On Frozen Blog

This morning in his retirement my 66-year-old father will sip coffee and read a couple of newspapers before packing up his gear, heaving his equipment bag into the bed of his pickup truck, and driving west over the Bay Bridge and some 90 miles for a 10:00 skate at the Gardens Ice House in Laurel with his GeriHatricks teammates. They skate every Wednesday morning at Laurel, in fall, winter, spring and summer. I believe my father travels the farthest for the skates. I like that.

Sometimes Dad will combine his Wednesday bridge crossings for puck with a haircut at his favorite barber, who’s also located near D.C. I keep suggesting to Dad that surely Maryland’s Eastern Shore has no shortage of competent barbers, and that were he to select one there he’d save about $25 in gas, but Dad, like a lot of other guys, has a longstanding relationship with his barber, and I imagine the 45-minute visit in the chair is as much about friendship as getting cleaned up.  

Dad I think will keep driving to Wednesday hockey so long as he can. He just adores being in the room with the guys there at Laurel. There are guys there he’s been skating with since he began his law career in D.C. more than 35 years ago. There’s nothing in his retirement on the shore that can compensate for or come close to rivaling his weekly pre- and post-skate banter in the room with the guys. Last night I got to thinking: in the room so often we make ourselves so vulnerable to our teammates, sharing with them the highs and lows of life, career and family, and after six or so decades of living life of course presents some of its greatest challenges: marked physical infirmities. A two-tour veteran of Vietnam, God knows my Dad has them. And so no small part of this wonderful weekly ritual must be the skaters’ quiet resolve to middle finger aging, take a few extra minutes gearing up relative to two decades ago, and stride around the ice sweating and smiling for 90 minutes.

I like to think that in Heaven no hockey player knows arthritis in his hands as he laces ‘em up. 

Dad also travels with the GeriHatricks for at least two out-of-town tourneys each year, including an annual mid-winter gathering of the greyheads up at Lake Placid. Always he returns from them regaling me with tales of remarkable commitment to hockey made by guys in his age group from all around the country he’s met for the first time.  There’s one war vet he’s come to know over the years who lost both hands in battle, and skates with hooks on the end of each arm. Obviously he doesn’t wear hockey gloves while playing. Obviously every teammate wants him out there forever. 

Dad and I never ever discuss Vietnam. When I was a teenager we went and saw ‘Platoon’ together in the movie theater, and Dad returned home and didn’t speak with us again until the following morning. I’ve seen my Dad’s war wound medals, so I have a vague notion of his sacrifice, but still I feel like I should know more detail about his service. I also know that he named me after a soldier in his Army company who didn’t return. Now that I think about it, I definitely should know more about him.  

My Dad wants me to resume my own recreational hockey playing, and I miss the room like heck, but immersing myself in new media coverage of hockey has delivered rewards I never could have imagined when I started – most particularly friendships forged just like those in the room. I’m going to have make some modest adjustments to my new media commitment relatively soon, I think, because Dad so often brings up the subject of my playing again I’m pretty sure it’s our skating together again that he most has in mind.

That seems like a wise imperative to pledge to pursue this Veterans’ Day — finding the time to meet my old man out at the rink, where likely in the room we’ll have a good talk.