It's snowing....again. I shouldn't complain because up until a few weeks ago, we had unusually mild temperatures for this time of year. I don't like being cold. I HATE being cold. Yet, I endured many years of cold "bleacher butt" while my son played hockey. It wasn't so bad,other mommies were also suffering from the affliction. Besides, we had our post-game drunken soirees to look forward to. Hockey dads didn't suffer from Bleacher Butt because they refused to sit with us, the hockey moms AKA Pit Bulls of the Arena.
Yes, it's true. We were the Clark Kents of the rink. Walking into a rink suddenly turned mild-mannered Martha Stewart wannabees into an even meaner version of Rosie vs Donald. Everyone was fair game for our scathing verbal repertoire of insults... Rival hockey moms, referees and the occasional coach. Did I participate in these revolting, disgusting, hateful activities? HELL YEAH!!!! It was fun!! An outlet for all the hours I spent at work biting my tongue, putting a smile on my face when I really wanted to choke someone.
I have compiled a short list of some of my favorite hockey mom sayings either said by my "posse" or by other hockey moms. They are as follows:
"Get off the ice, you piece of shit!"
"Hey! That little jerk is MY kid! Ya wanna go at me, lady?"
" Ref!! You watching the same friggin' game I am?" usually followed by
removing glasses, holding them up in the air and yelling " Ya wanna borrow these?"
" If ya don't want your kid getting hit, then maybe you should
sign him up for ballet! "
" Oh yeah? And who taught YOU to wear brown shoes with black pants?"
Ah yes, hockey. I miss it. I watch it on tv but it's not the same. No more "meals" consisting of arena staples like hot dogs and nachos washed down by Miller Lite. No more hotel rooms reeking of dead animal due to stinky hockey equipment laying over the heater. No more road trips through blinding snowstorms. No longer do I carry safety pins, extra skate laces, and a cooler the size of a steamer trunk, in the back of a humongous SUV.
The boys have various scars proving they played. Our scars are invisible, laying deep within us. Longing for the days of buying Power Ade by the caseload, the sound of laughter as they played hall hockey in the hotels or swam in the pool, phone calls from the manager imploring us to "keep it down," carrying equipment bags the size and weight of a baby elephant.
We've attended a few of the high school games trying to recapture the past. Something's missing though. I think they switched to all beef hotdogs. It's not the same. :)