Hockey: A Spectator's Sport
By Ida Rowlands
It is 6:30 a.m. A crisp, cold, frosty winter morning.
There are several (indeed, hundreds) of other things you would prefer to be doing at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning. All of them, including scouring toilets, offer more of an enticement than battling sub-zero temperatures to head for an even colder arena for a junior hockey game.
However, you are a member of the infamous Canadian fellowship of Minor Hockey Parents, and as such, you have signed an unwritten pact to support your aspiring lad through all the rigors of regular and playoff season.
Your primary concern at this moment is to get your bloodshot eyes to focus. A quick glance at the clock confirms that you have to really hustle to make it to the arena on time. Once you are able to pry your eyelids apart and are able to peer through the frost laden windows, you note with a sense of increased dismay the additional two inches of snow which has fallen throughout the night. Of course such a cursory inspection doesn’t reveal the fact that freezing rain has preceded this natural wonder. It is not until you try to carefully navigate your way to the car, bundled in layers of clothing and resembling Ghengis Khan doing a pirouette that you discover it will take at least 10 minutes of concentrated scraping to clear a hole the size of a golf ball in the windshield.
Your fingers are numb, your nose is running and freezing at the same time. In the midst of your cursing and fumbling you can’t help but wonder if the sound you hear is the wind howling through the trees or is it that old hag, mother nature, cackling with glee whilst she taunts you once again with “Gotcha?” . . . . Winter Wonderland, my foot.
Your arrival at the arena is greeted with the customary lack of fanfare or élan. Various other parents, all appearing to be prime candidates for a derelict's convention, wander around aimlessly, clutching steaming cups of strong, black coffee. The resemblance to fuzzy "before" pictures in a cheap magazine ad is uncanny.
It boggles the mind to think that just hours ago, these same people were a bunch of wide-eyed, bushy-tailed party animals. To imagine that these catatonic miscreants were the very ones who strove to dance the night away, frolicking well into the wee hours of the morning upstairs at this very same arena (all in support of minor hockey, of course) is an extreme exercise in futility.
As they shuffle along, some mumbling incoherently to themselves, nobody takes particular notice. To the untrained eye, this would all appear a little strange perhaps, but one must be a member of the hockey-parent syndrome to fully understand the little idiosyncrasies that are tolerated and even accepted as normal behavior by their peers.
Finally, It is time for the game and now the real "fun" begins. We all tramp out to our customary vantage points in the stands. The temperature is a less than balmy 20 degrees below zero and bundles of clothing, blankets and hot coffee do little to warm things up.
The referee drops the puck and suddenly a mystic transformation takes place. What seconds before had been a group of apathetic, hung-over spectators has now been transmogrified into a pack of snarling, biting animals (better known in some circles as fans). The sweet melody of encouragement causes the rafters to ring with refrains such as: "Get that kid!!" - "Take the body - not the puck.” - “Wake up, Dummy - Kill that *! *”
Almost every face is now suffused with an apple red glow - not entirely due to the cold, but more probably from imminent apoplexy.
When referring to the performance of particular members of the rival team, the marital status of several of the opponents’ parents is mumbled under breath in laymen’s terms. Your son (Oh, and it would have to be yours) has been offside on two breakaways; he has iced the puck seconds after the penalty box is cleared and has screened your goalie twice, with the result being a two-point lead for the opposition.
You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued straight ahead, nonchalantly trying not to acknowledge the hostile eyes boring holes in the back of your head, all the while bemoaning your son's choice of winter sport. Why, oh why, couldn't he have chosen a less antagonistic release for his energies? Guitar lessons would have been so nice. You silently vow to make a concentrated effort to steer him in this direction the minute you get him alone after this game.
It is now the third period and thanks to the less than brilliant performance by your offspring, the home team is still down by two points. Suddenly, the wheaties he had for breakfast kick in and your golden-haired lad picks off an errant pass, dekes around the defence line, outwits the goalie and sinks the puck. All previous animosities are vaporized and you smile with smug satisfaction amid pats on the back from the same people who, three minutes ago, would have chuckled in glee as they burnt you in effigy.
Your little hero is on a roll and you are convinced it is in the genes, (yours, of course). He takes out an opposing winger and deftly passes the puck back to the defense-man on the blue line who then winds up and blasts it into the net. The score is tied; your position in the community exonerated and the mood swings from murderous to congenial.
Two minutes remain in the game; the boys are really into it now and bodies are flying everywhere. The puck whistles towards your little gaffer’s head. You fervently hope the salesman's claim that the mouth guard you purchased will withstand unheard of punishment is true. Oh what the hay!!! What’s a $2,000 dental bill compared to victory? Fortunately, the shot veers off and the endurance of the mouth guard is not tested.
Then, a fumble in front of the opposition’s net, the puck is nabbed and we score the go-ahead goal. There follows a minor lifetime of nerve wracking, seat hugging play until the buzzer sounds fifty seconds later to end the game. The euphoria is contagious. We win again. Yeah!!! Despite feelings of smug self-satisfaction, you are utterly exhausted from the vast amounts of energy expended in order to be victorious in such a close encounter.
In the lobby, the parental post mortem is in full swing. All the winning parents are so happy and so proud. Oh, we are such a jolly lot. Undeniably, this was a hard won game. We are tired but happy. Hockey is such a taxing sport.
You bask in the glory of winning and modestly accept any and all accolades on your son's performance. All is not lost. Your social standing in the community is intact. It feels so good to be able to wait in the lobby for your son to finish dressing rather than slink out to the car, as was your plan at the start of the game.
Your son emerges from the dressing room all smiles, and for a moment you wonder why he is so happy. After all, what did he do? You are about to mention his disastrous performance at the beginning of the game, however, parental instinct and common sense warns you that this is not a good time. "Good game, son,” you quip, "now let's go home. You have to get your rest. Remember, there's another game tomorrow and a practice later this afternoon." You attribute his groan to sore muscles.
You glide out of the arena, success giving your step a bounce. Your son limps behind, his equipment in tow. It is still snowing, but the blanket of white has now taken on a pristine glow.
Your son mentions that he is sore and tired; he wishes he had more time for himself. Hockey is fun, but it seems to claim so many hours of his waking day. He wonders if he could ease off and maybe sign up for guitar lessons. You stare at him as if he has just dropped in from another solar system. "Don't be silly, my boy”, you admonish, "as you well know - hockey is your game.”
