It’s 1:30 am and we’re driving home from another hockey practice.  I am a hockey, or rather, a goalie mom.  My goalie is asleep in the back; fat paddled goalie sticks next to him.  The familiar scent of sweaty hockey equipment lingers in the air.  I’m tired.  I’m cold.  But I love every minute of it.

Ice rinks make up part of my earliest memories.  I’ve been on the ice since I was a baby; from being in a sled, to bobsled skates, to the real things from the time I was 3 years old.  And hockey is in our blood.  Where I’m from, no self-respecting male would be without a hockey stick and set of gloves at the very least.  When the ice was taken out in the summer, road hockey started.  In the winter, no patch of frozen water was safe from the hoards of us kids that went down to play a game of shinny.  It was life in a northern community – but to me it was life.

This is what hockey means for us – it is more than just a sport, or a hobby our son chooses to do.  For us hockey is part of our culture; our way of life.  I love the sound of metal grinding into ice and the cold biting my cheeks while I nurse a cup of crappy rink coffee.

When our son made the transition to goalie it was a new world for us.  Everything was different.  From equipment, to training, to mental preparation, to diet it seemed like another world.  Our focus started to shift from the ‘whole’ team to the one who stands at the last threshold – the one that can sometimes shift the balance; change the atmosphere or drive the momentum.  It can be a lonely position – literally.  It is a physically and mentally demanding position.  Our son’s equipment weighs in at almost 50lbs and he is up and down at least 80 times a game.  Strength, stamina and endurance are required in much greater measure.  It’s gruelling and exhilarating all at once.

Ice time takes on new meaning.  I listen to other parents complain that their little angels only get a few minutes ice time here and there.  For goalies it’s feast or famine.  You are either sitting on the bench or you are in the net for the next 60 minutes of game time.  There is not much in between.  We are in a season of feast; he is the starting goalie for two teams, and is sometimes requested for other practices when they need someone to shoot at.  This brings other challenges; making sure he is eating right, he is strength training so his knees do not get worn out, and that he stays mentally fit.

It’s hard being a goalie.  Goals against are much more obvious than when a player makes a mistake.  The right or wrong of it aside, it’s a position of zero or hero.  I’ve had to physically move away from parents who are ‘blaming the goalie’ for goals that are scored because of poor defence or lousy offence.  We spend the week building up our son, only to have it torn down by some stupid teammate who blames him for the team’s loss.

It’s expensive being a goalie.  His stick alone can buy two or three player sticks.  His leg pads are double our monthly mortgage payment.  I’ve learnt the art of saddlery and have lengths of white leather to patch up worn or torn pieces of pads, blocker or catcher.  We’ve forgone two years worth of holidays to ensure he gets the specialist training and equipment he needs.

The goalie reads the ice like no other player on the team.  Our son’s understanding of plays is astonishing.  His hunger for the mechanics of hockey and how plays are executed is insatiable.  Our house oozes hockey.  If it’s not on TV, or being read from a book  or magazine, it’s being played in the driveway or in the house.  Trade deadline is like national election day in our house.  Goals are analyzed continuously; from the start of the breakdown in the play rather than once it gets to the net.  I listen to the boy and the husband talk about it, analyse it and work out plays for hours.  It’s mesmorising.

I don’t care if our son’s team wins or loses.  I love watching him play hockey.  I love the sound of metal grinding into ice; the sound of when he makes a perfect C-cut and the sound of pucks hitting his blocker.  I love the cold biting my cheeks as I nurse a cup of crappy rink coffee.  I love watching him train – juggling on a balance ball or catching tennis balls with vision training goggles on.  Our son chooses that hockey is his future and I couldn’t be prouder.  I am not merely a chauffeur, or a bank.  I am a hockey mom with a specialism in goalie mom.  I love it.