The Kid on Wheels
I started skating sometime around 5th grade — that strange age where you’re fearless for no reason. Around the same time, I’d picked up basketball too, because clearly, I thought falling on concrete wasn’t exciting enough.
These weren’t the sleek inline skates everyone flexes now. These were the OG four-wheel tanks — two in the front, two in the back. Loud, heavy, and built to make sure you learn balance the hard way. We didn’t have a skating rink or even a decent pavement. Just rough concrete floors, cracked in all the wrong places, waiting to eat your knees alive. The first few weeks were rough — literally. I fell, bruised, limped, repeated. But something about it stuck. That feeling when you finally glide for more than five seconds without crashing? It’s addictive. Soon enough, I was skating every evening on our house roof — yeah, the roof — dodging water tanks and flower pots like a wannabe stuntman.
Then there was this massive housing project being built near our place. Empty wide roads, smooth cement, zero traffic — it was heaven. Me and my buddy basically turned that construction site into our private skate park. We’d spend entire days skating through those half-built streets, getting better without even realizing it. Our school was tucked away deep in the countryside — no clubs, no competitions, no fancy tournaments. It was just us, our skates, and a ton of scraped elbows. But we were happy. Every evening felt like progress — a little faster, a little smoother, a little better.
A couple of years later, I switched schools — and this one was a different league altogether. The kind where sports weren’t just extracurricular; they were practically a religion. Every kid belonged to a house with years of rivalries and tall tales of glory. I got placed in Jupiter, the most decorated club of them all. Great history, great pressure, great expectations — the full package.
They didn’t have a skating club, though. What they did have was something called Skate Hockey. I’d never even heard of it. It sounded ridiculous at first — hockey on skates, on concrete, under the blazing sun. No ice, no padding, just raw chaos.
My skates were broken at the time, but I signed up anyway. I didn’t want to sit it out. So, I started training on a normal sports shoes — just to get the hang of the game. The coach didn’t mind, probably because he could see I was actually picking it up. And weirdly enough, it worked. I started getting good — fast hands, quick reads, decent control. The only problem? The rest of the team wasn’t thrilled about it.
Everyone thought it was a fluke. “Wait till he wears the skates,” they’d say. “Then we’ll see.”
Fair enough.
So the day came. I got my skates fixed, strapped in, and stepped onto the concrete. And yeah — it felt like coming home. Everything just clicked. The balance, the pace, the rhythm — it all came together. Before long, I wasn’t just fitting in; I was flying. Fast forward an year later, we’d won both the school and inter-school championships. It was insane — fast, physical, and a little brutal. But it was the most fun I’d ever had in a sport. Every bruise was worth it.
I don’t play anymore, but I know if I put on a pair of skates today, muscle memory would kick in. Fifteen years later, I still remember that feeling — the speed, the confidence, the freedom. That’s kind of how most of my teenage years went, actually. Move to a new place, pick up a new sport, start over. Every time, a new learning curve. Every time, a new version of me.