Illustration by Alex Siklos
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“Do you have a hockey stick?” my six-year-old son Chris asked, followed by, “What about shin pads?”
There was no more dodging the issue. I would be playing in the mother-son hockey game that traditionally winds up the season for his Tykes team. Somehow, I had managed to bow out the year his older brother’s team staged the game. Not this year. If Chris stands for anything, it’s persistence.
Unable to make it to the practice during the week, I secretly prayed I’d be scratched from the team when game day arrived. No such luck. So not only was I playing, but I was also debuting as a total rookie.
But now it was time to get down to details. A stick was a necessity. Skates? My antique figure skates would have to do. I thought about Chris’s teammate – the slapshot from that little prodigy was serious. My lack of a helmet became more and more of a concern.
When I arrived, the scene in the change room did something to boost my morale. We mothers were in this together and despite the varying amounts of protective equipment displayed, I sensed we shared a quiet desperation. Even the prodigy’s mother seemed mortal.
Warm-ups on the ice seemed like a good idea. Stick, puck and I had never managed to get it together before. My oldest son hovered near the gate, somewhat smug and enjoying his mother’s uneasiness. As I walked by, I muttered something about recalling this moment the next time he faced his dreaded Christmas concert. Reluctance can span the generations.
Feeling quite good about my stick handling and shooting by the time the informal practice was over, we headed off to our box. The buzzer sounded. I was assigned to play defence. After some initial scrambling by Team Mom, the puck was way down at the other end and the first goal was ours! A fluke but a perk to be sure.
Our shifts lasted three minutes, just like those of the Tykes. Those three minutes felt longer as the game wore on.
I tried to steer clear of the prodigy. All season I’d watched him sail down the ice, oblivious to the rest of his team and score goal after goal. He was, to say the least, invincible. With his father coaching, he got lots of practice. He was feared by the opposition and valued by his teammates, but he was still just a bit hard to take at times in this team sport.
Eventually, the lines changed. Some fathers rescued us by also becoming players and expanding our roster to three lines. But one thing didn’t change. The prodigy’s little red helmet was lined-up across from me at every shift. I can’t remember the last time a seven-year-old intimidated me like that. Though my quads were quivering and my calves crying, something within me took off after the puck and I was in there “digging” (as they say). Every time the prodigy and his playmaker friend headed down our way, I’d summon up whatever was left and skate over to do what I could.
It was exciting. Occasionally on Team Mom we completed a pass to a teammate. Sometimes we even made it down to the other end where one of use would wait in front of the goalie for the big moment. It never happened. Oh, we scored goals but never in that smooth, controlled manner. Once I had a break away. Flying down the ice, I made it about halfway before the pick of my figure skate caught the ice and I landed flat on my face. The cheers I’d heard seconds before faded immediately and I picked myself up feeling self-conscious. I shouldn’t have. My fall was already history. The play had moved back down to the other end and nobody but me noticed the snow on my jersey.
When I was off the ice, I reclined as best I could and tried to give those 40-year-old legs a break, all the while calculating how much time and agony was left. Three-minute shifts, three lines and 18 minutes to go.
I had new appreciation for the legs that skate up and down the arena Saturday after Saturday. Sometimes in more than one game. I had greater respect for the mental discipline that’s required to keep going, play after play when the odds (and red helmets) aren’t in your favour. And I could see how one could catch the fever and enjoy getting up very early on Saturday mornings to play.
The game ended in a tie. The coaches saw to that. But we had held our own and came away better hockey moms for it.
Nancy Bain lives in Red Deer, Alta.