OK, I realize it's almost Nov and I'm blogging about what happened in March but some things take time to get it right. And I procrastinate. I will do better this year.
March
marked a turning point for me when my 17 yr old son played his last minor
hockey game.
There
was fake smoke and a photographer taking pictures as they skated through the
fog. Each player who was playing their final game was presented with a
certificate, and the National anthem played. It was a fitting end to the boys’
journey into young adulthood and to my career as a hockey dad.
At
the conclusion of the game the boys were presented with their medals, their
jerseys were turned in, and the gear was thrown into the back of the truck for
the last time. He and his mother left together and I headed out of the parking
lot in somewhat of my own fog, not wanting to believe it was really over.
On
the ride home I found myself wondering what happened to those two little stinky
boys that rode shotgun with my over endless miles to and from the rink for more
years than I can remember, and like many in my situation, wondering where the hell
the time had gone.
Since
my sons first strapped blades on their feet fourteen or fifteen years ago, they
were both hooked on the sport. Not fanatics mind you, just two kids who loved
to play hockey. Any time, any place, with or without skates, with a puck a ball
or a wad of rolled up tape, on ice, grass, dirt, concrete, or pavement.
My
hockey dad days were likely not that much different than those of many hockey
dads; early mornings, a travel mug of Tim Horton’s tea, an hour drive to the
rink, laces being tied, and then cheering from the stands and beaming with
pride regardless of the outcome of the game.
Then
came the hour drive back home complete with foul smelling gear and kids in need
of a shower, the miles filled with the endless chatter of them retelling their
version of the events of the game. On Sundays after the game the boys went back
home to their Mom’s.
But
from the time I picked them up from school on Friday afternoon until they went
home we were three Kings, free to do whatever we wanted within reason, and we
did it in fine form.
Most
Fridays we’d cut off the highway and stop at Nannie and Grampie’s house for a
visit, after which we’d head for one of the two old dirt roads that run cross
country and led to that little piece of heaven that was our home for seven
wonderful years.
The
boys both knew once we hit the gravel it would be their turn to drive, and each
waited somewhat patiently for his turn to be the wheelman. In good weather and
bad, they each drove us from pavement end to pavement start and as the distance
between legs and pedals shortened, they eventually took control of more than just
the wheel.
In
the years since they started playing hockey the boys graduated from Timbits to
Atom, then to Peewee and Bantam, and it was then that my oldest son took to the
water while the other continued on ice. In the process they’ve made it through
Elementary school and Jr. High and they are both now in their last years of
High School.
As
for me, this next birthday will be the last of the ones that start with a four
and the dirt road of life continues on.
Their
mother and I split up when they were too young to remember us being together,
and for a long while when she and I worked completely on opposite rotations she
would have them on her days off and I would have them on mine.
As
our work schedules changed so did our sharing of the boys, and I made the
transition to from almost half time dad to weekend dad, then later to being an
every other weekend dad.
Until
I started working offshore in 2009 I could count on one hand the number of the
boy’s games I had missed, even when they played in different divisions, which
happened every other year and was an absolute pain in the ass; a pain I
wouldn’t trade for anything.
In
the years since being seduced into the offshore world I have been physically
away for over half of almost every year since, and as my sons continue to become
more and more independent young men, our time together becomes less and less frequent.
This
past year or so was the toughest for me in a long while, with an offshore
travel schedule even more unforgiving than usual, but what was toughest for me
was that I missed the vast majority of my son’s hockey games this season.
So
here I sit off of Mumbai India, half a world away from everything important to
me and wondering how I will make the next transition I can’t help but look back
at it all and smile.
Our
times together covered thousands of miles of blacktop on four wheels and on two
with them on the back of my bike, and hundreds of miles of dirt roads and
potholes that were often dusty and muddy, and sometimes snow covered.
Through
them all we only had two mishaps; once when Grampie had to come rescue us from
the alders (my fault not theirs) and once that involved a partridge that made
the ultimate error in judgment by choosing to stay put and expecting us to
yield the right of way.
Fact:
The rules of the road for partridges are not the same as for pedestrians.
Feathers flew; the partridge did not. Well, not of his own accord. The three of
us still laugh like hell when we think of that day.
It’s
true you can’t turn back the hands of time, but even if I could I doubt I
would, for fear of things not ending up exactly as they are today, especially if
it might mean potentially missing even one of the memories I have from my
career as a hockey dad.
But
I’d give anything do it all over again exactly the same way we did it then,
making dust and memories down the dirt roads of the past.
