Last night, I waited nervously at the side of the rink. The lights were on, the ice gleaming; the crowd had taken their seats waiting for the game to begin.  At just after 8 pm,the gate opened and the announcer called me onto the ice, along with my husband. Our 17 year old son in his blue and white Bucs uniform skated over to present me flowers, and the photographer took our picture, the three of us:  Senior Night. I am the proud mother of a high school hockey player.  Not, however, a Hockey Mom, and therein lies a world of difference. 

We go way back, hockey and I, and it has not always been an easy relationship. It all began at my cousin Brian’s hockey games in those roofed, outdoor rinks that are wicked cold on New England winter nights.  Brian’s sister Mimi and I were there for one thing only – the boys. Who cared about the game? This early interest did not lead to good things. One evening when I was fourteen, there was a party at my cousins’ house, involving an entire team of high school hockey players, lots of drinking, and no adult supervision. I ended up in my aunt and uncle’s bed with a hockey player, who was, fortunately, too intoxicated to perform. We spent the night head to foot and never spoke again.

Then there is a long gap before I encountered hockey again –this time in the early 1990’s at a high school in suburban Boston where I was student teaching. The hockey team essentially controlled the school. They were the cool guys, the stars. They were not into academics, and effectively discouraged students who were – a hand that went up came back down after a certain look or comment. Handsome, popular, athletic and confident, they subverted education, and gave a hard time to some of the teachers, including the man I was working with – ignoring his instruction, destroying his grade book and hiding his toupee. Yet, they were not hostile toward me as a student teacher, nor openly disrespectful, although one of them was a “winker”, disconcerting in its own way. Imagine teaching Hamlet — a challenge in any classroom. We watched the video, and then went through the body count, which worked surprisingly well. Fact is, they were not stupid; just inflated with their ownpower.  

Now we are concluding a decade of youth hockey with my own sons, and it has been a trip.  The long,long season, September through April, with optional spring and summer leagues. The camps, the tournaments. The early morning games, giving way to the late games and practices; long rides to cold, dismal rinks.  All this fueled by my husband’s passion for the game, for team sports as a bonding experience for young people, boys especially.  Smelly, expensive equipment,fights on the ice, although, happily few injuries – less than one would think,mainly due to all the padding.  At times,hockey was a trial and a tension, such as when our son had to be up at 3:45 am on school days for early morning practice. There were fighting words, I assure you, but in the end, I agreed to the arrangement as long as my son kept upgrades and didn’t get sick, which is what happened, and which perhaps explains a lot about hockey players.

Perhaps it would be different if I played the game. But I remain to this day, a hockey virgin. Never scored a point, never wore hockey skates or pads, never learned a hockey stop. The fact is, I am somewhat of a fraud as a hockey fan, having had mixed feelings about watching my two sons and husband play, most especially after the checking (hitting) began. Given a choice between warm at home with a good video or in a cold rink, getting colder, I’d much rather be home.  I’m still caught chatting with girlfriends when an important play takes place, not knowing who did what.  The penalties remain elusive to me, except for the major ones. I don’t identify with the game or the culture, remaining to this day, an outsider, an observer rather than a participant. 

I’ve attended hundreds of hockey games, but I swear, I never saw it coming, how much hockey and youth sports would be part of my family’s experience.  Yet, there is the other part of me that has come to appreciate a good play, and who is filled with awe at the speed and grace of those young people on skates, and I have some inkling now of the thrill that makes them want to play, in spite of cold or pain or disappointment.