There aren’t too many things in my life that I regret. But not playing goalie for an organized hockey team before the age of 42 is one of them.

I’ve always loved hockey. Raised in Boston and captivated by the 1970s Bruins -- Orr, Esposito, Cashman, Cheevers -- some of my most cherished possessions are Bobby Orr’s autograph and photos of myself with Phil Esposito.

I remember playing street hockey with my friends, folding a paper plate in half, punching out eyes and inking scars until the white space disappeared. I played at the Boy’s Club and then during gym class in high school. I played goalie and my classmates would not let me play out because I did so well between the plastic pipes. I wish I had caught a clue.

My two kids, Ryan, 12, and Connor, 7, picked up their first hockey sticks, which powered a tidal wave of memories and long-repressed desires that cleansed me of inhibition. So, together we marched to the local roller hockey rink, signed up and the smell in our garage has never been the same.

At 11, Ryan was a top goal scorer his first season. He now plays defense for his middle school team. After his first tryout, Connor, who dons the goalie gear like his old man, showed promise and was placed in the 9- to 11-year-old league. His first practice is this week. Me? I’ll talk about my first season in a future blog, but just so you know, our team lost in the championship game.

This blog is an outlet for my newfound passion: playing goalie. I eat it, sleep it, eBay it and Google it. What I want to know and what I learn along the way are what I want to share here, just as I wish somebody did for me, a long, long time ago.