Sunday with a Chance of a Penalty

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When I got home last night, Nathan, who was sleeping over a friend’s house, left a wake-up call for 10am this morning. Why did he want to get up so early? And, believe me, for Nathan that’s early. He had a hockey game at 11:30; thus, he had to be at the rink by 11am.

I hadn’t ventured into a skating rink in a while. Given my nasty cold, I steered clear of last weekend’s game. And, even though I was feeling fine this morning, I wasn’t looking forward to the game. The primary reason being that it seemed that no matter what I wore on my feet that my toes lost all consciousness after the second period.

I could tell time at the hockey games, albeit in 12-minute increments, by my body alone. (In poker, a Royal Flush beats a Straight; in hockey, the Ice Rink always beats a Geordie.)

First period: Bottom in trauma due to initial contact with frigid cold bleacher seat.
End of first period: Bottom has warmed up cold slab of a seat; insert now semi-numb fingers under bottom for extra warmth, even if it looks strange; however, I’m sure it’s nothing other hockey parents don't do!
Second period: Wigging toes to keep them conscious. “Stay with me toes!” I shout as I slap them against the bottoms of my Dansko clogs.
End of second period: Toes unresponsive to any movement or my voice.
Third period: Using positive visualization and out-of-body experience to spend the next 12 minutes on a beach in the Caribbean.
End of third period: Mad dash to the entry way where the heat is plentiful and thawing is a way of life.

Anyway, after a very tired Nathan (went to bed at 5am after playing D&D all night) was dropped off at the rink, I gave myself the pep talk I needed to get back into the saddle (i.e., bleacher seat) again. I put on an extra heavy Winter coat. (At the hockey rink, function always wins over fashion; however, anywhere else, it’s definitely fashion over function!) I got out a hat and a pair of heavy gloves. After 5 minutes, I said, “Who am I kidding? This is a no-win situation.”

Before I left, Iz, who was going off to play with her friend “Kafrin” (Katherine), asked me if I knew where her pink backpack purse was. (All important items-of-the-moment should be equipped with tracking devices; it would be nice if I had one on her Nintendo DS, too!) After turning the downstairs upside down and inside out, because that’s where she swore she left it, we found it upstairs. Of course, on top of it, there was a sleeping cat; and unfortunately for Liam, we could not let a sleeping cat lie.

At 11:45am, I arrived at my destination – the bleachers at the Groton School. The bleachers said, “This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt us.” I rolled my eyes, and I said, “Duh.” My bottom hit the bleacher.
--SHUDDER--
And, then I saw my handsome* #16 skate by and, suddenly, I warmed up.

*Okay, you can’t really tell he’s handsome with all that hockey gear crap on, but he is! Heck, sometimes I have a hard time telling the difference between him and #13, especially when I forget my glasses!

Today something happened which doesn’t happen a lot. It was during the second period. At that time, my toes and I were still maintaining some kind of dialog when the referee blew his whistle. Nathan was in the game and had just checked someone. Then I heard what no parent likes to hear, “Number 16, [pretend the ref is Charlie Brown’s teacher] woh-woh, woh-woh-woh-woh!”

Whatever it was, Nathan had just received a penalty that cost a minute and thirty seconds! I was like, “A penalty?! Not my boy! The ref’s got it wrong. Nathan loves cats. He does the Relay for Life. What harm could he have possibly done to another player?” I know. I emotionally go overboard.

Perhaps I do so, because I never played a sport where there were penalties. Throughout high school and college, I ran track and played volleyball. There are no penalties; well, none that involve physical contact.

When throwing a discus, you can step out of the circle and get disqualified, but it’s not like you can potentially hurt someone, unless you purposely dropped a shot put on a competitor’s toes. And, in volleyball, you might strategically kick someone under the net, but that happens rarely if at all. Yes, my sports are most civilized, she says.

Of course, when Nathan got his first penalty. I totally overreacted. I had visions of Nathan leading a life of crime. Well, they were my visions of a life of crime for Nathan knowing him as I do. He won’t give his seat on the subway to a pregnant woman or a little old lady. He will litter. Gasp! He will leave the toilet seat up! Yeah, thankfully, I got over that by his next game.

Today, when the ref announced the penalty, I saw Nathan whack his helmet as if to say, “Jeez, I can’t believe I just did that.” Part of my angst is that even though Nathan is out on the ice (or in the penalty box as the case may be), I still feel the tethers of motherhood. At each and every game, I play along beside him, even if it is from the bleachers and without a hockey stick.

When Nathan was sitting in the penalty box, a minute and thirty seconds felt like an hour and thirty minutes. And, I was thinking like him. We’re a man down. I will feel horrible if the other team scores, because I’m sitting here in the penalty box.

Fortunately, the other team didn’t score, though Nathan’s team still lost 3-0. But, this wasn’t a bad loss. It was definitely a win, because the last time they played this team, they lost 7-0. And, as it turns out, by the third period, it was a game fraught with penalties on both sides, and Nathan was in good “bad” company.

After warming up in the entry way and establishing contact with my toes again, Nathan came out of the locker room.

On the way out the door, I asked, “Um, so, why did you get that penalty?!”
He said, “Because I hit the kid in the head with my stick.”
I asked, “Why did you do that?!?!?”
Nathan replied, “Cuz the kid was a foot shorter than me!”
I thought for a moment that Nathan had Randy Newman’s “Short People” in repeat mode on his iPod.
He then said, “I checked him, but because he was so much shorter, my stick ended up hitting him in the head.”
It’s always a relief to know that your son is innocent until proven tall. (I think he's approaching 6'3" now; he's definitely surpassed Mom and Dad and is in range of Uncle Scott, Uncle Jack, and my Dad now.)

After the game, we drove off to our favorite greasy spoon for lunch. After being away for a bit, I caught up with all that was Nathan. We discussed his difficult mid-term exams, which had him texting earlier in the week, "I'm joining the French Foreign Legion," and his prom date, well, as much as he would divulge, between his text messages to Matt, Nickolas, and [eeeek!] Kelsey, the prom date. Do kids actually speak to each other anymore?! Or is that a lost art like macramé?

I love going away. But today, I loved coming home more. Pink backpack purses and penalties, and most everything nice; I’m so glad it’s what my life is made of. ♥