Hockey mom tries again
Hockey mom tries again
After getting my daughter’s bantam hockey team lost during a tournament last weekend, I felt honour-bound to participate in the girls vs. parents game on Sunday. I was seeking redemption.
There was one problem with this plan, and my daughter felt obliged to point it out: “But mom, you don’t play hockey.”
While that was true, I know how to skate and can hold a stick. Really, how much more can there be?
Well, first I had to borrow equipment. I decided to go with shin pads, gloves and a helmet. I didn’t have a hockey bag, so I jammed the loaned pieces into a regular gym bag. Of course they didn’t fit and I couldn’t zipper it. Making my way across the parking lot with my daughter and another player, my gear started falling out. As I stooped to pick up one piece, others fallowed. That’s when I decided to scrap my plan to intimidate the opponent. And in a sad but necessary role-reversal, my daughter offered to help get me and my gear into the rink.
I had to dress with the enemy, since all the other players on the parents’ team were dads. I was able to get their guard down though, by mischievously asking for instructions in putting on each piece of equipment.
All was well until I got out of the dressing room and saw the freshly-flooded ice. Memories of a bad experience with a Zamboni came rushing back.
You see, during my first year of university, I worked in the House of Commons as a page. Each winter, the pages challenge Members of Parliament to a hockey game. I thought that sounded like fun, so I dug out my old figure skates and borrowed some gear. Sadly, I didn’t make it past our practice. I was an official bench-warmer on game day. It wasn’t because of lack of skill (although I had that too); it was for my own safety.
I underestimated this whole Zamboni thing. The pages were instructed to leave the ice at the end of their practice, as the Zamboni started out. It seemed to be moving pretty slow, so I skated about a bit (frankly, I was quite wobbly so I wanted every second of practice time before the big game). Friends started yelling cheerfully at me and a few other stragglers to get off the ice. I was pulling up the rear, and stumbled a couple of times.
The yelling got frantic as the Zamboni got closer to me (at this point the last person on the ice) and I struggled toward the gate on a newly flooded section of ice. I fell as the Zamboni got nearer. Apparently, these big machines can’t stop on a dime.
Thankfully, I got close enough to my “teammates” that someone pulled me off the ice. That’s when I was instructed to hang up my skates, for good. But I didn’t completely give up on hockey.
Standing before the wet ice on Sunday, I quickly shook the Zamboni fiasco out of my head and started skating.
But I neglected to consider a few facts. Firstly, 14-year-old girls with hockey gear on are big. And in this case, they were out to play hard. Upon seeing some of the dads being checked and tripped, I decided to hang back by my net. Yep, I was definitely a defenceman. That is, until I realized you have to skate backwards to be a defenseman.
Without this backward ability, and no stick-handling skills, I was left with only my physical presence to try to keep the opponent away from the net. For some reason, every time I intentionally bumped into one of the girls on a breakaway, they broke into laughter. It was less funny for me as my unprotected hip hit the ice and they skated away with the puck.
Having had enough of defenseman embarrassment, I decided to take a turn at forward. That didn’t last long. At least when you’re on defence you get a little rest here and there. But before I stopped hanging around their net, the puck got lodged in between the post and the goalie’s pad, so I got my stick in the middle of the melee and started pushing until it broke free and inched across the line. I’m not sure we can call it a goal.
“I don’t think that was legal,” I admitted to my teammates back on the bench.
“I didn’t hear a whistle!” one of the dads offered in response. True, there was no whistle when the puck was stuck, but then again, there was no referee either.
Now I don’t want to make it sound like all the dads were of NHL quality out there. Sure, they’re more comfortable with the sport; they’ve played it before. But we were all out of shape. I think we were down to eight-second shifts near the end of the game.
The girls saw the skill difference. About halfway along, they smugly offered to take one player off their side to even things up. We proudly declined.
But the bottom line is I made it through with no major injuries. Sure, I’m still walking a little funny two days later, but I can hold my head up high and say, “yeah, I play hockey.” Sort of.
(Although score keeping was inconsistent and controversial, it has been reported that Rick MacInnis, proprietor of MacInnis Barber shop in Antigonish, did score an outstanding goal on the parents’ behalf. Please drop by to congratulate Rick next time you’re walking by his shop.)
