Now back to my shopping excursion. My daughter, Avery, is a mature 12 year old, a honour student, and, as of today, a Peewee. Perhaps inspired by the gold medal winning Canadian Junior Hockey Team or by watching my Northeast Bantam B's last week, she decided she wants to play hockey. Peewees are larger than Atoms (don't tell that to Einstein), gigantic compared to Mites, but smaller than Midgets and Bantams. (What's a Bantam anyway?) Throw Juveniles, Tykes and Juniors into the mix and one begins to realize that maybe size does matter after all. (I hope my wife doesn't read this, she'll know I've been lying to her all these years.)
Avery knows the game better than most kids her age. Her only obvious deficiency, when she finally hits the ice next week, will be that she can't skate. She says she can go forward, stop a little, and definitely can't go in reverse. Even with that fairly honest self assessment I think she is being somewhat optimistic. Confidence is a great asset, but I hope when reality body checks her ego this coming Wednesday that she will get right back up on those blades of steel and persevere.
That truly is my hope, that Avery sticks with it. Long enough at least, so that when I donate her equipment to the minor hockey association I can tell them that it is "used" equipment. Unlike her older sister, who found her sporting fit to be competitive swimming at a young age, Avery continues to try things out. I love her enthusiasm and willingness to explore, but my garage is starting to look a lot like the sporting goods store I left this afternoon. Soccer, basketball, swimming, volleyball, rowing, and softball have all been favourite sports during Avery's short life. Can hockey stay in favour? That is the several hundreds of dollars question.
Lynda wondered why I just didn't just go get used equipment for Avery. If any of you know Lynda then you would realize that position is totally unlike her. Normally, Lynda would be totally against her kids wearing anything that someone else had so close to their skin. Her thinking would be along the lines of "Who knows where that equipment has been and what heebie-jeebie creatures are lurking behind the layers of protection." The fact she questioned that I outfitted Avery in all new equipment hints that Lynda also habours doubt that Avery will be the next Hayley Wickenheiser. Lynda wasn't an athlete, so she doesn't understand. You have to look good to play good. You need to be different than everyone else, but that is in how you play, not in how you look when you play. You can't have a Koho hockey stick when everyone else has a PMP 5030. Your helmet must not be red when everyone else is wearing black. You first need to fit in, then you work to set yourself apart from the pack by playing the game the way it was meant to be played - like a hockey player.
Avery may turn out to be a girl who plays hockey or a girl who played hockey once. It matters not. What matters is that she is excited about trying. Almost as much as I will be to watch her. After all my years involved with the game, today I became what I thought I may never be, a hockey dad. It sure feels special, but it sure was expensive.
One last thought before the final buzzer sounds on this story. Lynda's dad, Ron West, was a famous, perhaps infamous, local hockey referee. My first game misconduct, while playing hockey school hockey, came at his hands and that was long before I even knew he had a daughter. I got the last laugh on him (or did I?). Just kidding, dear. I hated Ron, the ref. I've had my share of run-ins with many refs, both when I was a player and now as a coach. It's not that I don't respect them, it's more that they are just so wrong so often and I don't mind telling them.
I wonder if my attitude towards hockey refs will be carried on by Avery or will she turn out more like her grandfather and be a sympathizer of the folks in the zebra shirts? I'll be okay with whatever path she chooses. I can tell her that all that time I spent in the penalty box allowed me to see the game from an entirely different perspective. Getting punched in the head repeatedly does that to a person. I am thankful that Avery is more like her mother and is a lover not a fighter. I think even Ron West would have approved. On that he would have be right, for the first time ever. Touché, Ron!
