The hockey boards are up in the backyard, Christmas lights are strung on poles high above, and my skates are sharpened.
All we need now are consecutive days of seriously cold temperatures and a good base of snow. My Merry Christmas depends on it.
This winter my 12-year-old defenceman insists he will teach me the basics of hockey, from handling the puck to the all-important slap shot. Kelly’s Hockey Training Camp commences the minute that rink is ready.
First I plan to visit the homes of all my adjacent neighbours to sign any waivers required to protect their personal property. In return, they will have to promise that no YouTube videos of my wanna-be-Gretzky moves turned epic-fail footage will emerge.
The idea for my training came after the boy child and I attended a Fergus Devils game (which is really great hockey, by the way). It was just the two of us checking out the team and we had a good time for two reasons:
– first, this was hockey I could actually afford to take my child to, plus the game was fast, hard-hitting and anybody who went into the boards with a good check was not actually related to me, so I was okay with it, and
– secondly, watching hockey with my son means I can ask questions and dissect plays without getting the look of “Really? Did you just ask me that?”
The boy child enjoys the opportunity to explain his sport, which tells me he’s learning something. Plus, he acts like a complete spaz with me, cheering on the hometown team. For a moment I’m not the witch that insists he washes the dinner dishes and take his laundry to his room. I’m just a hockey fan too.
As we sat watching the Devils play, I asked my son if he could hear the stupid things spectators yell out in the middle of a game. You know the smart hockey advice we shout out like, “shoot it” or “pass it” or my all time favourite, “look behind you.”
Really? Pretty sure hockey kids have the fundamentals of the game down. And yet, there we sit, barking out orders despite a team of coaches and trainers already doing exactly that, because it’s their job.
My son and I were talking about a beauty breakaway goal when I remarked that I’ve never actually played hockey, ever. I have never taken a slap shot, or taken a puck away from another player. I wished aloud that just once I could feel what it’s like to score a goal. By his expression, I clearly have not lived.
A light bulb moment went off in my son’s head. I could see the spark in his eye. I just became a project, sort of like a science fair without the Bristol board and required reading.
Maybe it’s payback for all the times I have broken the sacred mother-son rule of “don’t shout my name out at hockey, mom.” I may not be a rowdy hockey parent (truly, I am not), but I have been known to show my, shall we say, enthusiasm for a certain player.
Well, karma is about to come to centre ice in my own backyard. She shoots, she maybe scores. She’s fallen, but she will get back up.
Bring it.