- November 27, 2024
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There’s a photograph that for years hung in the upstairs game room of my parent’s house in Virginia, and I never really understood it. My dad, around my age (that’s 23), is posing on an outdoor ice rink wearing a hockey sweater and skates. I never bothered to ask whether it was taken back in New York, or after he moved down to Fairfax County in the 1970s.
The photograph sums up my relationship with him when it comes to hockey. I don’t remember the sport or the topic of me playing it being broached until I was a tween — and that’s just because the cool kids in 5th grade played roller hockey, so I was doggedly persistent about giving it a go.
Evidently my dad was really good. Not like he-should-have-moved-to-Canada-to-play-juniors-then-tried-to-go-pro good, but definitely the-ringer-in-rec.-leagues good. Evidently, he got in really intense fights every time my mom came to watch his games. Not scuffles. Downhill donnybrooks. And evidently, it took a lifetime ban from his last league to persuade Mike to hang up the Bauers. When I ask my dad about hockey, he grins demonstratively, displaying more than a few fake teeth — relics from the pre-facemask era.
For a guy that tirelessly threw batting practice to me with a thrown-out back, broken leg, and extensive nerve damage to his neck (on three separate occasions), the lack of vicarious fatherly passion for teaching hockey to his only son is curious. As Father’s Day approaches, I’ve developed a few hypotheses for this phenomenon.
So, as far as hockey goes, I’ll have to settle for a few memories of skating indoors at the police academy, 1-on-1 on the blacktop and watching Washington Capitals games on TV. Instead of (NHL defenseman) Joel Ward, I got Ward Cleaver. Only, besides doling out heady life advice to me, my pops is a former SWAT commander with a body count. I’ll take it.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. And happy Father’s Day to all the fathers in Ormond Beach.
