The Secrets of Youth Hockey, Revealed!

I was passing by Armstrong Rink on Long Pond Road the other day and for some reason was compelled to look over at its entrance, just as an unsuspecting young family was going in.
I watched, with dread, as the father opened the glass door and a jet of cold rink air shot out, mixed with the warm air of the waning summer afternoon, and enveloped his entire family in a thick, impenetrable fog.
And when it had cleared, they were all gone!

16 years ago, this month, my wife Mary and I stood at that same door: young, naïve, not so much interested in hockey as in the opportunity for our four year old son Bobby to learn to skate, improve his coordination, and maybe make a few friends; you know, the usual reasons that parents venture out into the unknown.
And it all seemed so innocent, at first, even amusing.
For several weeks we watched Bobby awkwardly maneuvering his way over the ice, clutching an orange cone tightly to his chest. He never really progressed much beyond that during this first autumn at the rink, so we were surprised when we were encouraged to enroll him in the next phase.
“But he’s really not a very good skater,” Mary told the eager youth hockey administrator, “do you think he’s really ready for hockey?”
“Oh sure,” Mr. Deval said, “by next Christmas he’ll be able to skate, to shoot, and even score!” As he said the word ‘score’ a loud air horn went off, a jet black Zamboni went careening by, and a naked bulb in a metal fixture overhead exploded, showering us with confetti-sized shards of glass.
That was 1990.
Ten years later Mary and I were jerked back to consciousness by the unmistakable pong of a sweat-soaked hockey bag simmering somewhere nearby.
For a moment we were unsure where we were, and then we recognized the all too familiar décor of the Holiday Inn in Tyngsboro, Massachusetts.
Another hockey tournament.
A knock on our door was followed immediately by the door opening, and that same eager hockey administrator –a bit grayer in the temples, stuck his grinning face into our room to announce that we should probably start thinking about heading over to the rink.
“It’s too late for that,” Mary said, “we had our chance, and we blew it.”

Hockey is a great sport, and the children that devote themselves to it are often rewarded with exciting competition, physical strength, and enduring friendships. It’s a tempting alternative to many of the passive recreations that our children gravitate to today: the video games and online activities that leave them mentally wired and physically flabby.
But beware the fine print.
Part of the problem is the youth of the participants: the parents, not the kids. With good intentions young parents involve themselves in a variety of activities, without really knowing what they are getting themselves into.
Here are the important numbers:
9 months every year. With try-outs, practices, games and a variety of post-season skill camps, youth hockey players often put in more time on the ice than the pros.
32 thermoses. The average youth hockey family goes through 32 insulated coffee thermoses from the time their little darling first embraces the orange cones of learn-to-skate month, to their final tournament in Tyngsboro. Some of these thermoses are lost, some are stolen, but most are knocked over by fist-pumping mothers celebrating a vicious check or a winning goal.
7 Caribbean Cruises. These aren’t cruises you take, rather they are the cruises you missed, the cruises you could have taken had you not been obligated to spend every February or April school vacation for a decade at a youth hockey tournament in Tyngsboro, or Marlboro, or any of a dozen frozen boros with their own rink and a nearby Holiday Inn.
Then there are the 13 pairs of skates, over 10 years, ranging in price from $60 a pair when they are cute and clutching cones, to the $250 pair they demand when they are pimply, hormonal adolescents.
Not to mention the neck pads you buy twice a year so your child isn’t beheaded, or the $75 leather gloves so they keep all their digits, or the Hartford Whalers official NHL replica jersey so they look good in practice, or the forest of imported, fire-treated, Mark Messier-approved hockey sticks that they turn to kindling playing street hockey.
And if the worse should happen - if some well-intentioned coach decides your child is a natural born goalie, the cost of goalie pads and mask are only exceeded by the cost of family therapy sessions for the foreseeable future.
But it’s not just the cost, in cold cash or lost time, it’s the life you give up.
The world turns, Presidents are elected, WMDS are lost and found and lost again, but you never know because all your free time is spent in a place where the seasons never change, the scenery never varies, the lakes are always frozen.
Youth hockey in Massachusetts isn’t a sport, it’s a cult!

Yes, it’s that time of the year again, when hordes of cute little young parents head over to the rink, cameras in hand, to record their children’s first moments on the ice.
It’s so cute. It’s so sweet. It’s so hard to resist.
Don’t say you weren’t warned.