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Disappointed that my father couldn’t attend our screening of ‘The Rocket‘ at the Avalon Theater this past December, I made the DVD a Christmas present to him. (He was thrilled.) Throughout January when we spoke on the telephone I was quick to ask if he’d found a quiet evening at home to view it. He hadn’t. I found this curious, and somewhat disappointing, for as I enjoyed the film so thoroughly, I knew he would, too. But in his retirement my father is anything but sedentary and stationary, and so even something as seemingly pedestrian as movie night at home can be hard to come by.

It was a sad coincidence for me to learn last week, not long after I heard of the Capitals traveling with their fathers on their roadtrip South, that I’d be spending the weekend with my father — our first visit together in 2008 — under the most unfortunate of circumstances: gathering to get past the passing of his mother. He learned of his loss last week while on a Caribbean sailing vacation, hastily cut it short, joined family for the remembrance, and at his mother’s funeral delivered a stunning and moving eulogy. Now without both parents, Dad is feeling “orphaned.”

I was in his Maryland Eastern Shore home all of about seven minutes this weekend before he initiated talk of the Saturday night victory by the Caps in Tampa. “Did you see that game last night?” he asked me with victory voice and wide eyes. We talked of the superb passing by both teams, the heart-wrenching, concluding drama, the visiting team’s resiliency. He knew, too, of my appearance on Saturday night radio in Washington to discuss the Caps, and when the Chesapeake Bay poorly cooperated with his radio reception of the broadcast at home he hopped in his car and began driving around the shore to find better reception.

Dad and I aren’t emotive in tough times; instead, we find the seemingly necessary solace simply in one another’s company. With this in mind I shouldn’t have been surprised at our next discussion.

“We’re going to watch the movie tonight,” he said, with no small enthusiasm. The screening, it became clear, was to be the centerpiece of my visit. Turns out, he had no intention of watching the movie without me, no matter how long that took. And this weekend ‘The Rocket’ represented a fresh immersion in the pursuit that has consistently — over the course of our more than 35 years of sharing it — delivered the fondest and most rewarding of life experiences together.

In my youth Dad was alternately my soccer coach, my Little League manager, my supporter in the stands in hoops and junior varsity football. But it was when he first took me to the neighborhood ice rink for my first skating lessons that a special and lasting sporting bond forged between us. I don’t think skating comes easy to any beginner, no matter how athletically gifted. I remember well my struggles and how after each session of Saturday lessons Dad always aided my perseverance by removing my skates and rubbing my young pained feet back to life.

Later, once I’d become proficient with my skating, he infuriated my mother by taking me along on his Friday night pickup skates near midnight — when the ice was cheap and available — when all other 10- and 11-year-olds were fast asleep. Later still, when I was in high school and working weekends at the local rink, he’d assure my mother that the reason I wasn’t returning home from Saturday night shifts was because I was skating after hours with college-aged hockey playing staff, literally until sunrise, then collapsing on a cot in the rink’s First Aid room. My mother was convinced that hockey couldn’t be my mistress every Saturday night when I was 14 and 15 and 16 and 17. My father knew better.

His shore home is well equipped for Blockbuster night — or Hockey Night in Canada: 48 inches of Panasonic, wall-hung high definition above the fireplace. Center Ice subscribed to. We had a roaring fire in the fireplace, our feet up, beers and spirits on the coasters at our feet. We were seated next to one another on his couch with not six inches separating us. That in itself felt healing.

I explained to him the necessity of absorbing the film in its Francophone rendering, with English subtitles. He needed about 25 minutes of it before he professed Stephen McHattie’s work as Habs’ coach Dick Irvin “magnificent.” He was absorbed, and I was grateful.

A great home in a great location has a way of breeding enthusiastic loyalty among friends and former business associates, and so my father’s telephone rings a lot. It’s about that time of year when the calls begin announcing intended spring and summer weekend visits. Dad is always generous with his time and attentions on the phone, but I noticed that with this film on pause during the calls he was quite short on the phone. He took perhaps five calls and dispatched all of them with haste. I really think he was enjoying the movie that much.

During opportune times he’d share with me fascinating tidbits about his passion for puck while growing up just outside New York City. I never knew, for instance, that he’d traveled to the old Madison Square Garden just to see Rocket play. I think he paid $2 for that ticket.

When the movie ended and my father judged it superb, he wanted (or needed) more from it, so we began watching the DVD extras. All of them, in French. The phone rang once during that overtime period and again Dad shoulder checked it aside.

Eventually we dimmed the lights on our night, hugged, and went to bed. Breakfast the next morning was delicious, and we talked a lot about the movie some more.