Hockey Grandparents (i)

contributed by Phyllis Jardine (Nova Scotia) 

IT'S EARLY SATURDAY MORNING. The local arena is coming to life with the clanging of  heating pipes and echoes of pucks smacking against the boards. I move out of the way as sleepy ten-year-olds parade by mumbling greetings of "hello" as they shuffle  by--shirts untucked, jackets open, neckties askew--towards their dressing rooms.  My husband follows them carrying a hockey bag bigger than our grandson.

Today, I think back to the days when my four brothers played hockey and how things have changed around the arena. Back then, my brothers made their own way to the rink carrying old, used army-surplus kit bags filled with a hodge-podge of hockey sweaters, hand-me-down skates, and equipment that was taped together.  I don't recall seeing many grandparents, or parents for that matter, at hockey games.

"It was a different world back then," my husband says when I say how different it was when I was a kid, how it was less structured, unconstrained. "You can't compare," he reminds me.

But I do. And I wonder if this organized sport affects children's ability to make decisions, if it takes the joy and freedom from childhood, if it interferes with personal choices. But as I watch the kids on the ice, I see that they play their hearts out and seem to love the sport and my concerns dissipate. They are in the game not for personal gain, but to do their personal best.

To date, my husband and I have been to almost every frigid rink in Nova Scotia. And every time I drop a handful of coins for a cup of hot chocolate, I am reminded of my Snowbird friends living in the southern U.S. during the winter months.

"These winter games, shape us, make us tough," I say, trying to convince myself.

"How can a warm breeze compare to the rush you get from watching your grandchild play hockey? Even it is 7:00 a.m. and it's 20 degrees Celsius outside?"

Then again, it's more than just withstanding winter's weather. It's the suspense I experience as I search the ice for my grandson's sweater number, and the pride in finding it. It's the love I feel as I watch him looking through the mask's cage, trying to find me up in the stands. And when he weaves and bobs, dekeing players on his way to the net, then passes the puck to a team mate---it's that momentary wave of warmth that brings me back, game after game.

And when the game is over, there's always an instant swelling of love and pride that overwhelms me when he says, "Good game today, Nanny. We almost won."

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