Dad's still got it....sort of

Last Sunday, Father's Day, the Boy's hockey coach decided to devote the majority of the team's once-a-week, keep the lads' feet wet for the Summer, ice time to a Father-Son game.

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

No thing gets left behind

After you've actually forgotten to bring your child to a their own hockey game, there's really not much else you can do wrong that's worthy of repeating. But I'm an equal opportunity screwer-upper so there's a recent incident involving the Boy.

First off, I and most every other parent has been overheard in a malodorous dressing room preaching emphatically to their child, "It's YOUR hockey bag and YOUR equipment, so it is YOUR responsibility to make sure everything is in it." This line is generally uttered after it's realized, often too late, that some piece of equipment is missing. For instance, these very words were no doubt uttered when one of the Boy's teammates forgot his pants for a game more than an hour from home. Dad, in this case, resorted to seeking out the closest Walmart and purchasing the cheapest pair of pants he could find. Post-game, the same pants, all pricetags and stickers still intact were returned to said Walmart, having served their purpose. I bet you didn't know Walmart rented hockey pants? Well now you do.

This past season the Boy's team was entered into a tournament at Niagara University, Home of the Purple Eagles. Cross-border tournaments are different and fun. You get to travel to a different place and generally play a bunch of different teams. But out of town tournaments are always also a little hectic with having to pack clothes, snacks, beer, equipment, the dog who will be dropped off at friends or the kennel, beer, passports, directions, etc., etc., etc.

I took the Friday off work to give us plenty of time to drop off the pooch and take our time getting to the first game on Friday night. Before we left the house I asked the standard question "Did you double check your bag to make sure you have everything?"

"No, but mom just washed a bunch of my stuff and threw it all back in. I haven't touched it since my last practice," was the response.

We did arrive early, checked into our hotel and proceeded to the rink, which was a little off the beaten path. Niagara University isn't really close to anything - save for a couple of outlet malls. At the rink, as usual, Dad, Mom and Sis headed up into the stands to watch the game that preceded the Boy's, while he went down for the pre-game warm up with his teammates.

About 30 minutes later and 30 minutes prior to the first game of the tournament, the Boy came trudging, ashen-faced up into the stands.

"What did you forget?" I asked almost immediately.

"Actually, what did YOU forget?" he half-sarcastically replied.

My mind almost immediately doubled back to a mere 24 hours before when I obediently dropped off and then picked up the Boy's skates from the regular sharpening place. I went from the sharpening place to another rink in town where I had an errand to run and I didn't want to leave the seriously over-priced footwear out in the open in the backseat of the car. I prudently placed the skates in the safe recesses of trunk. Safe and sound. Out of sight and now quite unfortunately out of mind.

I don't need to tell you that, of all the pieces of equipment you can forget, skates are a pretty high on the list of necessity. And skates are not nearly as easy to replace with a quick trip to the local Walmart or Canadian Tire. Skates don't grow on trees south of the 49th parallel like they do up here in the frozen northern homeland. Skates generally need to be worked in. Today's skates, with their near NASA-approved technology, are typically "baked" and molded to fit the foot for maximum comfort and effectiveness. A wide range of options and scenarios were quickly tabled and just as quickly untabled.

1) The Boy would simply miss game one, Dad would endure immense shame and ridicule and we'd find somewhere to buy a cheap pair of replacements for game two.

2) The Boy would simply miss game one (still not Dad's preference) and then Dad would drive back two and a half hours across the border to retrieve the skates from the trunk and return in time for game two the next morning.

3) The Boy would simply miss game one (an increasingly likely but unceasingly unpopular scenario) and then Dad would meet Mom's father (who would need to be cajoled into the role of skate courier) at some agreed upon halfway point.

Only one other option remained. How about checking to see if the rink's pro-shop happened to have a pair of skates they could loan the Boy? As luck would have it, the local Rink Rat (as they are affectionately known) did think he had a pair of skates he could lend the Boy, but he would have to find them and they would need to be sharpened. In fact, what the Rink Rat found was a vintage pair of skates which were at least a size too small and seriously lacking in ankle support.

We nervously watched the pre-game skate at the Boy tried his damnedest to make the instruments play the tune. These skates simply weren't up to the challenge and the Boy sat dejectedly on the end of the bench as the Rink Rat set off to see if he could locate another pair. To his credit, he returned with an only slightly larger, but somewhat sturdier pair for the Boy to try. Far from ideal, the Boy got through the game on these newly borrowed wheels. We were indeed indebted to the Rink Rat who went out of his way to help. Maybe he had a kid whose skates he had somehow unwittingly and unintentionally forgotten in another country?

The game itself was not pretty as our boys fell to the competition 4-1. To add insult to injury, there was a melee at the end of the game which saw three players from our team incur game misconducts. Suddenly opportunity presented itself as at least one of the three ejected boys happened to have nearly the same sized feet as the Boy. "Sorry about the game misconduct, but I guess you won't be needing those skates then?"

As luck or unluck would have it, depending on your perspective, another game led to another player's ejection and another prime opportunity to borrow some steel. Another pair of slightly smallish skates were loaned and the Boy was able to play, albeit with increasingly sore feet.

The crisis was somewhat averted and the Boy was able to play in all three games. The team did not advance beyond the round robin and that was probably for the best as far as at least one family was concerned.

The moral, of course, to this particular story is....Always check YOUR own equipment bag and NEVER rely on YOUR increasingly old man to have the presence of mind or basic ability to transport any of YOUR equipment or YOUR SISTER for that matter to its required destination.

#imahockeydad