James Van Riemsdyk has nothing on me.

Sure, the Flyers might have drafted him with their second overall pick in 2007. Well, they picked me, too. With the second overall pick, nonetheless. So there. Nothing on me, Van Riemsdyk. Nothing. Take that to the bank.

True, Van Riemsdyk's Flyers pay him about $1.65 million more than my Flyers, which actually charge me a modest tithe to skate each week. He also admittedly draws a few more fans than I do — say a paltry 19,500 more. And certainly, he has a brighter spotlight shining on him at the Wachovia Center in Philadelphia than I have at Union College’s Achilles Center in Schenectady — Monday night's “season opener” garnered three somewhat disinterested fans.

But why get bogged down in semantics? Here's the bottom line: We’re like twins.

OK. Maybe not twins. Would you believe cousins twice removed?

He stands a bit taller than I on the ice. Roughly a half-foot taller. We weigh in at about two bills. Only a good quotient of my frame is dedicated to a modest beer gut. Did I mention he’s a bit more in shape? Well, that's what you'd expect from a kid that curls 25-pound barbells instead of 12-oz. cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon — my preferred pre- and post-game workout.

The NHL rookie and budding hockey star also had the benefit of rigorous physicals, unlike players in the less celebrated Mohawk Valley Hockey Association, which had an hour-and-a-half on-ice scrimmage to give its freshmen players a look.

Somewhere along the line, the Flyers’ captain told me this week, they figured I could play hockey. Or at least as good as the other handful of players that turned out for the tryouts. So begins my career with the Flyers in the city’s oldest running adult hockey league.

As an aside, there was a bit of irony about my selection by the Flyers. As a diehard Ranger fan — one who froths at the mouth like a rabid dog whenever they go on one of their trademark losing tears — I’m sworn to hate everything Flyers. The mere sight of their black-and-orange jerseys is enough to raise my hackles. So it was a bit weird to throw on a jersey with these hues Monday evening, especially knowing that the nationally televised Ranger game was piping into homes and bars across the Northeast.

These are the sacrifices hockey players make, especially when they’re of the burned-out soon-to-be arthritic thirtysomething ilk that frequent the Capital Region's frigid empty rinks late at night. The mentality of the typical “men’s league” player is perplexing and it requires you to take a break from logic. Ice time is late at night and expensive — usually $20 per game. There are seldom any fans to speak of, aside from the shivering girlfriend some overbearing player conned into watching him skate. There are usually no stat-keepers, coaches, trainers, doctors or dentists to speak of, unless of course one happens to be skating on your team.

Yet if you ask anyone who joins one of these leagues, they'll tell you the same thing: It’s worth it. Every damn minute of it.

My case seems to underline this statement. I’ve always been a bit high-strung with a propensity toward hyper-aggression. At an early age, hockey seemed to be a perfect place for this otherwise negative energy: Where else can you try to fuse a human body with a plate of glass by mashing them together at high velocity? Or threaten to brain some complete stranger who decided to see if his stick would effortlessly pass through your sternum?

But adult hockey isn't all about violence. In fact, violence is a nasty side-effect that crops up when a dozen human adrenal glands start pumping in unison and in overdrive. After all, we all need to get up for work in the morning, and few of us have careers that allow prolongued absences resulting from on ice injuries.

Instead, the sport at its recreational level is about removing the stops that separate us into castes during the work day. It’s about creating unity among players and a booming resolve to reach a common end: putting a 6-oz. piece of galvanized rubber between two pipes and a very determined fellow standing between them. The camaraderie that results creates a bond that forges even the deepest chasms of differences between people. It’s a feeling that is worth the strained muscles, the broken bones and the hours spent trying to subdue the post-game surplus of adrenaline in the bloodstream. And that's what keeps us playing, even though we’re not James Van Riemsdyk.

Justin Mason is a reporter for The Daily Gazette who plays hockey in his spare time.