The Dichotomy

Part of me believes I will one day be quoted in the Globe and Mail for this post. The title will read, “Collingwood Hockey Star: Once Timid” or “The Truth About The Great One”. Although slightly blasphemous towards everyone’s hero, Wayne Gretzky, it’s my own motherly pride that leads me to believe my son will be the next “great one” while simultaneously acknowledging this completely dichotomous phase he’s going through.

Toby LOVES hockey. ADORES hockey. Is so completely OBSESSED and ENRAPTURED by hockey that I have developed somewhat of an aversion to it. If we turn the TV on his inquisitive mouth yells, “MOMMY WATCHING HOCKEY!?!?!?” and if I even HINT towards taking a step downstairs to do the laundry or take something out of the freezer he IMMEDIATELY assumes I’m going down there to engage in a game of hockey without him. (We have, for our own sanity, banished all hockey playing to the basement.)

Tonight, in anticipation of a trip to Toronto, I read Toby an ABC book about Toronto. IT was going quite well and I was enjoying a nice break from “Z is for Zambonini” and “1,2,3 Hockey”, when we got to the letter N. In this book, the letter “N’ stands for “Neighborhood” which, in Toronto, involves a street with laundry hanging and lots of trees and, in the distance, a group of boys playing street hockey. Good gracious. I am happy to report that 20 minutes later we finally DID put the book down, but only after backtracking after EVERY LETTER that came after N so that we could ONCE AGAIN see the “hockey page”.

With that preface, does it come as a shock to you that, when confronted with ACTUALY hockey my son is TERRIFIED? He is. TERRIFIED, Don’t get me wrong- -he talks the big talk. All the way to our Durham tournament this weekend he professed his intentions about my hockey game, “Toby is going to watch MOMMY play HOCEKY”…”Toby is going to wear a TELMET and HOCEKY SKATES and hit the PUCK and wear GLOBS and PANTS and SHOOT on the GOALIE” while I would quietly interject with subtle hints at reality such as, “NO, Toby, MOMMY is going to play today, Toby is just going to watch”

But for all the talk, at the end of the day he just couldn’t man up to it. The second he walked into the arena he burst into tears and hid his face in Rob’s neck. He TRIED to watch and bravely pointed out to me that I was wearing a “Telmut” and “hockey skates’ and “globs” when I came over to try to calm him down in the stands, but the truth is that he spent the majority of the first half of the game cradled in his fathers arms, whimpering quietly, as his mother heroically tried to entertain him with his greatest passion.

We lost that first game. Toby only ended up watching, through baited breath, the first half of it, before his attentive father decided to take him home to the safety of his own crib and much less intimidating, 1 ft. hockey stick. This morning, when he recounted the events of his daring weekend to Nicole, his beloved daycare ”mom” he mentioned to her that he had watched his mother play hockey.

No, mommy had not scored any goals, but she WAS wearing a TELMUT, and hockey skates, and GLOBS and a hockey skated and she SKATED on the ICE. No, he had not had fun, and yes, he HAD cried, but had he mentioned that I had been wearing a TELMUT? And...*repeat paragraph...

As frustrating as it is to humour his hockey obsession with wimpy basement games that involve imaginary equipment and 1foot sticks, I’m going to enjoy the mesmerized respect my son has for my hockey playing abilities while it lasts. I have a sinking suspicious that one day I will be eating my words…