Generally, you'll see dads at the rink coaching or helping out youth hockey teams in other ways. But it's the moms, working in the shadows who keep everything purring like a kitten. Checking schedules, providing transportation for the urchins and their teammates, making sure the equipment is accounted for prior to each practice or game - trying to keep it (and them) "sort of" smelling less offensive, getting those skates sharpened regularly, and so on. Moms are youth hockey's biggest and loudest fans. What would we do without them?
One of the many fun parts for me being the curator at NJHH is getting to feel and touch things that contributors send me to photograph and scan. The souvenir and tournament programs are always interesting to look through. I carefully browse each page, trying to photograph them into my mental memory for that next time someone has a question.
Aside from all their other qualities, some hockey moms are poets. Below are three verses I plucked out of programs from the 70's and 80's. The words are as relevant today as they were back then. So, sit back and read along.
Thank you, hockey moms, ...the unsung heroes.
This first verse is from Livingston Hockey mom, Melinda Kaplan
A HOCKEY MOTHER'S DREAM
As hockey season draws to a close,
I discard woolen socks - take out panty hose,
Bid adieu to alarm clocks and pale, tired faces
Hello again world I'm going places!!!
South Mountain Arena just ain't my bag
And Sundays in Peddie have become a real drag
I'll take bubble baths and have my hair curled
So long Danny Michaels - I'm coming home world!!!
The pro shop's business will suddenly fall,
And Hermans I'm sure will vacate the mall
There'll be no more shopping for sporting good sales -
Open your doors, here I come Bloomingdales!!!
As hockey season draws to a close,
I wipe my eyes and blow my nose
Discard woolen socks, take out panty hose
And am forever so grateful for the sport my son chose!
This unauthored verse from a 1980's Massachusetts Tournament program drives home a point still relevant today.
THE YOUTH HOCKY PLAYER
He skates on the ice with his heart beating fast.
Sixty seconds of game left, this play is the last.
The score's tied at two, a goal now would win it.
His team wants to score in the final minute.
The puck flies to his stick - he shoots and he misses -
There's a groan from the crowd, some boos and some hisses.
A thoughtless voice yells, "Take out the bum!"
Tears fill his eyes; the game's no longer fun.
Remember, he's just a little boy who stands in that place.
That well-padded skater with mask-hidden face.
So, open your heart and give him a break.
For its moments like this a man you can make.
Keep this in mind when you see someone forget.
He's just a little boy and not a man yet.
And lastly, from a 1980 New York Tournament program.
HOCKEY MOTHER
When he was born little did I know
That I'd be spending so much time with frozen hand and toe.
My son is a hockey player, he'd skate the whole day through.
If you're reading this poem, odds are yours is one too.
Practices are scheduled before the sun does rise -
We leave the house in darkness, sleep still fills my eyes.
My son is wide awake though, raring to hit the ice;
Such eagerness on school days surely would be nice.
We play home and away games at rinks throughout the State.
Surprise - this one is all outdoor - isn't frostbite great!
At six p.m. on Friday, we fight the L.I.E.
Eight p.m. on Sunday finds us north of Poughkeepsie.
We root, we cheer and sometimes we think we'd better pray.
At this rate it's no wonder that my hair is turning grey.
I love to see him skate and I'm ecstatic when he scores;
But I cringe each time I see and hear him crash into the boards.
At home he is my little boy, out here that must not show.
A rough and tumble athlete now and not the boy I know.
The friends I've made, good times we've had, yes these things are here too.
Dear hockey playing son of mine, please know that I love you.
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