature of his demise. But, I don't think that our hearts have emptied nearly as much as they were previously filled from knowing Butch.
          I found myself breaking the news of Butch's passing to a customer as I was sharpening his skates. Like me, he found it heart wrenching. He was clearly broken up. But before I finished his skates we'd swapped several remembrances of Butch. We were both laughing. In the end he left smiling. And in the end I was smiling as well. Maybe that's the whole take away here. Yeah, if we sit and ruminate on the fact that he's gone, it's like a kick in the gut. It's going to make us sad. It might make us angry. It won't be pleasant. But if we remember him, that bit of light which seems to have faded from the world is still there. Every time we remember him with a fond smile and a chuckle, there's still a bit of Butch in the world.
          Farewell, my friend. I'm thankful to have been among the privileged many.





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© 2016 Scott Noble. 
All Rights reserved. Reproduction of this article in whole or part is strictly prohibited without the author's prior express written permission.


Wednesday, April 22, 2015

I bet you didn't know you were breaking your skates!

Here's a really quick tip:

Most people take off their skates like they would a pair of shoes. They don't even realize that they are pushing on the weakest part of the boot: the tendon guard. It's an issue that every brand has struggled with at times. Some are better than others. Some will fall off no matter how carefully you treat them. But no matter what, the tendon guard should never be used as a handle to take off your skates.

Instead, use both hands to push on either side of the boot. That way you don't have to worry about them ending up like this:


Of course if you do manage to break a tendon guard, we can make a much prettier repair than the one pictured above . . . it's just one of the many things we fix at Rocket Skate.


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© 2015 Scott Noble. 
All Rights reserved. Reproduction of this article in whole or part is strictly prohibited without the author's prior express written permission.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Basketball Size Tape Rolls and Free Sticks!?

There is an odd, hockey myth floating about—if you bring a ball of tape the size of a basketball to the shop you get a free stick. It's been going strong for at least 8 years. That's how long I've been hearing it at least once a month from some poor kid who has taken it for truth. I can only guess that some older kid, perhaps a one-time believer who was pranked by an older kid himself, hands the story down to the next generation. I imagine the conversation goes something like this:

FADE IN:

EXT: HOCKEY RINK – DAY

Two kids, hockey players, are waiting for a ride. The younger one is peeling the tape off of his stick. The older one puts away his phone, seems bored.

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
Hey, don't throw that tape away.

YOUNGER FOOLISH KID
Why not? It's not good for nothin'

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
You seriously don't know? I'll take it if you don't
want it.

YOUNGER FOOLISH KID
I know I can dangle better than you if I put new
tape on my stick. What do you want it for?

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
You can't even dangle in your dreams. I shouldn't
even tell you how to get a free stick with old tape.

YOUNGER FOOLISH KID
                                                         (jumping up and dancing about)
What! A free stick? Tell me! Tell me! You gotta tell me!

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
You're an idiot. I'm not going to tell you

YOUNGER FOOLISH KID
(drops to his knees to beg)
Aw come on, you gotta tell me. Please, please, please!

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
Fine, but don't tell anyone I told you about it.

YOUNGER FOOLISH KID
OK

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
You have to promise. I'll pulverize you if you tell.

YOUNGER FOOLISH KID
Fine. I promise. Now tell me.

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
OK, here's the deal. If you bring a ball of used hockey
tape the size of a basketball to the hockey shop they
have to give you a free stick.

YOUNGER FOOLISH KID
(Standing up)
Really? Which hockey shop?

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
Oh, all of them do it. It's an industry requirement.
They have to recycle the tape and give you a stick
when you bring a ball that big. The EPA makes them
do it. The shops don't like people to know about it,
that's why you can't tell anyone I told you.

YOUNGER FOOLISH KID
                                                        (more dancing about)
                                               Awesome! I'm gonna tell everyone.

OLDER DEVIOUS KID
                                                          (smiles knowingly)
                                               Hey, just remember to leave my name out

FADE TO BLACK

Getting the entire community involved would make for a lot of victims in this prank

There are a couple of devious elements to this myth. First, and most obvious: there is no hockey store giving away a free stick for a ball of garbage. What would the benefit be to the store? Why would they want used tape? Anyone who thought this through, ergo anyone over the age of say 8 to 10 years, would realize that this is a hoax.

The second element is the truly clever one. A basketball sized roll of tape doesn't seem impossibly large. A basketball isn't something we think of a big or heavy. However, if you put this into perspective, the amount of tape in a thirty-inch circumference ball is pretty staggering. My best estimate is that the ball would take approximately 100 rolls of tape to complete. The total length of tape in such a ball would be in the ballpark of a mile and a half long.

So let's put all of this into a final perspective. The end goal of this myth is to prank the younger foolish kid into hauling around an ever growing ball of trash. If he miraculously makes it to the end, he has a ball which takes up about a third of his hockey bag and weighs almost twenty five pounds. When he lugs it into the hockey shop his reward will be a blank stare followed by the people behind the counter asking him, “Who told you that kid?”

Of course the kids can never answer the question when they come in the shop. It's always, “I just heard,” or “someone told me.” The only flaw in the prank is the perpetrator of it misses the final letdown. For the poor kid who has collected tape for five years, begging scraps from his teammates and carried significant extra tonnage in his bag the only bit of grace is that the older devious kid isn't about to laugh at him.

Anyway, here's the deal from my end. We don't give away free sticks for tape balls. However, if you bring your old tape in the shape and size of an adult hockey stick to the shop. We will give you a free basketball. (Please note the important details below):

  1. Your tape stick must feature a shaft length of at least 52 inches
  2. The blade may be left or right handed, but must feature the authentic Ovechkin curve. We will measure the lie, depth and curve of the stick to verify
  3. You must unravel and re-assemble the tape stick in the presence of a shop employee so that we can verify the stick was indeed made completely of tape
  4. Your tape stick must have a flex rating of at least 65
  5. You must bring your sales receipts showing purchase of at least 75 rolls of tape from Rocket Skate
  6. Your basketball will be delivered to your provided mailing address as we do not stock basketballs. Shipping time will take anywhere from 5 days to 18 years. We cannot be responsible for items lost in transit
As long as we're on the subject of tape, we're still carrying the same top quality tape, but our prices have been reduced. Clear and White are now $2.50 a roll and Black is only $3 a roll (those prices are even more awesome that you think because they include tax).

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© 2015 Scott Noble. 
All Rights reserved. Reproduction of this article in whole or part is strictly prohibited without the author's prior express written permission.

Friday, February 27, 2015

The Road to the Doghouse

She sat beside me in the car as it crept slowly eastward on the snow-covered tarmac of I-70. Traffic was light, but that was because of the blinding blizzard which we were braving. Only the intrepid and foolhardy were making this trek. I'd count myself among the former; she would have insisted I was the later. I'd mistakenly believed conditions would be better once we'd made our subterranean crossing of the Great Divide through the Eisenhower Tunnel. Disappointingly, the swirling barrage of white did not abate on the Atlantic side of the continent. My only real fear was that they'd close the highway before we made it though.



“I don't know how to make you understand,” I told her.

“Maybe I don't want to understand.” she replied. “Maybe I just want to take a weekend trip without the car smelling like cat urine. . .”

“Hey, my gear doesn't smell like cat urine.”

“ . . . maybe I want you to think about our safety instead of about missing your game. Maybe I would have rather taken a sick day tomorrow and skied another day than ride home in a blizzard because you want to play hockey. And you're right, cat urine smells better than your gear.”

“That's a lot of maybes. You don't sound too sure of what you want.” I shouldn't have said it. Even though my tone was even, I'd carefully aimed the words knowing they'd push a button.

She was quiet for a moment. The only sounds were the rush of air from the Land Cruiser's defroster, the hiss of snowflakes bouncing off the windshield and the crush of snow under the tires. I always turned the music off while driving in the snow. This was partly because I enjoyed the silence of a snowstorm, partly because I wanted to concentrate on any loss of traction in the car.

Almost a minute passed before she muttered, “You planned this. Otherwise you wouldn't have brought your gear. You're a jerk.”

In twelve years of marriage, it certainly wasn't the worst thing she'd called me. My reply was halfhearted, “Sorry. But you are giving me too much credit if you think I control the weather. Remember, I packed my gear so we could maximize our time skiing.”

“Woohoo! So we got what, an extra fifteen minutes of skiing? Explain it too me again why our personal safety is less important than a game?”

I sighed. The number of times I'd explained it was beyond counting. “I don't want to fight.”

“Neither do I. I just want to understand.”

“A moment ago you said you didn't want to understand.”

“I said maybe I didn't want to understand. Anyway, I'm allowed to change my mind.”

“I don't know what there is to tell you that I haven't already said. It's about more than just me. There are twenty or thirty guys expecting me to be there. If I don't show up the game will be ruined. Those guys all paid money to play. It's unfair to everyone if I don't make it.”

“And those twenty or thirty guys are more important to you than I am?”

“Of course not, I didn't spend the weekend skiing with any of them.”

I don't know if she accepted this answer, but she moved on. “They seriously cannot play without you?”

“The game is no fun without goalies.”

“I still think you're just being conceited. There's got to be someone else who can do it.”

“Honey, I called eight goalies before we left and none of them could fill in. There was no one left to call.”

“I know. You were on your phone every time we were riding the lift instead of talking to me.”

“That's a serious exaggeration and you know it. Besides if I hadn't been on the phone you'd be mad at me for not trying to find a substitute. You need to have more realistic expectations. I planned to come home in time for my game from the start and we're just sticking to the plan. I did try to change it for you it didn't work out. It isn't like any of the guys on my team have goalie gear, you know.”

She acquiesced, turning to look out the passenger window after mumbling, “I just think it would have been nice to stay one more night. I was looking forward to a good dinner, some time in the hot tub and powder covered slopes in the morning. If you'd rather play hockey until midnight then get up early for work tomorrow morning, that's your call. But clearly your priorities need some adjustments . . . whatever.”

Whatever, it was a clear signal that we were done speaking. She said she didn't want to fight, but couldn't resist a jab at the end. There was no way for me to explain it. She didn't play; she'd never understand. It was nearly inexplicable to those who didn't love the game. She'd never even liked it as far as I knew. Honestly, she probably viewed the game as “the other woman.”

I pulled up to the house an hour and a half later. The snow had let up at Idaho Springs and though it was cold when got home, the only frost was coming from the passenger seat. As the garage door slowly yawned open, I thought she might finally speak. The house rule was we never went to bed angry. Since she'd certainly be asleep before I got home from my game, an apology seemed in order. This was not the case. As soon as I pulled into the garage, she exited the car, retrieved her luggage from the back and wordlessly lugged it inside. Apparently the fact that she was going to bed and I was not, was a loophole. This night there was no we.

It was almost ten o'clock. I wanted to go inside, to sort things out. It seemed the rational thing to do. But my game started in thirty three minutes. I was barely going to make it. I hit the steering wheel with my fist. I knew if I went in there was going to be a fight. It would be an act of God if that fight only took thirty minutes. There just wasn't time. How could I fix something in ten minutes that I hadn't been able to explain in twelve years?

I turned up the stereo, jammed the Land Cruiser into reverse and roared out of the garage in a rage. After a near miss with my neighbor's passing car. I drove quickly, but a little more calmly, to the rink. The only solace I would find this night would be in the game. Yes, the game would clear my head. I actually hoped for a lot of action around my net. I could use some jostling in the crease. A chance to shove some people violently out of my way—yeah, that would make me feel better.

I pulled up to the rink with twenty minutes until faceoff. Perfect. I'd have fifteen minutes to get dressed once I lugged my gear inside. I tossed my leg pads over my shoulder, hefted my gear bag out of the trunk and picked up my sticks. Toting fifty pounds of gear, I crossed the parking lot, my anger subsiding into thoughts of the game. I passed through the rink doors where a sleepy looking kid manned the front desk.

I asked him, “What locker room for The Mighty Drunks?”

He lazily scanned a sheet on the desk before asking, “The Mighty Drunks?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry Dude, your team played last night.”

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© 2015 Scott Noble. 
All Rights reserved. Reproduction of this article in whole or part is strictly prohibited without the author's prior express written permission.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

I'm pleased to announce our new mission - The BEST Prices!

I'm going to be blunt; the hockey industry is a mess. It's a stupid way to make a living.

I've always striven to have good prices at Rocket Skate. 

When we opened our retail shop in the YMCA, our inventory consisted primarily of closeout items which we could sell at an excellent price while still making a fair profit. Since then manufacturers have slashed their dealer discounts to the bone and closeout inventory has dried up for the most part. Somewhere between our YMCA opening date seven years ago and 2014 we lost a little focus on our pricing.

Most of our prices were good, but in the ever changing landscape of hockey some of them . . . well they sucked.

Toward the end of 2014, I went through all of the inventory in the store, one item at a time and checked our prices against our internet competitors. For some brands all of our inventory was already at or below internet pricing. The rest of it, I fixed.

I'm pleased to announce that by the start of 2015, all of our hockey protective equipment, sticks and bags were being offered at the best prices you will find anywhere. 

Come in, bring your phone and compare our prices. If you find a better deal, we'll match it and toss in two free sharpenings.



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© 2015 Scott Noble. 
All Rights reserved. Reproduction of this article in whole or part is strictly prohibited without the author's prior express written permission.

Friday, October 3, 2014

Holy Palms? I have all the answers here!

Did you know that those annoying holes in your glove occur because of the tape on the top of your stick? Yep, the combination of the adhesive and the abrasive fibers in hockey tape is excellent for making short work of your gloves. We'd all probably agree a little extra ventilation isn't the worst thing. Less material also might mean there is less glove to smell bad. But the eventual result is that parts of your hands start sticking out of your gloves, and that's not comfortable or safe.

I feel your pain. I used to blow through a pair of palms in about 9 months. This wouldn't have been so bad except that it took me 8 months to break in the typical pair. To make things worse, the hockey industry goes to great lengths to ensure they're no longer producing the gloves you like when your old ones wear out. Which forces you to try something new which takes another 8 months to break-in. It's a cycle of bitter disappointment.

Of course you have several choices to fix this issue. Just playing until the gloves turn into really odd wrist bands is a common one, though not one I personally endorse. Duct tape is neither unheard of or comfortable. Buying a new pair of gloves every nine months happens, but it's expensive. Fear not! I have three better options:

  1. Fix your worn out gloves
  2. Try a Command Grip
  3. Change your tape

Fix your worn out gloves
Yeah, we can fix your gloves with a brand new palm. Our typical turn-around on a full re-palm is two days. Repalming replaces the entire palm including the fingers and thumb.


We offer a couple choices on palm material. Traditional Clarino palms with reinforcement go for $30 per glove. Clarino is the high end synthetic suede material that most gloves come with. If you're getting a year out of your original palms, you'll get about the same from this type of palm.

We also offer digital leather palms. Digital leather is an engineered material which was designed in response to NATO and British Defense Ministry requirements. It is exceptionally comfortable and insanely durable. I had a pair of digital palms last two and a half years. In fact, both gloves fell apart and I still didn't have any holes in the palms. It's $36 per glove for re-palm with digital leather.

Try a Command Grip
Tacki-Mac makes a product that most of you probably always thought was just for people too lazy or dumb to tape their own stick. What you didn't know is that it is made to offer excellent grip without destroying your glove palm. The Command grip wears out over a several months without putting holes in your palms. It's pretty easy to install and replace as well. They come in a vast array of colors and cost $5.99 (much cheaper than a new palm.




Change your tape
There are a couple options for taping the top of your stick which are much better than traditional hockey tape. Powerflex has been an option for a long time. However, the issue with Powerflex is that it gets squished in your bag and lumped into one big mess with no end to start peeling from. This makes me sad.

We've started carrying cohesive gauze tape. Cohesive tape only sticks to itself and miraculously does this without adhesive. This makes it a a great choice to keep your gloves from wearing out. I'm not convinced that it works as well as the Tack-Mac grip, but it does also come in a vast array of colors and is installed with a technique which hockey players should be well accustomed to using.



So there you go. We can fix your old pair and you can save your new pair from an untimely death. There is one more possibility which came to mind . . . you could retire from hockey when your gloves wear out, but we'd all think less of you for it.


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© 2014 Scott Noble. 
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