DailySusan Humor Blog

IN A HOCKEY DAD'S POCKET

Only take heed to thyself, and keep thy soul diligently,
lest thou forget the things which thine eyes have seen,
and lest they depart from thy heart all the days of thy life:
but teach them thy sons, and thy sons’ sons.
-- Deuteronomy 4:9

It figures that our daughter would have a friend she loves like a brother, and he plays hockey. If she’d had a brother, he would doubtlessly have been a hockey jock. Eden’s dad played hockey. We follow the local college and semipro teams. One nephew is so hockey-crazy, he has collected enough broken hockey sticks to make a chair.

Eden’s friend Chris attended all of her big softball games and was her No. 1 fan. Naturally, she has tried to go to his big hockey matches in return. They’re both seniors, winding down their high-school careers.

Well, last week was the last regular-season game of his elite traveling team. Eden couldn’t go, so I represented her, joining the sizeable cheering section for Chris’ last game.

When Chris skates, he’s smooth and fluid and oh! so fast. His eyes scan the ice constantly. He knows where that puck is every instant.

He’s in such good control that he never gets in fights, rarely has penalties called on him, and rarely has to check anyone or make physical contact. His movements are surgically precise and analytical.

The team was playing their rivals from a nearby city, ahead 3-1 late in the game.

They were going to win. But Chris hadn’t scored. He’d had a long series of “almosts.” Meanwhile, his mother’s hilarious commentary was “almost” making my sides split:

“Oh, nutsola!”

“Get out of the way, you big boob!”

“Cheese and rice! Cheese . . . and . . . rice!” (That, she explained, was how her father cussed when he didn’t want to take the Lord’s name in vain.)

We did the wave, we stomped our feet, we took group pictures. But time was running out.

Suddenly, players bunched up around the front of the goal. Here came Chris, rocketing by with the puck. He seemed to be levitating horizontally.

He was patiently seeking a way to the net in between all those legs, skates and sticks. He juked a couple of times, faking the goalie out of position.

Then as he rocketed by the net’s far corner, he artfully popped it in . . . like a sugar cube into His Lordship’s cup of tea.

GOAL!!!!!!!!

Everybody went crazy. It was unassisted, and they were playing short-handed, which made it all the sweeter.

The game ended soon thereafter. We fans in Chris’ entourage greeted his dad, who spends every game across the ice, helping the team with stats and so forth.

Gentle and sweet just like his son, he was beaming as he walked up to us with his hand in his pocket.

“You know,” he said, “I got the puck that Chris shot as his first goal as a PeeWee, many years ago. I got the winning shot Chris made, a rocket from the blue line, against a real hotshot goalie in a big tournament in Minnesota.”

He took his hand out of his pocket. “And now, I’ve got a third puck: his last goal from his last game.”

He showed us. We squealed “Ahhhh!” and got tingles.

His eyes glittered. Tears? Or just the reflection from the ice that had framed so much of his life for all these years of youth hockey?

For all the hours you gave . . . for all the money you paid . . . for all the miles you drove . . . for all the slumps you helped him through . . . for all the moves you taught him . . . for all the joy you shared in teaching this great sport to your son, and in the process teaching both of you so much more. . .

. . . this puck’s for you, Dad.

But he knew that. He and Chris’ mom exchanged a quick glance that said it all.

He slipped the puck back in his pocket, gave his pocket a pat, and turned to go find his son. †