A month ago, when my six-year-old son asked me for a Suzuki sweater, I actually thought, a bit proudly, that he had become a fan of the geneticist and zoologist David Suzuki. Ah, our children… “With the number 14”, which the snoreau added as he took me down from my pedestal. I should have thought about it, the little one now plays in a Montreal ice hockey league. A single mom every other weekend, I became a “ hockey mom », as is the established Anglo expression, which I have since tried to replace without success with a fair and impactful French-speaking term.
Hockey mom, then. It’s still ironic for me whose hockey culture stopped at the good years of Naslund, Richer, Roy and Chelios who I found to my taste… Mea culpa, but watching a bunch of millionaire guys skating around a puck in front of a delirious crowd, that bothered me for a long time. Enraged also for several reasons stemming from the spirit of boys’ club that comes with it. Let’s move on this time, I’m too caught up in trying to follow my son into the trouble that makes him happy enough to dissuade me from playing spoilsport. I even admit to having let myself get caught up in the game, nay, in the “sect”, leaving behind a few prejudices and preconceived ideas. A little pride too when I think back to the first times when I tried as best I could to “costume” my kid in the locker room alongside parents who were experienced enough to also know by heart the lyrics of songs supposed to ignite the troops before trainings. I see myself completely discouraged in front of the huge smelly bag overflowing with pieces of clothing that I had never seen in my life: shoulder pads, protector this, protector that — a festival of velcro —, leggings, skates never laced properly, etc. I also learned that there is an order to dressing, that it’s a bit like playing Tetris. Then, finally, if mini-humble-Suzuki has the misfortune to want to once the charade is complete… I’ll let you imagine my locker room language, yes.
While out of breath I imagined I could get by by going about my reading of job, pretending to look at the “prodigy”, sitting on a bench that would give hemorrhoids to any polar bear, I knew. I knew I was going to experience the “great spell” of hockey moms. I thought I was safe, me, the pretentious kind.Avoyèye, my champion! GO. No ! Well then ! What are you doing ? Oh yes ! Hiiiiiii… Did he hurt himself? Phew. Hiiiii, yes, yes, you are the best. Faster ! Rush into the pile! That’s my son, ma’am! My beautiful blond. He’s the new blond demon. Yes, I know… An hour of shouted love, of unbelievable stress, of feelings of pride, of joy, of little poorly concealed fears, of thumbs-up, of photo-taking, of ridiculous slogans; I was made, in love and the first surprised by the discipline instilled in the young people, the kindness of the dedicated volunteer coaches, the sportsmanship of the other parents, our complicit smiles, the skating of the young players who, at a time not so far away, wouldn’t even have been able to join the guys, rush forward, overtake them.
Needless to say that since day 1, my “great literature” remains in my bag, that I no longer choke on my prejudices of the not-so-top cafe of the arena. Beyond all the horrible proven stories of prehistoric initiations and toxic behavior linked to hockey and other sports long associated with masculinity, there are above all these precious beginnings imbued with fundamental values that must be transmitted. As a good hockey mom, I promise to tame my fiery excess when I find myself putting a little too much pressure, even more than his father, himself a seasoned hockey player… My son may wear a shell bigger than his head, he is only six years old and, for the moment, takes great pleasure in falling and getting up again on the ice, in passing to others, in hoping to score, and sometimes achieving it too. And each time, that victorious smile that makes me melt like a thousand hockey moms in front of the immeasurable joy of a child who sees himself succeeding, still spared by the small and big defeats of life. While it’s happening, enjoy it, watch out.