The Screaming Hockey Mom

I always said that I would never become that parent. You know the one. The one who hollers at hockey games with only the best of intentions but always attracts the sideways glances of their spouse and the eye roll of the kid they buy skates for.

My first encounter with one of those parents was not when I was a player of any sport. Early on Saturday mornings, when I sat on the freezing cold blue bleachers of the Clarenville Stadium watching small boys hustle back and forth between the nets. I had not a clue what they were doing. For as much as I might have been without a clue as to what was happening on the ice, I sure knew what was happening in the stands. I knew way back then, before I was even a teenager about that parent- because I spent Saturday mornings sitting next to my Aunt Carol.

God love her. She is my favourite relative. She looks exactly like my mother, but in attitude, she is a lot like me. We are both a little judgmental (only when we are right) and we are both spunky (but only when we need to be). We have never had a cross word with each other and I hold her opinion right up there with God and the Dalia Lama. Of course, there's an excellent chance that she may strangle me with her bare hands for reminiscing online about her, but boy I have to say it, way back then, when she got hollering at my cousin Steven`s hockey team, I wanted to crawl under the bleachers.

I decided then, cowering in the freezing cold arena that I was never going to be that parent.

When we put Daniel in hockey three years ago, he couldn't skate. Thank God for the patience of Coach Mark and Coach Dave, who tolerated him shuffling like a penguin across the ice. They promised that in no time things would get better. I still couldn't help thinking, boy, that kid is tenacious; I would have packed it in after the first practice. In hindsight, it probably was a good thing he was doing all that shuffling – there was no way he was going to stop if he did manage to build up any momentum. It was almost painful to watch, because he is one of those kids that is naturally good at everything he tries, so watching him struggle nearly killed me.

However, with tenacity that I can only admire, the dedication of his phenomenal coaches, and some power skating lessons, he can skate. Pretty well I must admit. In fact, as a defence man, he pretty much looks like a one man wrecking crew when he puts his mind to it. I am very proud of him for how his hard work has paid off.

Back when his ankles bent inwards and he looked a little like Bambi at the beginning of the book, I marvelled. Things hadn't changed much. Those parents still were around. I could hear them hollering from the benches beside me.

I will not be that parent, I reassured myself. I will never shout at a kid who is clearly trying to do something that I am not brave enough to try myself.

It's been three years, and things have changed a little. Daniel is a strong skater, a responsible checker and scores his fair share of goals. Now when I think about it, somehow, while he was making all of those transitions, something in me was changing too. Somehow, deep down inside, his little, yet constant improvements spell big victories in my heart.

I have become one of those parents. I get the side long glances from my spouse and the eye roll from my kid.

I apologize to the relatives of other children who chose to sit alongside me on a regular basis. Their hearing may not be what it was. I have become a little louder each game that Daniel has gotten a little stronger. I apologize to my dear Aunt Carol for my embarrassment and wanting to crawl in under the stands. I now understand what all of the yelling was about. I suspect (since she is so much like me) that it wasn't that she was in a race with herself to strain her vocal cords. It was probably because her heart was ready to burst with pride and sometimes it's hard to find a way to express that to an eleven year old boy.

So us parents spend all of our free time in freezing cold arenas, making a new set of friends every winter, yelling at the top of our lungs, with the hope that they will decipher just what we are actually trying to tell them.