Some time in grade 4, I learned how to catch and throw a ball. It must have been in the spring, so just before I turned 10. We lived in what I remember people calling “war-time bungalows”. A neighbourhood of income-assisted housing. Except I didn’t know that then. There were lots of kids, backyards with no fences, little street traffic and lots of room to run and play. The perfect childhood playground. It was my next door neighbour and best friend, Junie Ollesch, who changed my life. One of us must have knocked on the other's door and asked “ Can Junie/Valerie come out to play?” That’s what we did back then.
That day, Junie had a new bright plastic bouncy ball. Out to the street we ran and Junie threw it to me. I’m not sure how I reacted, but I must have done something pretty stupid because the next thing I know, Junie is patiently teaching me how to catch and throw a ball. That is one of my earliest memories – catching that bouncy ball. I remember the feeling of euphoria – the satisfaction of bringing both hands together and picking that ball out of the sky. We must have played in the street that day for hours. That was my introduction to sports.
Fast forward to my 10 year-old today. Fifth year of playing ice hockey. Today was the 4th championship game of the season. The first 3 were finals of tournaments played earlier in the year. Georgetown tournament – lost in a shootout. Silver medal. Cambridge tournament – lost by one goal. Silver medal. Oakville tournament. The girls win all 5 games to make it to the finals, but… Silver medal.
The same ritual is played out after each of these games. The two teams line up on the ice, a red carpet is rolled out, the tournament official congratulates both teams, the coaches announce each girl by name, shake their hand and hand out medals/trophies/banners to each player. The losers – that is Silver medallists, are announced first, then the winners. Then the girls gather in the ice in front of the stands and gather for a team picture. The parents cheer and beam at the girls, so proud at their efforts. By that time, most of the girls have shaken off the loss and are back to being the cheerful, carefree 10 year-olds that they usually are. They beam back at the parents, make faces and give each other high-fives.
But I know better. As soon as the game ends, there is one 10 year-old girl who fights valiantly to hold her head high, swallow that lump in her throat and blink back the hot tears that swell in her eyes. All the girls play these championship games with more intensity than usual – they play with their hearts. But it seems that our little one’s heart takes a beating during these games. In the changeroom, she is silent, keeps her head down and uncharacteristically, is the first one changed and out the door.
Today is the house-league final. We are playing the Red Hot Chillie Peppers. We have not beaten them all season. The girls know, as Coach Kevin has told them, that those games don’t mean a thing, “It’s a brand new season,” he declares. In the last 5 games, our team has found its groove. Just after Christmas, we have seen a significant improvement in every girl. They are confident and proud. Every parents wish for their child.
The stands are filled with family and friends. As usual, Leah has the largest number of fans, 13 uncles and aunts and cousins – and 2 nervous parents. Leah takes and wins the opening face-off. And it is our daughter who sets up the play that allows her team mate to get the puck past the goalie. Our team takes the lead. Then the game is tied. The next period, our girl has a number of opportunities to score. She digs and chases, wins face-offs and races back to our net to support the defence.
Second period, Leah wrestles the puck from the boards and from deep in the corner, she drills the puck at the net, where her team mate tucks it in behind the goalie. Again we are in the lead. But somehow, the other team ties it up. And that is how the game ends. Championship games don’t end in ties, so the clock is set at 5 minutes and it is Sudden Death. First team to score wins the game. The parents can barely handle the stress.
Again, Leah takes the opening face-off. The team continues to rise to the occasion and each girl fights for the puck, for position, for that goal. But at the end of the longest 5 minutes in the history of hockey, no goals have been scored.
Three girls from each team are directed to sit together in their respective penalty boxes. As the announcer explains this next method of fan torture, THE SHOOTOUT, our girl is smack in the middle of the trio of hand-picked sharpshooters.
I have not been able to keep still for the entire game. I spent part of it watching it from behind the glass in the rink-side restaurant. Then I pop out and pace with some of the dads at the end of the stands. In between periods I check in with the family and nieces and nephews. By the end of the overtime period, I have made my way back to sit with Rob, and Gina, my favourite hockey mom. Her daughter is the third shooter. We joke that we can’t stand this excitement. We are both proud of and terrified for our daughters.
Our team goes first. Brooke stands at centre ice with the ref. He gives her the signal and she takes off. Gina can’t watch. But she knows we have scored when I jump out of my seat and cheer. As the other team begins their first attempt, I am the one with my eyes averted. Again cheers. Again, another goal. Tied. Two more shooters left for each team.
My baby is now at centre ice. She doesn’t take off as soon as the ref gives her the signal to go. I find out later that the coach told Leah to take some deep breaths to help her relax. That is what she is doing. My heart is pounding – I try to imagine what she is feeling. She looks confident as she takes off and stickhandles down to the goalie. She dekes and is able to pull the goalie away from the side of the net. Leah has a clear shot and HITS THE POST. No goal.
The other team’s 2nd shooter scores. The pressure is on Gina’s daughter - she needs to score to keep us in the game, but the goalie makes a great save. That’s it. The game, the season is over.
I can’t take my eyes off Leah. I hope that the first 3 championship losses have helped prepare her for this moment. She joins the team in the group hug, shakes the hands of the refs, the other coaches, her coaches. By the time she gathers with her team on the blue line, her head is still held high but her shoulders are shaking. After her name is announced and she receives a runner up trophy, she returns to her line of team mates, but keeps her back to the rest of the award ceremonies. By now, her team mates understand that this is how Leah responds to these losses and they leave her alone.
Back in the change room Coach Kevin congratulates the girls and tells them to hold their heads high, that they should be proud of their efforts. I look at Leah and wonder if she hears anything he is saying. The war paint on her face is all smudged, tears stream down her face as she removes her gear. She just wants to get out of there. I know not to say much, but warn her that people are going to want to try to comfort her. I promise that I will shield her as best, and politely as I can, but I need her to be patient. With difficulty, we make our way out of the crowded change room and into an even more crowded corridor. She gets a number of hugs and congratulations from parents and a few former coaches who came to watch the game. This sad little girl is a Leah that few people see. The more people try to comfort her, the more frustrated she gets. Thankfully, everyone seems to understand that these are exceptional circumstances and don’t make a fuss. I get a grateful nod of understanding from the goalie's mom as she passes by. She understands the pressure.
We bid abrupt goodbyes to our wonderful family. I feel bad for everyone that they don’t get to commiserate with their cousin/niece. But it is time to get home and begin to heal. I worry that I am coddling her and not making her deal with reality. But I know about the passion that is inside this child. It is the same passion that runs deep in my family. We pour our heart and soul into the things we love, and when something is at stake, we dig a little deeper. We are lovers and fighters. And when all is said and done, win or lose, we need time and space to regain our equilibrium and refuel our fire.
As she sits quietly in the back of the van, refusing to let me touch her, I worry some more, that we put too much pressure on our kids these days. This is house league. What is it like at the rep level? I think of the Olympians, many of whom by age 12, are under the tutelage of professional coaches and rigourous training regimes. That's a lot of sacrifice and pressure. How do those parents deal with all that?
And then I see how far Leah has progressed since she started playing hockey and other team sports. She challenges herself, understands why she’s the one the coaches call on to try new tactics mid-game, and is the first to congratulate her team mates and other players on their successes. She is a leader, a risk-taker, an adventurer.
By dinner time, we are able to broach the subject of today’s game. She knows that either team could have won. She laments hitting the goal post. Snuggled in bed, we look at the growing number of finalist awards. We talk about the teams she has played on and the friends she has made. And then I tell her about the girl who, for the first 10 years of her life, hadn't played any organized sports. Who didn’t even know how to catch a ball. Who grew up to be the mom of an amazing 10 year-old who makes her scared and proud and wonders what challenges await her little girl in the next 10 years.
We hold each other tight and giggle at these girls.
We are leaders, risk-takers, adventurers.
We are at peace.
