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“Hi Dad,” I step into the den and see the Union on television; a replay of the last home game. “Do you like their chances tonight?”
“Against Anaheim?” Dad asks with a note of derision. “Always. We may not have The Assembly Line anymore, but when you get Morrow, Hyryck, and Larsson out there together? They play like The Line used to.”
At the mention of Stefan Morrow my cheeks grow hot, and I don’t know why, because we’ve only talked a handful of times. But when we talk he smiles, and that smile — even with his two missing teeth — is gorgeous. It reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling at the corners every time. I can only hope I don’t have ablush to accompany the heat, because there’s no way I’d be able to explain myself if asked.
“Dinner is ready,” Mom steps into the den, “you two can catch the game after we eat.”
Following Mom down the hall into the dining room, Dad and I take our seats. “It’s not Anaheim we have to worry about,” Mom says casually, passing me a bowl of mashed potatoes. “It’s Colorado tomorrow night. They’re always a tough team to play. Old grudges die hard, I know I don’t have to tell you two that.”
Dad’s eyes fill with pride when he looks at Mom who preens under his attention. As much as Mom tries to hide it, her love for hockey runs deep. When I was injured on the ice as a kid, it threatened to sever that relationship she had with the game, but she’s slowly coming back around.
“You can stay and watch with us tonight,” Mom offers. “I can make snacks.”
“I have a hockey game.”
Since moving to Detroit, I’ve been involved in a women’s beer league, as a founding member and unofficially league statistician. It takes me back to my days playing rec hockey as a kid in the U.P. When I was thirteen, I took a particularly bad fall and broke my pelvis and dislocated my hip. I had surgery to reconstruct my pelvis, but the hip dislocation led to soft tissue damage, and pain that I still live with daily.
When I found the beer league here in Detroit twenty years later, they were cool with my slower skating; I play short shifts, with a line that accommodates me and understands that I’m not streaking toward a puck anytime soon but I can position myself where I need to be in order to be useful to the team.
“You’re being careful?” Mom asks, brows pinched, concern in her voice.
Mom sat with me in the ER the night of my fall. She was the one who took care of me when I had to stay home from schoolbecause of the injury and surgery. There’s a reason she’s never wanted me working in hockey, or playing hockey again.
“I’m always careful. And my team knows about the injury and my lack of speed on the ice.”
“We could come and watch,” Dad suggests with a bright smile. “It’s been way too long since I’ve seen my Franny Girl on the ice.”
“We don’t typically have a lot of fans, but if you wanted to come, I wouldn’t try to talk you out of it.”
Dad comes to the game with me, sitting in the stands with his bottle of water and bag of popcorn that he brought from home. It doesn’t surprise me that Mom stayed home, she hasn’t seen me play since the day I got injured twenty-some years ago. Dad was the one who encouraged me to get back onto the ice when I was ready, and not to stay off indefinitely. He laced up skates of his own and put me through my paces at the local skating rink.
He cheers me on when I win my first face off and score my first goal. His voice rings out when I get sent to the penalty bench for throwing an elbow at my opponent. Most beer leagues don’t allow checking or slashing or fighting, and while we don’t allow fighting (automatic hundred dollar fine), wedoallow checking. So many of us grew up playing low contact hockey and wewantto play the physical game. We sat down as a league when we organized and laid out the rules, including allowing for checking, but there is a line…and my elbow just crossed it.
I can’t help but laugh when I step off the ice and see that someone has added a strip of masking tape on one end of the bench and scrawled out FRANCINE in permanent marker. It’s not that I see the penalty bench all that often…but often enough that someone took it upon themselves to save me a seat. I’ve gotten really good about keeping track of penalty minutes on my own, that doing it for the Union hasn’t been a hardship. I’ve loved working in the penalty box for the few home games we’vehad so far, and like my brother reminded me I have my foot in the door with the Union.
When my penalty time is up, my skates hit the ice and that short bit of rest gives me the odd burst of speed that I’ll pay for later, but for now it feels good to fly across the ice with my team. At the end of our sixty minutes on the ice, the whistle blows and we skate to our respective benches, regardless of the score; sometimes we end in a tie, sometimes we don’t. Tonight, we end in a tie, two lines of players shaking hands before packing up our equipment and going our separate ways until next time. Usually. Tonight, our team’s captain skates to center ice and gets everyone’s attention.
“I have a couple of announcements tonight before you all leave,” Rachel’s voice echoes as we all quiet down. “Next week’s game is going to be played an hour later so that everyone can join us…because our favorite penalty bench warmer just started a new job with the Detroit Union. Congratulations, Francine!”
A cheer goes up from both teams and hands reach out to clap me on the shoulder and back as heat rises in my cheeks. It’s one thing to be celebrated after scoring a goal and getting right back to business, it’s another when all eyes are on me like this.
“And with that news, I think we’re going to plan an informal league outing to a Union game. We’ll have information on that in the next newsletter so keep an eye out. Anything else before we head out tonight? No? Good. See everyone next week!”
Dad waits for me at the arena door, taking my bag from me as we head out into the night.
“Got anywhere you need to be?” Dad asks as he loads my bag into the trunk of my car.
“I was just going to go home,” I glance at my watch, showing nearly ten at night. “I have physical therapy in the morning, but that’s it.”
“I’ve got an idea.” There’s a gleam in Dad’s eye as I toss him my keys.
We drive for a little while to Donut Worry, a twenty-four-hour bakery and coffee shop whose main clientele are autoworkers headed to or from work. Dad pulls in and parks, tossing me a smile as he does.
“Just like old times.”
Growing up, Dad always took me to hockey practice. He was in the stands with the other parents, cheering me on and encouraging me when I was overwhelmed or feeling down. And after every hockey practice we’d stop on the way home and get a donut. The donut shop near the rink in the U.P. was part of the closest gas station. The donuts were never fresh at night, but I never minded because that was my time with Dad. That was ourthing.We haven’t done this in a while, and I’m glad we get to do it tonight. It’s a bonus that there’s a small television mounted in the corner and we get to watch the Union’s opening face off together as we eat our donuts.
“You looked good out there on the ice tonight, Franny,” Dad says as I watch Stefan skate to center ice for the face off. “How’s the hip feeling?”
