He’s trying to walk instead of pushing off the ice, afraid of falling, looking like Happy Gilmore on skates. I’m sitting in the bleachers freezing my butt off. His lesson is coming to an end. The coach comes to debrief us — he’s trying to convince Barb that since Justin really enjoys skating, we should consider enrolling him in hockey training. Maybe we do have a Happy Gilmore situation here. Someone tell me where to buy golf clubs for kids.
Watching Justin skate reminded me of my high school days rollerblading in the city. As soon as the last bell rang on Fridays, I’d grab my TRS Lightnings and boneless knee pads and run out of school. A few of us from Queens would rush to catch the bus into Manhattan to meet our friend Paul. Kids from the neighborhood would ask where we were going. “The city,” we’d say. I always felt cool saying that — it was different from the usual Friday routine of pool halls and neighborhood food spots.
Paul went to Stuyvesant — the best specialized high school in New York. Smart, athletic, genuinely cool to hang with. He took us to a spot under the bridge where the city kids bladed. It looked like a scene from the movie Kids. Grimy and dirty — these kids didn’t look like they’d just gotten off school, they looked like they’d been there all day. Their gear was beaten up, stickers peeling off the blades, the grinds on the H-blocks worn deep. They looked like they could use a shower or two.
I looked like I’d just come from a skate shop.
My boneless knee pads had barely a scratch. One or two stickers on my TRS Lightnings, carefully placed. The grinds on my blades were done manually at home. They took one look at me and saw right through me.
In Queens, going down stairs backwards meant you were pretty good. These city kids were going down stairs forwards, jumping and grinding railings, throwing 360s. I went to chill in the corner.
After a while, one of Paul’s friends — Jason — suggested we go get DFRs. “DFRs?” I asked. Paul said, “Dollar Fried Rice. Huge plate for a dollar.” Seemed like a good deal. We headed to China Red.
China Red was nothing to rave about. The fried rice was soy-heavy and nowhere close to the best I’d had — but what did you expect for a dollar? Every one of us ordered a plate with a Coke. Pretty sure we weren’t the owner’s favorite customers. But DFRs became our thing — the ritual after blading, the reason to sit down together.
I scan the QR code to order. Justin gets his usual — shrimp cutlet sandwich, melon soda float. I’ve learned to order light because Justin eats maybe a third of his sandwich and I end up finishing the rest. That’s why fathers get fat. As soon as we’re done ordering, he asks for the phone. I resist for a bit. Then I give in. The food arrives and we eat in silence.