Look at Me!

My two close-encounters with the courts both happened in the summer of 1995. I was 21 years old. The first was because of an incident while living in Nelson, B.C. One winter Sunday night after a nice supper, my boyfriend, roommate and I decided to get dressed up. We didn’t have much money then, but we scrounged around for our thrift store best and decided to hit the town. Problem was, where do you go in a small town on a Sunday night? We had a friend who worked at the Subway downtown so we decided we would head down there to should him our fancy-ish clothes.

It was cold and pretty icy on the street. I was shivering in my little black dress and slipping around in my girly little shoes, when a car screeches to a stop beside us and a guy jumps out. He has crazy eyes. Crazy. He grabs my boyfriend and starts punching him. My roommate keeps walking, hoping to draw us away. More guys pile out of the car, but they just stand there watching. I start screaming, “Get off him! Stop it! Stop hitting him!” I scream at his friends, but they just shrug their shoulders and say there’s nothing they can do to stop him – we should just get out of there. So I keep yelling at this idiot to stop, angry that he won’t even turn around and look at me. So I shout “Look at me!! Look at me you coward! Look me in the eye!!” What’s he gonna do to a buck-o-five in a little black dress?

Crack. He punched me in the head. Twice. Then I fell down. Even though that bastard turned around to hit me, he didn’t look at me. And he didn’t say a word. Someone pulled me out of the way, then things seemed to break up. I don’t really remember how things happened next, but eventually he took off in the car and the three of us turned around and went home to put ice on our bruises.

The next day I had two black eyes. Maybe more purplish. I called the doctor in case I had a concussion or eye damage. I explained to the receptionist what happened, and she asked if he was in the house with me. What? I don’t even know who he is!   (There ended my naivety about domestic violence.) While we were waiting to go to the police station to place charges against this stranger, I was flipping through the local paper. When I opened to the sports section his face leapt out at me. Here, the day after he attacked me, he was featured in a two-page spread as a local hockey hero. While I read quotes about what a superstar and great guy he was, I nursed my bruises and wished I could tell the world what a loser he was, attacking a defenseless girl. I wanted to tell everyone what a coward he was, hitting someone half his size who he couldn’t even look in the eye.

I didn’t feel very hopeful when I entered the Nelson Police Station. Hockey pictures covered the wall. The officers listened to my statement and I told them I only knew who he was because of the paper. Turns out he had done the same thing to a few other folks that night- apparently he was in an alcohol fuelled rage - but no one else was pressing charges. I wanted him to pay – he had been drafted by the Chicago Wolves in the AHL, and I hoped an assault charge would keep him from being able to cross the border to play. I don’t know if it would have. I wanted to interfere with his career so he would have to acknowledge me, what he did. Be sorry? I don’t know. Accept responsibility.

I didn’t hear anything more about the case until I had moved up to Dawson City, Yukon for the summer. I got a message to call someone in Nelson – Justice Department, cop, lawyer, I can’t remember. They told me I needed to be in court in two days. I explained that I was way up north, hours from a major airport, and I that I hated to fly. I made arrangements to take time off work, take the bus to southern B.C., and testify against my attacker. The next day I got a call back saying there would be no trial. He paid a fine instead. I forget now if it was $200 or $400. Small potatoes for a hockey star. Small price to pay for randomly venting your anger on a stranger. Or is it?

I haven’t thought much about “J.R.” over the years, but getting the jury summons today made me think of him. So I googled him. He did go on to the AHL – and just about any other league besides the NHL, even in Scotland and France. He was a not-quite fourth-liner goon who changed teams more than he changed his socks. He highlighted in off-season hockey fight clubs like “Battle of the Hockey Enforcers” and “Hockey Gladiators” - title fights for cash and whatever glory you can scrape back up off the ice. He was, in a word, a loser. And that makes me feel a little bit better.

But he still hit me, while somehow managing to ignore the fact that I was a person, a soul.  When I do think of him I figure he must be a broken man – lost, angry, alone. And if I saw him today, yes, I would make him look me in the eye. I would tell him how awful what he did was.  And I would feel angry. And I would feel bitter. And I would feel self-righteous. But I would pray. Then I would look him in the eye and tell him I forgive him. Even if I didn’t really feel like it I would somehow trust God, and forgive him.

So I guess I did just that.

And I'll probably have to do it again. And again. And again.

Referee Mom - my perspective

It can be difficulty to watch our kids take centre stage, or centre ice. We find ourselves holding our breathe as we hope for the right note, the right line, or the right pass. It’s not that we will be disappointed or less proud if our child makes a mistake, rather we are taking on their self-worth – hoping that their often fragile egos are untouched by embarrassment or shame. I have seen my kids shine in their public appearances, and I have seen them stumble. I watched the crowd cheer and laugh as one son hammed his way through a school play. I heard the congregation gasp in horror as another son dropped the cross the first time he served as crucifer in church.

Hockey life is no exception. We want our kids to do their best and have fun, but our human nature craves that they do well in the eyes of others.  That they don’t mess up. It can be difficult to rise above this desire of the flesh and accept mis-steps and mistakes. The first time I watched my now 11-year-old son Sasha play in net I was a basket case. I was so nervous for him – afraid the shots would be more than he could handle. Afraid of what his teammates would think if they didn’t win. Afraid of what the parents would say if he let in a soft one. I was fiercely protective of his self-worth – I wanted him to know deep in his soul that his best was enough, that I would always be proud of him. Thankfully he is blessed with a healthy self-confidence and a fun-loving spirit. He stays cool under pressure. Last season there was lots of pressure – his team was strong and they won the provincial final in their division. The boys were very determined to come out on top.  But some of the parents were over the top. Some took these games of nine and ten-year olds way too seriously. I tried to bite my tongue and send up prayers for patience and mercy as I listened to adults berate children. I just about bit my tongue clean off when one of the siblings in the crowd lamented to her mother, “Oh no, Sasha is in goal today.” I can’t fault her - she was simply a sponge soaking up her parents’ attitudes and voicing their criticisms. It was a harsh reminder of how we shape and affect the attitudes and beliefs of our kids for better or for worse.

If I thought being a goalie mom was a challenge, I was hardly prepared for the stress of being a referee mom. The first game my oldest son Finn reffed was probably harder for me than it was for him. I knew he was prepared – he completed the officiating clinic and tests, he had played hockey for years, he watched games, read the Hockey News, memorized stats and discussed the game with anyone who would listen. He was fully qualified and ready to go. But I knew how referees were treated – I wanted to put him into a bubble to deflect anything that could potentially hurt him. Even if he made all the best calls, someone would be upset. I’ve watched and cheered enough minor hockey and NHL games to know that even the most trained and eagle-eye officials are taunted, jeered and blamed for bad calls, non-calls, biases and blunders.

My son was reffing six and seven-year-olds, hardly NHLers… maybe the fans would be more forgiving? Sadly not. During that first game I was treated to a rant about the poor officiating from one of the player’s grandmas, a woman I went to church with no less! When I am a hockey mom I am easier to identify – sitting with the rest of the team parents cheering on the kids. As a referee mom I am camouflaged – it’s not like I wear a black and white striped jersey and shout “Great call! Way to go ref!” from the stands. So there is no filter from the complaints and criticism. I get to hear it all. It can be heart-breaking.

As a minor hockey parent I, along with all the other parents, am required to complete an online course, Respect in Sport. It teaches the importance of good sportsmanship as a player, parent and coach. We are told that in no uncertain terms that we are not to rebuke anyone in the game – not the players, not the coaches, not the referees. But all this positive teaching seems to fly out the window in the heat of competition. Apparently kind and caring neighbours and friends turn into armchair officials and seem to forget all the lip service to fun and encouragement. The refs become targets. Even 13-year-olds. Many coaches and parents bully and berate officials for their call of the game. And guess what their kids learn to do? And the cycle continues.

So what are we to do? Well, we are called to live out our faith in thought, word and deed. Love our neighbour as ourselves. Acting with integrity, compassion and honour in the arena isn’t always easy, but it goes a long way to model good behaviour to those around us. The game can get intense, and I have certainly got caught up in the competition before. I’ve said some things I regret. But I try to treat others the way I want to be treated. More importantly the way I want my kids to be treated.

Sometimes I find it hard to justify my love for the game, with all the fighting, the poor sportsmanship and just plain lousy behaviour, on and off the ice. But there are moments – when a teammate skates by Sasha and taps his pads after he lets in a weak goal. When a coach genuinely thanks Finn for reffing a good game.  The big grins after a hard-won game.  The support of respectful, encouraging and passionate parents, coaches, players and fans. We can teach our kids to be positive role-models and honourable people, who play their best, have fun, and know how to forgive. We want our kids to grow up to be kind and compassionate, not critical or cruel. So to you all hockey moms and dads, and grandmas and sisters too, let’s commit to supporting a generation of hockey fans that love each other as much as they love the game. That is when hockey will truly be the best game you can name.

Happy Hockey Day in Canada!