Friday nights at the rink

“Rockin’ Robin.” It’s a great song. I grew up with the Michael Jackson version, and the minute I hear it, I’m back at the roller skating rink on a Friday night, hoping I don’t fall down and make a fool of myself in front of my friends.

We had a fantastic skating rink in town. (Still do, as a matter of fact.) I loved going there, even though I never learned to skate well enough to feel comfortable at it. I would watch other people rounding corners, so effortlessly, crossing one foot over the other, managing to smile, talk and exhibit coordination, all at the same time. I was happy if I could crouch down and coast through a corner on two feet without careening into the rail and starting over.

But it didn’t matter. All my friends were there, so it was where I wanted to be too. If that meant I was open to ridicule, then I was open to ridicule. Anybody who was anybody came to the skating rink on a Friday night.

A few times, I got to go behind the counter to pass out skates. The job consisted of asking for sizes, then retrieving a pair to match the request. Simple, but I felt privileged to be part of the process.

Once you had them in hand, there was an art to lacing up your skates. Looking back, I don’t know how we managed it with bell bottoms, but before long everyone was in motion. All those wheels turning on the wooden floor became the soundtrack of pre-teen, weekend adventure.

I was part of the, “Psst, go over and ask if that person likes me” generation. The rituals that governed liking someone and being liked in return were immense.

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