I’m not a hockey fan. Blasphemy for a Canadian. I’ll be writing under a pen name. I’m hockey curious. I’m still not confident about the rules surrounding the blue line, I can’t fathom our societal expectations for 22 year boy-men who look younger the older I get, and I’m honestly perplexed by Don Cherry and my confusion has little to do with his jackets.
Growing up on the East Coast I was certain there were two teams – Boston and Montreal. And you fit into one camp or the other. I didn’t know there were alternatives. And I never questioned this tiny league with a large rivalry. Sure, as times went on I did learn there was more to hockey and more to hockey and well, more. At least this is what the myriad of commentators and interviews with these boy-men have told me. Well, okay, not me personally but the general hockey loving public.
One of the reasons I have become so well versed – meaning I know there are a few more teams – is because I married a hockey fanatic. This fanatic once tried to pull the wool over my eyes: yes, he jerseyed me and before we were married. Gasp! He confessed to me that he really only watched sports to have some ideas of small talk for his work. He claimed he could chat with most people about some sport. I thought this strange at the time given his attention to all things TSN and Sportsnet but it was early in the relationship and to be fair, I hadn’t yet told him I like to leave things on the floor routinely and I often forget to fill the car with gas.
It was only after some time that I began to notice huh, this man is so dedicated to his craft that he spends this much time and attention to detail to… sports. Does it help a stilted conversation to be able to recite all jersey numbers and players on the Leafs? Can it relax a client to remember what university or town a player attended? After careful thought as my husband hooted and hollered about a Leaf game as he sat by himself watching tv, I began to question his sincerity. I think we have come to terms with hockey in his life. He has confessed to loving it and I confessed to toleration for the sake of the marriage. We all have our secrets. It is with this acceptance, I find myself turning.
While my husband watches every leaf game and absorbs all there is to know about any team anywhere, he now has followers. Our children. Our six-year-old daughter sounds like a world weary commentator as she watches the play, echoing her father and making hard criticisms to any team who dare challenge the leafs. Every morning she asks to watch the replay as a child of modern technology she just can’t wait for the goals to happen in real time. Our second daughter, three-years-old, has named John Tavares, Johnny Vares and plays him in their pretend hockey in the living room. Him or Emma. Depends on her mood. Sometimes she is Martina who sings the anthem at Leaf home games. Our four-year-old son needing a healthy outlet for his energy not limited to leaping off furniture or terrorizing the cat, we decided to sign up for Timbit hockey and this has had a ripple effect.
As many parents already know, hockey means early cold mornings, a surprising amount of expensive equipment and a love for the game. While not possessing a love for the game, I do, however, have a great love for our children, so I’ll give this hockey thing a try. I confess at the beginning of the session that I hadn’t asked my husband the right questions when he signed us up. It started in November and it ran until late Feb? What? It was how early? Could they find a rink farther away? I wondered if there was perhaps another sport we had overlooked? I hear table tennis can be rewarding. But despite my misgivings we persevered. I say we because hockey practice in one way or another became a family affair. It impacted what we did the night before, it determined what we had for breakfast.
There is a lot of care of equipment and pep talks and teaching of life lessons. There were a couple mornings our son tearfully told us he was too tired, so we listened and didn’t send him. Most days though the words “let’s go” had him flying upstairs to get dressed faster than I had known possible for him and coming back with his big boy voice. With the mention of hockey, his voice fell at least one octave. You may know some men like this. He became very business like, and less like the tender and emotional little boy I cherish. This endearing little man was new to us. And so very impressive in his love of the game.
After what seemed like months and months of early hockey mornings, there came the last day of the session in the form of a gala. I, still a newbie, assumed red carpet finery and high, high class. I was wrong. I still object to the use of the word gala, but that’s another point I am willing to generously overlook. The gala turned out to be pretty swanky but not in the traditional sense. Swanky for four-year-olds means an official lineup, real refs in uniform, a ticking scoreboard and a particularly loud buzzer to signal line changes. Please note the hockey jargon I am throwing around here willy-nilly. Not meant to impress, but some things I can’t help. Fist bump.
The game on gala day was at 1:30. At noon our son on the potty burst into tears, no way was he going. Nerves. I am sure those man-boys of the NHL experience the same. Just on bigger potties. I thought oh, here we go. We are not going to make this really fun growth experience because we can’t make it out of the house or perhaps even the bathroom. However, I underestimated our son and the outburst lasted long enough for us to remember he is four and this was all new to him. He recovered beautifully and with the voice of a forty year old man, he got his gear ready and off he went.
Now I have heard the phrase hockey mom and I have never considered myself one, thank you very much. I have children that for some reason appear to love the game, but I am outside of all that. I make food and help them get ready, but my role in the actual sport is limited. In the background and that’s just where I want to be. However, watching our little man take the ice to line up for the fancy game with introductions and anthem was moving and, dare I say, thrilling. There was a rink full of teeny players who a few short months ago many couldn’t stand up on the ice let alone skate. Here they were under their own steam standing at centre ice. After the anthem, they warmed up by skating around the arena. Maybe to some onlookers this wasn’t incredible but when you consider how far they had come and take into account the work done by the parents to get those little bodies out there, it’s awe inspiring. I don’t believe our son was the only one to have nerves about getting out there. I don’t believe I was the only parent concerned for their child that he or she have a positive experience or the only one to have ensured their child ate well that morning and had enough sleep the night before. Considering each child was supporting their own weight and the good wishes of their parents, it was all the more impressive to see them skate by themselves.
There is a lot of talk and news stories about the conduct of athletes and their parents. Seems like there is always some parent yelling at a game or getting into an argument about a child’s sport. Well, today in this one arena with 20 some four-year-olds, I saw parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles, siblings all smiling and cheering. Video cameras were rolling, signs were waving and people were celebrating each small success for both sides. I had my camera out and recorded our son and the woman beside me recorded each time her son played on the opposite line. Together we have the entire game. Little siblings watched and wiggled and at times objected to sitting still. Grandparents beamed and seemed genuinely delighted with each player and not just their own grandchild.
The game was nothing short of hilarious. Great attempts, some luck, some skill, some clear understanding of the game and lots of four year old focus. Lots of focus but not always on the puck. Teammates bumped into fellow teammates, goalies stood stock-still like scarecrows as someone had obviously told them to make themselves big but that’s where the lesson must have stopped. Great shots a mile away from the net, some shots at the right net, and general pile ups. There were also some slow breakaways, and the first part of passes and clear delight when the puck found a stick. It was innocent and wonderful and each player for being out there deserves some kudos. They played a tough sport, had come a long way and played to a crowd. I doubt many adults could do the same.
And the hockey moms and dads were appreciative. And all this happened in a 20 minute game with no score.
I’m a hockey mom. Good grief. For better or worse, I had no idea what those vows meant. Look at me now. I better run. There’s a game on somewhere.
