With kid hockey season in full swing, my Saturday and Sunday mornings now start with an adrenaline rush and the brain tug moment of "what time was practice today?"
The thing I have come to learn about youth hockey is that the time set for practice is always a moving target. A fluid, ethereal spot in my day that may change by rink, by time and even by the night before.
So here I am Saturday morning, sleepy, hair askew and wheeling the biggest bag of equipment ever imagined. A bag so big I could probably pack two seven-year old boys and all their equipment too. Yet my son is proud that he has this big statement of a bag, nevermind I'm dragging it behind him.
It's a gorgeous fall day, a warmish Indian Summer spectacular, and I breathe deeply knowing only too soon we will find ourselves inside the sweatiest, feet-smelling changing room. The locker room, about the size of an airport Starbucks, has 16 kids and mostly dads, all with that same ridiculous monster bag. To say I am overwhelmed -- you betcha.
They all know what they are doing. The moms even know what they are doing -- wielding huge handfuls of tape to their son's gear, smartly lacing up skates and pads and other acoutrements. At age seven, I was working on my Barbie townhome, organizing tea parties and feeding my Baby Alive pretend food. I wasn't putting on Shock Jock sport cups with coordinating Under Armour athletic pants.
So here I am, feeling like the biggest dork among a sea of cool, in-crowd hockey knowers. All this stuff feels completely unnatural to me and if I could talk my son into another sport, I would do it in a heart beat. But I know I am projecting my own insecurities on a boy who doesn't even notice.
As we wait for our turn on the big white sheet of ice, we watch the Junior Hurricanes play. Kids flush in talent and amazingly only ten or eleven years old -- they are stunning to watch. I am humbled by my son's face as he see these "kid heroes" come off the ice. I see him stand taller watching them come by. His face is serious with a look of resolve and pride -- knowing if he works hard enough, he could be just like them.
Hockey is not for the faint at heart -- it is risk, adventure and power rolled up on a frozen oval. I have no idea if my son will continue to love it as much as he does now. He is undertaking something where I have nothing to teach him. But in hockey, we both are learning how to be passionate about the sport together. Yes -- passion is a life lesson that is of beautiful value whether you are seven or 70. Even a dorky mom gets that.
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