Hockey on Black Friday

I spent the day after Thanksgiving, a day that has come to be known as “Black Friday,” at a sports complex with multiple hockey rinks.  Our daughter plays on a team in the New England Girls Hockey League, and this year the state tournament happened earlier than usual.  Through the past half a dozen seasons which stretch from October to March, I have become accustomed to driving to one hockey shrine or another on this holiday weekend.  It might be on Cape Cod or maybe outside Providence, but the aura of the places stays pretty much the same:  lots of pony-tailed girls dragging their huge bags and suiting up, parents chatting while sipping their coffee on cold bleachers, skirmishes for pucks in the corners of the ice and thrilling break-away moments.  And, inevitably, there is usually at least one huge shopping mall right nearby that provides an easy solution to the question of what to do in between games.  If one is so inclined.

This year, the road to the mega-rinks snaked past just about every major store you can think of  — a kind of endless chain of consumerism.  And of course the parking lots were jammed.  I felt something akin to panic:  it wasn’t that I scorned all the people already inside; I actually had a pang of envy that they apparently knew what they wanted to buy because I had no idea what purchases would be exactly the right things to present to my loved ones on Christmas morning.  I drew almost a complete blank.   The thought of acquiring more stuff on an already tight budget sapped my strength.  Under these circumstances, arriving at the sports complex was a great relief. Hockey, at least, made some sense.

But, the truth is, organized youth hockey these days is not exactly an oasis from the excesses of modern life.  Indeed, it has its own kind of over-the-top quality (which can be saved for another essay).  I think even if I weren’t married to an Episcopal priest who believes that his church needs to free people from the burdens of the dominant culture, I would see these excesses; the spiritual element just shines a brighter light on the problem.   What is the problem?  A kind of disjuncture between how we wish things were (mostly simple) and how they actually are (mostly complicated), and our desire to be at ease with where we stand.

And yet, especially for those of us who have known the game in its purest form, hockey is a sport with tremendous appeal.  My older brothers got skates and sticks out with friends whenever there was ice on a local cove, and I had my chance to be on a women’s club team when I started college.  This winter, we are invited back to campus for “Founders Weekend.”  The team there now is one of the best in the country; many of us didn’t even know how to skate backwards when we started. In my case, I was just following a family tradition because my own mother had played in Canada as a girl.  That was definitely cool, even inspirational.

So when our daughter, at about age nine, began to fly on the rink and wanted to keep improving in the game, it seemed right.    Now she is 17 and her memories with this team include going to a national tournament and, perhaps even more important, regular doses of laughing as well as working hard together.

Hearing all the radio announcers yapping about “Black Friday” a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t help thinking about that word – “black” – in another context.  In his wonderful little book, Home Ice, (published in 2000) Jack Falla describes his early days testing the pond ice each day to see when it would be strong enough to hold skaters:

Now, early in the season, the pond would be covered with the prized  “black ice,” which, as Thoreau described it, is “interesting and perfect, being hard, dark and  transparent.”  Black ice is ideal for the nearly effortless glidings of skaters and for the flat, unimpeded skimming of a puck.  (p.29)

When it covers a road surreptitiously, black ice can be deadly.  But over a pond, it is marvelous.  I too remember that feeling of complete and utter abandon on a big black ever-so-smooth surface.  Up in Concord, NH – a town known for more than a century of enthusiasm for outdoor hockey – the “1883 Black Ice Pond Hockey Championship” is becoming an annual event, drawing thousands.   Little wonder.

Fact is, if I had to choose between participating in Black Friday or honoring the beauty of black ice, there would be no contest.  But life isn’t that neat, and so maybe driving past the malls to Zamboni-groomed ice where girls strive is where I settle for now.