Here's to Hockey Dads

Here’s to my dad.

The guy who woke up before the sun to take me to pee-wee hockey tournaments. Who cleared the snow off his truck in the dark while I slept an extra ten minutes. Who came into my room singing “O’Canada,” as a wake-up call. Who played drums on the steering wheel to an AC/DC tune all along some twilight highway.

Thanks for letting me sleep while you stared at endless reams of yellow lines.

Here’s to my travel buddy all the way up and down the east coast and through every frostbitten town in Indiana – where the plane hanger ice rinks would sit in the middle of wheat fields. Where we ate breakfast out of vending machines. Where there was no central heat. Thanks for not going golfing.

Here’s to my roommate in every motel without a pool. We probably dined on McDonald’s too often and had one too many microwaved gas station dinners, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Thanks for sleeping amongst my stinking shoulder pads.

Here’s to my dad. The guy who didn’t care if I didn’t score. Who valued hustle. Who sat way up near the rafters drinking his black coffee. Who watched the game without the aid of a Blackberry. Who never had a talk with the coach. Who knew we were just kids trying to have fun. Thanks for talking to me about everything but the game.

Here’s to my driveway goaltender. My backyard catcher. My basement sparring partner. My uncomplaining chauffeur. My baldest buddy.

Here’s to my dad – the guy who kept giving, and expected nothing in return.

Happy Father’s Day.

This article appears in the June 2010 issue of Pulling No Punches

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