At Puck Drop

A lot of American families bond over their love of football. They sit around the TV and watch their favorite team play a four-hour game while enjoying apps, drinks, and at one point in time, the tailgates that came along with the sport. For a lot of people, fall is their favorite season because football starts. There’s a feeling of comfort and excitement in the air, and if you grew up around that kind of energy, you have an engrained appreciation for it because in some small way, it feels like home.

I, however, was not born into a family where football was the sport we bonded over. I can’t pin-point a time when my sister, brother, and parents gathered in the living room on Sundays and ate buffalo chicken dip and wore Tom Brady jerseys. I had no interest in ever watching a game, and I don’t feel any excitement for football when fall rolls around.

Instead, I grew up learning who Bobby Orr and Wayne Gretzky were. I was used to bundling up and watching my brother play through plexiglass, listening to the sound of skates slicing through the ice, and enjoying when the Zamboni came out between each period. I may not fully understand the rules of football, but sit me on an ice-cold metal bleacher in the middle of an arena, and at puck drop, I’ll know exactly what’s going on.

My brother learned how to skate when he was three years old and learned how to play hockey when he was five. He played town hockey and for a number of select teams throughout his youth, and he’s no different from the other men in my family. We are comprised of generations of hockey players, so whether it was my grandfather, uncle, dad, cousins, or brother, I have either heard stories of them play or watched them with my own two eyes. Any female on my dad’s side of the family understands when I say that being the sister or mother of a hockey player is a full-on persona.

I could count on one hand how many games, practices, and scrimmages combined that I missed when my brother was a Mite 3. Even as he progressed as a Squirt, Peewee, and Bantam, I seldom missed games. It felt like a collective sport, even if only my brother played.

I may have never played a day of hockey in my life, but I spent my weekdays and weekends in sweaty smelling rinks all over Massachusetts and Rhode Island without much complaining. I don’t think I realized it back then, but I loved hockey because I always knew that if I were in an arena, there was someone I loved nearby. Someone who knew how often skates needed to be sharpened, how heavy a hockey bag weighed, how much the soft pretzels cost, how good or bad the opposing team was, and most importantly, someone who shared the same love for number 37.

When he was a junior in high school, my brother's team made it all the way to the state championship game. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be there in person because I was in college at the time. However, that doesn’t mean I missed it. I live-streamed the game from my freshman year dorm room and watched as he played at the TD Garden in Boston, MA. I was glued to my laptop and yelled at my screen as if I were physically in the rink. To this day, I remember when they won in double OT. I jumped up from my chair and literally cried tears of joy because of how proud I was of him and his team. My sister called me immediately after they won, and together we laughed and cried wishing we could have been in that rink cheering him on.

Hockey wasn’t just a sport my family bonded over. I never felt like it was just an activity my brother was involved in. It was truly a family commitment. I made friends who felt like family through the players’ siblings and have the best memories of family vacations to places like Lake Placid, Montreal, Ottawa, or wherever my brother’s tournaments took place.

I really only knew life with some sort of carpooling schedule, early morning commotion for practice, or hockey equipment aired out in the basement, so when my brother played his final years in high school, that meant an end of an era for my family, as well.

Eventually, his hockey days indeed ended. He didn’t have any more games, practices, or tournaments. There were no more broken stick stories, checking injuries, or unfair penalties to talk about. It went from being a sport that ran our lives to being a sport that we reminisced about, and I had no idea how much I’d miss it when he hung up his skates for the last time.

Last year, my brother and I went to a few Bruins games together. We drove into Boston and made our way into the TD Garden to watch from seats in a stand instead of seats in our house. I want to make it clear that I’m not someone to turn on the game and watch from my living room at home alone. I only know a handful of players, and I don’t follow stats at all (except for when I’m forced to listen to Spittin’ Chiclets with my brother). Regardless, there’s something about cheering with strangers for the same team, slugging back $13 Bud Lights, and hearing Crazy Train come on the loud speakers with the same kid you spent years rooting for on the ice. That’s the exact moment when I realized hockey was what brought my family together and what also led to it splitting apart.

Some of my best childhood memories involve me in a rink. A few of my most difficult ones involve hockey, too. I guess that’s the price you pay for having something you love in your life; it’s expected to give you some of your happiest days and perhaps a few of your hardest.

A small part of me hopes one of my children will play hockey, so I get another shot at watching it shape the people I love most. If none of my kids want to play in the future, than I suppose I’ll just have to cherish the memories I already have. The ones of us all piled in the car making the trip home with rancid smelling hockey pads in the trunk. The ones of us running through each play and period talking about what went wrong and what went right. The ones of us all cuddled close with a rink-specific blanket over our laps, waving to my dad as he stood in his usual spot near the goalie. The ones that built my family.

So, I get it. How football is a sport a lot of American families bond over because that feeling of nostalgia and comfort are laced into buff chick dip and Sundays in the living room.

It’s just that, for me, football will always just be football. Hockey, on the other hand, in some small way, will always feel like home.