Confessions of a Hockey Mom

A disclaimer:

Before I begin to unveil this little essay from my glory days as a mother hauling smelly hockey equipment and yet another broken hockey stick, this was written long before Sarah Palin came on the scene and proclaimed hockey moms to be ‘pit bulls with lipstick’.

I should tell you that standing now on this edge of that old precipice, had I known I was in training at the same time as my son, I’d have taken my training a little – no, more seriously. It prepared me to be a College Mom. And that was when I became Mama Boozie. But that’s a story for another day….

This piece was written in the spring of 2004 as a special gift to the other mothers I spent so much time with. As I look back at it now, I cringe at the clichés. If you’ve read the earlier post about Erma Bombeck, I hope those of you who have had the pleasure of reading her books, will find some laughter, or at least a chuckle, in the following paragraphs. This is how it begins:

I stand before you to confess: I am a Hockey Mom. I was born a hockey fan, but I became a hockey mom only in recent years. Far be it from me to keep my observations of hockey life to myself. So without further adieu, I shall begin my confessions to my fellow hockey moms…

The Mighty Blackhawks – the Black & White Hawks

Ever since I can remember I was mesmerized by the black and white images of the Chicago Blackhawks (okay, sing along with me, everyone “Blackhawks, the mi-ighty Blackhawks”) skating and scoring on the small television set in the basement. Tony Esposito, Bobby Orr and Stan Makita have got to be my all time favorite players of old. What can I say, I was hooked.

Hooked (or a two minute minor for hooking)

What was the attraction you ask? First, it’s the initial adjustment to the eyes and following the puck like “Where’s Waldo?” Really, I think it’s the moves, the speed and I must confess again, the fights. Ah fists swinging, the gloves flying, helmets tossed and last but not least, the blood.

I am the daughter of a nurse. The sight of blood is neither repulsive nor frightening. I am calm at the sight of the red ooze. However, as a mom, when a head the boards, and the skater gets up and shakes his head, I am somewhat alarmed by the prospect of a concussion. My son is drilled with questions like….

“How many fingers am I holding up?”    “Three.”

“What day is it?”    “I’m fine, Mom.”

“Again, what day is it?”  A deep sigh (exasperation?) from my son, “Sunday.”

“What year is it?”  “Mommmm!”

Crossing my arms over my more than ample bosom, “Ahem.”   “2003.”

“Who is the President?”     “Bush.”

“Herbert or Walker?”   “Walker.”

Needless to say he passed.

Confessions to be continued…..

 

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