This morning was the boy’s first day of hockey. He’s taking instructional, which covers things like basic skating, stick handling, swearing, passing, body checking, shooting, teeth replacement, and all the other necessities of hockey. It’s the first step on the long road of 5 a.m. practices, traveling teams, and hockey dads (which seem to be more prevalent here than hockey moms, sorry Sarah Palin).
Our town is a BIG hockey town. It’s got a rep for it, and I was floored when we went today and saw, seriously, about a 100 kids all decked up in their hockey uniforms. The first day is “try outs,” meaning they place kids into one of four levels, and two of the groups meet at different times (not 5 a.m., thank goodness. At least, not at the start). The orange/blue level is for kids who are primarily in their second year of instructional (which goes from age 4 to 7). 
The yellow/red level is for the first timers. Doodles was placed in the red level, which is the “I can skate, but I can’t do much of anything else” level. The yellow level is for those kids who were floundering about on crates. But for this first class, they stick all the kids on the ice and see what they can do. It was completely overwhelming for me, never mind the kids. Kids like Doodles were being swarmed by bigger kids who were speeding around, waving their sticks. I have to say, I got the same pangs I got that first day of kindergarten, knowing I was sending my boy out into the world of team sports. knowing there is no turning back. I got weepy watching him wait patiently to enter the ice, excited about finally starting hockey.
Of course, there’s the flip side to this. And that’s the hockey dad. I saw shades of it emanating from my bleacher bench. Right next to me. My darling husband. “Doodles! Doodles!” “What are you doing?” I asked. “Look at him! He’s holding his stick backward. He’s not a lefty; he’s a righty. Doodles. DOODLES!” Adam finally gave up, but I could see the frustration oozing from him. In some ways I think Doodles would be better off if he didn’t have a father who played hockey as a kid (and grown-up, too, until hockey broke him).
So it’s official. My baby is getting big. And he’s totally, completely, 100% a New Englander. I think I even heard him say “wah-tah,” the other day, when he was asking for a drink. As long as he still roots for the Dolphins, though, all will be good in our household.
