What else could it be for the letter “H”?

Why do I like hockey? Well, I came to the game naturally. Buried in the basement in a bundle of old photos is this picture post card of a hockey game in Edmonton. As you can see, it’s back when “outdoor” wasn’t retro-classic, it was the only option for ice sports.  My grandfather is on one of the teams  but I will have to take Mom’s word for it as the figures are too small to distinguish any family lineage–unless it’s the guy getting set to pass up ice. It’s some kind of freak DNA Narraway trait of being right handed but playing sports left…

My mother remembers being taken along to watch her father play hockey. Grandfather (Gahgah, we called him) did not spend time with his daughter willingly so it must have been when Nana was still “in her confinement” after bringing Uncle Lionel (a boy, about bloody time was the response from Great Granddad Joseph) into the world. Mom enjoyed herself at the game right up until she was beaned with the puck.

As the fog lifted, there were concerned faces gathered around her, asking if she was okay. Then the crowd parted and the figure of her father loomed over the boards, scowling. “Come on, get up. Stop making a spectacle of yourself, girl.” He was embarrassed a child of his should draw attention to being a girl and unable to dodge a puck. She was 5 at the time.

That still isn’t answering the question as to why I like the game. I’m not a huge fan of watching it on tv. There is a separation from the action, too many distractions and almost always a phone call or sink full of dishes to interrupt my focus on the ice.  But a live game is a different situation. Even junior hockey live beats NHL on tv. Any day, hands down. I’d rather watch timbits play live than the pro’s on anything but the biggest screen.

Part of it is the ice. Honestly. In the mid winter, when it is cold and the dark seems to last 23 hours out of 24, go sit in a hockey rink. The first thing that happens, after the anthem and the introduction of the starting line up, is the arena lights go up full. Bright white light reflecting off a gleaming white surface. For the next 2 hours you are bathed in a gajillion watts of light. What is the cure for seasonal affected disorder? Bright light.

During the game you focus totally on the action. There is no instant replay, no announcer droning silly statistics or those dingbat catchphrases so dear to sports announcers’ hearts. The rest of the world, what happened that day, what will happen tomorrow are lost in the action on the ice. The world falls away.

There is a poetry and rhythm in the speed of the game. 10 players – women or men – fly around the rink, weaving around each other, spinning, dodging, reaching. 2 players wait for that split second they will reach into space to catch a comet on the sheer faith it will be nowhere else.

There are no quarterbacks, 3 downs (or 4 if you play yankee rules) with everyone lined up neatly, patiently waiting till one fellow finishes counting and takes a step back before starting to move in. Nobody stands on a base waiting for the puck to come to them or for their turn to try to hit it.

The coach can draw up a play and tell the team what should happen but once the puck drops all bets are off.. the players charge, adapt, find a new way to move up and down the ice. When both teams are playing their best, when they are flying, there is no game like it in the world.

My big sister meets Marty the Marmot, world’s greatest mascot and team rodent

Oh, also, for two reasons, (what Fox TV tried to do to ‘help’ viewers and for my mother),  I can’t stress this enough: the puck is small, black and doesn’t always stay on the ice so you really have to watch it carefully because it is very, very hard.