On Being a Hockey Dad - Scott Smith
It’s 3:30 on Saturday morning in January. I’m creeping down the stairs to warm up the car. In the basement, I’m dressing in my mind and stuffing a bag; pants, socks, shirt, headwear, footwear, tape, stick. At the last moment, I coax my sleeping son out of bed and quietly half carry him, still partly asleep, out of the house. I put it in reverse and, under cover of darkness, slip out of the neighborhood. I’m not a spy or a kidnapper… I’m a hockey dad, and we have a 45-minute drive to our 5:30 a.m. ice time. Everyone reading this knows what I am talking about. When I walk into the rink, it’s just one meeting of eyes and we each acknowledge the sacrifices we make of sleep and weekends and holidays for our players. I coached mites, midgets, and peewees until I turned my players and families over to t...