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Tuesday, February 29, 2000
Mothers, don't let your sons grow up to be hockey players.
Mothers, if you do let your sons grow up to be hockey players, at least keep your mouths shut at the games.
That is my advice, and, hey, I would do well to follow it myself.
An unsavory limelight has fallen upon hockey as a result of Boston Bruin Marty McSorley's vicious stick attack on another player. But that act of goonery is the least of it. There is also the yapping.
I must confess that I have mixed feelings about hockey. On the one hand, it is a fast, skillful spectacle. On the other hand, it tends to bring out the worse in people, and not just mothers.
My view of the game is less influenced by the National Hockey League than events at the bottom of the glacier. My son, a junior, plays on a high school team. His season, which began early in November, ended last night.
It has been a long season in every respect. The team has only a few players, never quite enough for three lines.
Entering the season, the coach thought we would not win a single game. Going into last night, we had won four, drawn two and lost a dozen. This is progress to contemplate, and our boys often got time to contemplate in the penalty box.
There is a reason why we are the Panthers and not the Skating Einsteins. All season we specialized in taking the bone-headed penalty; nothing vicious, mind you, just a bit of frustrated roughing, usually done in full view of the referee.
This has been frustrating to the loyal band of parents who go to all the games. By and large, we have maintained our dignity and have generally refrained from pointing out to the referees that their parents never married.
Not everyone shows such restraint. If you go to high school hockey games, expect to hear from refrigerated jerks.
Perhaps the highlight was last week in Johnstown, at least a three-hour round-trip journey from Pittsburgh on a school night. The War Memorial Arena is an old, marvelous building of great character. The sweat and blood of decades seems to be in the very air. When jockstraps die and go to heaven, they surely go to War Memorial Arena.
Characters were also in the stands, in particular a woman with a voice like fingernails going down a blackboard. It was Senior Appreciation Night for the home team, and she didn't appreciate the fact that her darlings were losing. Of course, she believed it was all the refs' fault.
When her team got a penalty, she yelled the traditional: "That's a bunch of bull. Can't you see what they're doin'? Ar ya blind, ref?"
On another occasion, when another boy on her team got a penalty, she screamed: "What was that for?"
To which I replied wittily, "Punching, eh?" -- a true observation but, of course, foolishly provocative.
To which she replied wittily: "Well, he should have punched him harder!"
Way to go, Mom!
About this point, another parent leaned over to me and said: "Just think. Some poor guy is married to her, and he has to listen to that voice morning and night."
This thought cheered me up immensely.
Who would be a referee? I have to shamefully admit that I have become somewhat sympathetic to their plight. This came about because some nights, instead of seething in the stands, I assisted in the penalty box or in taking down scorecard information.
After a goal, a ref would skate up and shout information that would be muffled through the thick glass: "Thud baol schared No. 24 which ashist by No. 36."
"What's that?" I would shout back, a remark that was interpreted on the other side of the glass as "What hat?"
As a minor quasi-official, you grow more understanding of the difficulty.
You know what? Most of the referees do not really care which team wins. Oh, some are more competent than others, and some have an attitude, but that has more to do with establishing their authority.
But would you compromise your integrity to influence the result of a high school game that no one will remember in six months? Of course not. Even people with biases have their standards.
Last night may have been my son's last appearance on the ice, and I won't miss the unnecessary yapping. But there is much that I will miss, especially the memory of a team of boys who never gave up.
Reg Henry's e-mail address is rhenry@post-gazette.com