The prospect of a Father-Son game when the Boys were Peewee or Bantam age was fine as we fathers could confidently say we were bigger, stronger and for the most part faster than our still-growing offspring. But this year was different and you could sense a bit of trepidation on the side of the fathers from the moment the game was announced a couple of weeks earlier. In speaking with a few fathers, we all sort of wondered if we were indeed still stronger and particularly faster. Some among us, and I include myself in these ranks, are no longer able to say we are bigger. As age takes its course some of us are highly cognizant of the fact that we are headed in the opposite direction, if only because knee, back or other joint pains cause us to gravitate downward.
To add to the concern of the competing fathers, we had only one day prior also attended a full team bbq/swim party graciously hosted by one set of parents. There was plenty of food, drink and a previously scheduled Father/Son baseball game. Obviously the organizers of these back-to-back events had lofty misconceptions about the fitness and stamina of the older participants. For the record, the fathers won the baseball game 16-15. But the win could be attributed as much to a lack of interest on the part of the Boys as it could to the skill level of their wily old counterparts. The Boys had stated a preference for a football game. Luckily saner heads did prevail at least once last weekend as football would have no doubt spelled injury for some unlucky father.
Sunday arrived and we all made our way to the hockey rink where the Boys would first be put through a brisk half hour skate/warm (a tactic no doubt intended to wear them down just a little), while we fathers dressed and did as much stretching as our bodies would allow. One father wondered if he would even be able to skate on a bum knee and questionable ankle.
As we took to the ice, there were of course, some pre-game antics from the team of dads including taunting, cajoling and an appearance by Slapshot's infamous Hanson brothers (aka fathers in goofy wigs and dorky glasses complete with white hockey tape across the bridge). Some fathers wondered if all the Boys even got the reference. I'm somewhat proud and maybe a little embarrassed to say that the Boy watched Slapshot, a classic in the eyes of most true hockey fans, a couple of years ago. The language and mature themes in the movie may have some questioning my parenting skills, but it really is a classic. I mean "Geezus Reg, what did you say to him?" Yes, I can recite a fair bit of the dialogue, which may also be a bit concerning, but it really is a classic.
Back to the game and following the opening face-off the Boys came out quickly. They immediately took it to us fathers with their quick feet and fancy toe drags. They went up two goals to none and had us looking at each other, wondering if we were in trouble. But then the fathers roared back with a pretty passing play and goal of their own, followed by another and another to take a 3-2 lead. I may have been on the ice against the Boy himself, I may have even scored the third goal and then I just might have thrown a taunt or two in his direction because I'm nothing if not competitive; a trait the Boy likewise comes by honestly. Having taken the lead, the fathers got a boost of confidence and started moving the puck around a little more effectively. We also started using a variety of admittedly questionable tactics (did I mention here were no refs in this game) to keep the boys off stride. There may have been a little clutching, grabbing, smothering and sitting upon.
As we went ahead by two and then three goals the Boys decided to press in the offensive zone, but that only served to leave a father or two open down the ice as many didn't have the strength or stamina to come back to help defend in any case. Agile of mind if not of body. The game ended 10-7 in favour of the fathers. This father, for his part, ended up scoring three and assisting on two others, facts not lost on the Boy for several hours after the game was over (I told everyone I saw that day including my own Father and Father-in-Law). Again, nothing if not competitive.
A traditional post-game ceremony, complete with the presentation of a large borrowed trophy, was carried out. Said trophy was paraded around the ice and passed from father to father who in turn took his opportunity to raise it above his head and kiss it fondly, mimicking Stanley Cup victors. However, we all realize that this pomp, circumstance and general tomfoolery was only conducted because we realize this is likely the last time we'll be able to celebrate a victory over our Boys. We already had a sense that the Boys took it easy on us and were not quite as competitive as we fathers trying to maintain some of our youthful pride.
All in all the game was a blast and I do look forward to an opportunity to play against, if not more sensibly with, the Boy or the Devil again. In each case I can only hope I'm given a bit of a head start and the compassion of children who realize Dad still likes to think he's still got it.
#imahockeydad
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