Puck 'N Hockey

It goes without saying; it’s been a pretty tragic summer in the hockey community. The same could be said for the sports community in general. Other sports have had their share of untimely deaths. Mike Flanagan of Orioles fame is one that immediately comes to mind.

The blogosphere is abuzz with the latest information, insight and opinion on the untimely death of three hockey pugilists: Derek Boogaard, Rick Rypien, and as I write this, we are only days removed from the passing of Wade Belak. There’s a wealth of information and insight as to some of the speculative reasons behind their deaths. It’s quite interesting stuff. Sports psychology isn’t something I’ve given much thought to before their passing. Now, I find it to be a very fascinating subject. However, that won’t be the focus of this installment. I’m not nearly well versed or educated enough to give a valid opinion or information about the “hows and whys” leading up to their deaths. All we need to know is that they are tragic, for a myriad of reasons.

There was also, a lesser known death in the extended hockey family. Ian Jenkins, a young goaltender, with prospects in junior hockey, was killed when he fell from the back of a pick-up truck. This young man was well known in the Michigan hockey scene. His budding stardom was just beginning to reach beyond.

Before moving on, I would like to interject with: It is only due to their fame and hockey culture, that we collectively mourn the passing of the individuals here. People die everyday, tragically and otherwise. The deaths of the unknown are of no loss of a loss.

What highlights these particular deaths? What binds them all? Why we are even aware of whom these people were? Hockey.

Hockey, for many reasons, seems to have an overwhelming bond with its players, fans, and families. You either understand hockey or are confounded by it. You either love it or (inexplicably) hate it. There is no indifference when it comes to the sport. It possesses you or you simply ignore it. This passionate tie binds us. You may hate the Flyers and it’s fans, but there’s a level of understanding why that dude in the orange and black face paint is so damn annoying.

This thread of community trickles down to the lowest level. It’s at every rink, locker room, lobby, pro-shop, and on every bench. The game is our religion, the rink our shrine, and the puck our pastor.

What creates this bond, beyond just the sport? Hockey, by in large, is a family thing. Sure, the wife might not have been a hockey fan when you married her. But now, if anything, she’s resolved with it and finds herself being married to the game as well. You get the kids up, pack bags and snacks, wipe noses in the cold, tend injuries, and listen to stories. People and families can spend all day at a rink. It’s an event just to go there sometimes. Packing up, driving there, unpacking, putting equipment on the kids, pushing them back out on the ice when they have to pee for the 3rd time in an hour, getting them undressed, and putting their gear away. Now Dad has a session, so let the kids run wild in the rink (management doesn’t bat an eyelash at this typical scenario), Dad gets his gear off, stands around and shoots the breeze with other guys for an hour (if it stops there), packs the van back up, drives home, and hangs the gear back up. Before you know it, there went the day.

The time and processes involved becomes part of life, in direct correlation to time spent preparing to go play and then, actually play. Far more than grabbing a basketball and shooting some hoops. This is not to say that other sports are not conducive of a family atmosphere. They are. But, there are hundreds of places to play basketball, football, or baseball in any given location. A rink is something special. It is something that an entire family ritualistically gets ready to go to. Slap on some sneakers, grab a ball, walk a short distance, and you’re good with any other sport. The surfaces on which you do the most mundane and daily tasks don’t change or require any special preparation. Your feet touch the inside of your footwear daily, replace what’s under your shoe with asphalt, grass, hardwood or macadam, and not much has to change.

With hockey, you put your foot in your skate. The skates you’ve tweaked to fit you like a proverbial glove. You’ve tinkered with radius and edges for years to get them just how you like. You can feel a nick in the blade before you look at them. You go from the unnatural waddle like gait from the locker room to the ice, and step out on that pristine, virgin surface. You glide polar opposite of the step you just took off of the rubber matting. The surface gleams and radiates with acceptance. It welcomes you back. The skates and the blades attached to them, meld you to its surface, changing its landscape as you go. Its crunch and feel is satisfying. You are literally hovering above it. You feel the cold rink air rushing by you as you skate; hear the thunderous clack of a blade slapping a puck and the immediate echoing boom of it hitting the boards.

That is where the draw is. It’s the alien landscape on which we play and the preparations we take to embark on it. This surface and the game played on it, is what makes us care about a Canadian farm boy who took his own life because he had too many demons to fight off. The game makes us immediately know the guy in the grocery store wearing a Bruins jersey. It’s the understanding of one mother who sees another, peering through the glass, exhausted but content. It’s the common understanding that there isn’t any other smell, like that of an ice rink. It’s these threads that bind us and make us all one. They are threads as strong as steel, tied to our very souls. We will never forget those who’ve come before and never stop dreaming of the ones yet to be.

RIP Boogs, Ryper, Wade and Big E.