Hockey

My father always wanted me to play hockey. That’s understandable; he’d played hockey most of his life, mostly defense, but he could play any position, except goal (my Uncle Jerry played goal...right up into his 80s, if you can believe it). And he was good. Really good. I remember seeing him play a couple times when I was 4 or 5 years old. To say he flew on the ice would be an understatement. He had grace on the ice, as well. But he was dirty, too, I was told. No kidding. One of his nicknames was Dirty Leonard.

Back to my father wanting to follow in his footsteps: There was one problem. I never really learned to skate. Not from lack of trying. My parents had bought me skates when I was a tot, and I used to scurry up and down the driveway, mainly on my ankles, despite ankle supports. As years passed, I spent quite a few hours skating around the rink at Pinecrest, but I’d also spent some of it on my ass and even more time hugging the boards. I was alright taking a slow turn after years of practice, but crossing my legs over one another was out of the question, not to mention executing the classic hockey stop. Gliding or crashing into the boards was more my technique.

Not that my father didn’t try to teach me, he did, on occasion, but he was also a travelling salesman and didn’t come to the rink with me often. I don’t believe he knew how to teach me how, actually; it came to him too naturally to know how to describe it well, let alone teach it, and I don’t think he had the patience, either.

He took me up to Pinecrest one time, probably on my mother’s urging. He did not bring skates. There were a couple older kids there. They had a net, and took turns playing goal while the other took shots. My dad just had to get in there, so he called out to them, and I was left on the boards to watch. He winked at me before he slid over there. He may not wearing have been wearing skates, but he did glide over there with grace, he always had perfect balance on ice. He told them about his glory days (I did say he was really good, by the way), I’m not sure if they believed him much, so, he asked if he could take some shots on them, they agreed, exchanging looks that said, “let’s humour the old man.” They shouldn’t have (stupid kids, didn’t they see how he moved on the ice even without skates?). My father had a wicked slap shot, a good wrist shot too. He warmed up with a few wrist shots before hammering the poor kid with a few slap shots. The kid was hit a couple times, then there was fear in his eyes. Needless to say, my dad was showing off, more for me than them, but them, too.

Later, my dad wanted to put me on a hockey team. I think my mother tried to put him off the idea, but my father was adamant. I was going to play hockey. So, he enrolled me on a team, Esso, I think (actually, I remember the name, quite well). My mother took me to my first practice, and stayed, watching from the boards the whole time. When I got on the ice, I knew I was in trouble, not only were the guys racing back and forth the length of the ice and doing rapid direction changes, they were skating figure eights...backwards. I promptly landed on my ass. The coach sent a kid to help me, to teach me the basics. And to give the kid his due, he really tried. But there was too much skill to make up in so short a time and he grew frustrated, then finally giving me some tips, and raced off to practice with his friends. Once the “practice” was done, humiliated, I slumped into the car and told my mother, “I’m NEVER going back there again.”

I know my parents argued about it, but my mother won. I never did go back.

I’ve hated hockey ever since.