Friends on Ice

“Friends on Ice”

“It’s a great day for hockey.”

-Bob “The Hawk” Johnson, former University of Wisconsin hockey coach

A visitor couldn’t tell the color of the walls in little Lincoln’s bedroom. They were covered floor-to-ceiling with posters of the all-time hockey greats- Howe guiding the puck down the ice, Gretzky dropping one in coming around the side of the net, Lemieux hoisting the Stanley Cup, and Hashek with a spectacular skate save.

Lincoln’s Grandfather was once the stick boy for Chicago’s hockey team, so the Blackhawks were well-represented. Lincoln had two of Bobby Hull next to his bed, and the iconic shot of the Golden Jet showering ice crystals as he came to a full hockey stop hung on the ceiling above his bed. The back of his door was graced with Stan Mikita blasting a slap shot from the blue line.

Lincoln’s fixation with the game of hockey would have been puzzling to the outside world. Neither of his parents had ever played the game, and they had little interest in the sport of ruffians. They concluded that there must be some sort of a rare hockey gene that skips a generation on its way down the family tree, from Grandpa, through Mom, to Lincoln. Heredity or otherwise, there was no doubt Grandpa was the driving force.

“Dad, the hockey skates would be a great birthday present, but he’s only 6 months old.”

“He’ll grow into them.”

Baptism, birthdays, Christmas, Easter, sunny days, rainy days, they all offered Grandpa the opportunity to present Lincoln with a gift that shouted, “Please be a hockey player!” This was Grandpa’s last chance to sit in the stands and cheer on a child of his lineage. His son showed little interest in any physical activity except for his high school’s ribbon dancing team, and his daughter’s only passion in life was collecting butterflies and other insects, dead or alive. He had high hopes for Lincoln.

Life offers limited choices. We don’t get to meet everyone in the world so we must choose before we get to the end of the aisle. A chubby 5’4” boy is unlikely to land a spot on an NBA roster and a frumpy-looking girl with a squeaky voice is not going to knock Taylor Swift off the top of the charts. A kid growing up in Marshalltown, Iowa won’t have access to a bobsled run, and there are no ski hills in Arkansas. Kids can only do what they have the opportunity to do, and sometimes they need a little nudge. Grandpa provided both for Lincoln.

Lincoln showed promise at an early age. He was a speedy little guy, with nice skills and good hand-eye coordination. Considering his parents’ relative ineptitude in all fields of athletic endeavor, he was a near genetic impossibility. He was a standout at T-Ball and pee-wee soccer, and Mom, Dad, and Grandpa enjoyed every minute of it. Those were his only opportunities as there was no ice rink in town.

Grandpa got busy. He persuaded the town board to level an area adjacent to the pavilion at City Park and flood it in the winter. Lincoln called Weather every evening hoping the temperature would be below 32˚so he could meet his buddies at the rink.

It’s always nice to have friends, but it adds to the equation if the friends like doing the same things you do. Freddy, Don, Buzz, and Lincoln were a fixture at the rink. Sticks and pucks weren’t permitted, but the boys learned to stop, start, fly down the ice, and maneuver as if they were playing the game. They dreaded the moment the lights were turned off and they had to go home. 

“See you tomorrow, Buzz.”

“Not if I see you first.”

Silly stuff. Kid stuff. Goofing around. All the things 10-year-olds do.

But the races around the rink were all business. Winning mattered. The skating backward competitions were intense. The boys were learning to skate.

Freddy was the Paul Revere of the group. He lived across the street from the park and a quick look out his bedroom window told him if the rink was open or closed. He called Lincoln, Lincoln called Don, and Don called Buzz. Within minutes they all had their skates hung over their shoulders and were headed for the rink. The only fly in the ointment was that pesky little annoyance called homework.

“Lincoln, do you have any homework?”

“Nope.”

“None?”

“Well, just a few math problems.”

“And?”

“Well, I just have to read something and write something about it for my English class.”

“Sit down, Lincoln. First the math and the something-something, and then skating.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Grandpa picked it up a notch. He got the town to set aside one hour of ice time a day for the boys to play the sport of Lincoln’s dreams. He supplied the sticks and pucks, and Mom procured two little kid soccer nets from Goodwill. The games were on.

Two on two at first, but their games quickly drew the interest of other boys. Soon it was three on three, and then four on four with one kid on each team rotating in at goalie. That was the max for the small rink. When the numbers grew, and the kids would have to take turns sitting out, Grandpa got them another hour.

More kids, boys and girls, were showing up for the hockey ice time than for the recreational skate. The need was there, and the right people were there to take up the cause.

Mom led the crusade. Grandpa was persuasive; Mom was relentless… and clever. The night she showed up at the town board meeting with 100 kids holding signs that read “We want Hockey!” was the clincher. The plans for an ice arena were approved, and a year and a half later it was ready for action.

The first time on the ice in a real hockey rink was almost spiritual for Lincoln. He soaked it all in, the bright lights, the boards, the nets, the red and blue lines in the ice, and the stands. As he glided down the ice, arms spread out, head tilted back with his hair flipping in the breeze, he imagined the stands full of cheering fans. He was Bobby Hull.

Mom did the paperwork and fundraising for the team, predictably named the Blackhawks. Unable to find anyone with any coaching experience, they turned to the most hockey-literate person in town- Grandpa. He beamed at the opportunity, read a book, and watched videos on how to coach hockey. He couldn’t skate a lick, but his voice carried well enough to command attention from the bench.

“Boys, we are going to work hard starting right now. What I lack in experience, you’re going to make up for in effort. But here’s the deal, kids. The main thing is we are going to have fun.”

Fun is often the missing ingredient for coaches bent on brandishing their own wins and losses record. Even with his woeful lack of experience, the boys were blessed to have Grandpa as their coach. Years can sometimes bring a little wisdom.

“Of course, I want to win the games, but that’s really not the point. It’s all about the friendships and the lessons the kids learn along the way.”

Mom and Dad were on board with that. Lincoln wasn’t so sure.

“Grandpa, don’t we want to win these games?”

“Sure, Lincoln, winning beats losing any day of the week. You’ll feel good about it, and so will I. But those sheets of paper full of statistics, standings, and records will be piled up in trash heaps someday. But you are going to learn teamwork and the lesson that hard work pays off. Those things will stay with you. And those guys you’re passing the puck to now will be your friends forever.”

“I guess.”

Mom understood.

“Lincoln, what do you like best at practice? Is it skating frontwards or backward, or maybe a little stick handling or firing one into the net? Or is it spending the hour with Freddy, Buzz, Don, and the other boys? How much fun would it be if they weren’t there and you were all alone out there?”

Lincoln pondered that for a moment and smiled.

“I guess it's being with the guys… but I would score a lot of goals with an empty net.”

Grandpa’s teams were consistent. Three years running they won half their games which suggests they also lost half their games. The boys celebrated their victories and bemoaned their losses, but win or lose there was nowhere else on earth where they would rather be than out on that wonderful sheet of ice doing battle with their friends.

Grandpa taught them well. All successes and failures were shared by the entire team. He never told a player he did something “wrong”; he only told them there was something they could do “better”. A loss had to be forgotten within ten minutes of the final buzzer, and they could never blame the refs for anything.

“The refs can make mistakes just like you do, and try playing the game without them.”

Hockey can be addictive.

“I sure am going to miss hockey when the season’s over, Lincoln.”

“I miss it every night when I go home, Don.”

Contrary to Grandpa’s instructions, Lincoln replayed the games in his mind, especially the losses. He felt terrible for his miscues as they might have contributed to a loss. Most of all it hurt him to think he had let his teammates down. They all worked so hard and as Team Captain he owed it to them to give his best. Lying in bed at night, he studied the posters plastered all over his walls and feared he didn’t live up to the standards of his heroes. He could almost hear the voice of Bobby Hull as he stared down at him from his ceiling perch- “You have to do better than that, Lincoln.”

God invented Junior Hockey Tournaments for parents who have too much time on their hands and extra money to spend. They get to travel to faraway places and spend money on hotels and meals and stand in chilly ice arenas until they’re not sure they still have feet. Tournaments were the best part of the players’ season, but they were challenging for the parents. Grandpa suggested the team could save a weekend of travel if they sponsored their own tournament every year. They just needed a volunteer to take on the role of Tournament Director.

Although Lincoln’s Mom was void of any Hispanic heritage, she was possessed of the rare Mexican Jumping Bean Gene. She couldn’t sit still. Running a statewide hockey tournament was just what she needed to fill the few moments of boring downtime she had each week.

For the Junior Leagues, Hockey isn’t just a sport; it’s a culture, a community of players, coaches, parents and fans. The games take an hour, but the bond is always there. If Mom needs help with her tournament, volunteers come knocking. Tasks were delegated, and the boys always had fun with their assignment- gift bags for all the players.

“Are we doing gift bags this year, Mom?”

“Of course, 137 of them, Lincoln.”

Henry Ford would have been proud of the boys’ assembly line style of production. Mom commandeered a room at the Community Center and the boys took their places along two 8’ tables placed end to end and piled high with the goodies that Mom had extorted from local merchants. Lincoln pulled a bag out of a box and handed it to Buzz who tossed in a pair of socks. Don added the McDonald’s coupons followed by Freddy dropping in a handful of those little Tootsie Rolls. The bags moved along with impressive efficiency as each player placed something into the bag. Dad taped a laminated card bearing a player’s name on each bag, and Mom carefully placed the bags in large cardboard boxes. The gift bags were legendary throughout the hockey world.

“Freddy! Stop eating the Tootsie Rolls.”

“I’m hungry, Buzz.” 

“That doesn’t matter, you dope.”

The monumental task was followed by pizzas, Pepsi, and lots of laughs. Mom took note- no ice, no skates, no pucks, no hockey sticks, and the boys were having as much fun as they did at practice or during a game.

“You’re right, Dad. This is what it’s all about.”

Over the years, Grandpa’s team progressed from mediocre, to not-so-bad, to pretty good, to down-right competitive. Hang on to your shorts. This year Grandpa and the boys thought they had a chance to win the 8-team state-wide tournament.

They had a tough draw in the opening game Friday night and would be going up against last year’s runner-up, the fearsome Sharks from up north. The Sharks dominated play, but thanks to an out-of-body performance by their goalie, and a break-away goal late in the game by Lincoln, the Blackhawks prevailed, 4-3, and would move on to the semi-final at noon on Saturday.

This was a big win for Grandpa and the boys, and they celebrated wildly.

 “You boys did it, and you did it together. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

The boys’ cheers filled the arena.

“Grandpa! Grandpa! Grandpa!”

Grandpa looked at the boys and thanked God for putting him in this situation to have such a wonderful moment. He smiled and fought off the tears. (There’s no crying in hockey.)

In the semi-final game the next day, the boys played like the all-time greats hanging in Lincoln’s room. Everything clicked. The passing was sharp, the defense was smothering, and the puck was finding the back of the net. The Blackhawks were up 5-2 with three minutes remaining, and then the unimaginable happened.

Lincoln went down and slammed hard into boards. His teammates rushed to him as Lincoln lay on the ice writhing in pain. Dad’s mind froze, Mom’s heart sank, and a shaken Grandpa shuffled his way across the ice to his grandson. The standby paramedics stabilized Lincoln’s leg and carted him off to the hospital.

The boys’ hearts were empty. They felt nothing. From joy to crushing sadness in seconds doesn’t happen often, and the boys appeared to be in shock as they moved through the handshake line at the end of the game. Grandpa felt guilty. If it weren’t for him, Lincoln would never have even put on a pair of hockey skates.

The ER waiting area was standing room only as all the players and their parents were there with Dad, Mom, and Grandpa waiting for word of Lincoln’s condition. Sometimes there is comfort in numbers.

Mom could see the pain in the boys’ eyes.

 “He’s going to be ok, guys. You’ve got a game to play in a few hours. You need to start thinking about that. Isn’t that right Grandpa?”

“She’s right fellas. Go back home and rest. Be at the rink an hour before game time. There’s nothing you can do here. Lincoln will be with you in spirit.”

The news was about as bad as it could get- a displaced ankle fracture.

 “We’ve got it immobilized. Your boy may need surgery. A surgeon will check it all out on Monday after the swelling goes down. Hopefully, he can set the bone without surgery. We’ll see. In the meantime, Lincoln, you need to rest. Keep ice on it and have your leg elevated. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Mom had not seen that look before- questioning, serious, bewildered.

“Let’s go, Lincoln. We better get you home.”

And she had never heard this tone before- firm, stern, certain, defiant.

“I’m not going home, Mom. I’m going back to the rink.”

“That’s not possible, Lincoln. You heard the doctor.”

The tone softened.

“Mom, I’ve been with these guys every minute along the way. I’m the team captain, the team leader. This is the biggest game of their lives. I need to be there for them.”

Every so often parents are confronted with uncomfortable challenges regarding their children. In this case, Mom and Dad had to weigh their boy’s mental health against his physical well-being. They looked at each other, both hoping the other would make the call. Mom found the answer in Lincoln’s eyes.

“Ok, Lincoln, but you better be damn careful.”

The Championship Game matched the Blackhawks against last year’s champions, the powerhouse Bladerunners from Madison. The boys had never played so well. Without Lincoln in the lineup, each boy dug deep and gave it extra effort. Remarkably, the score was tied 3-3 at the end of the second period.

The boys gathered around Grandpa.

“You boys are doing great. You just need to…”

He was interrupted by the loud clapping of a single person in the stands. That fan had seen them first- Lincoln on crutches slowly making his way into the arena with Mom and Dad on each side acting as spotters. More people saw, stood, and clapped. Everyone in the arena knew about the injured hockey player, and soon the whole arena was cheering the return of this wounded warrior. It was echoes of the already fallen El Cid, re-mounted and strapped to his horse to lead his Castilian army into battle, or Willis Reed limping out of the tunnel to light up the Garden and inspire his Knicks teammates. It was an act of effort and selfless courage to be appreciated.

And who won the game? Who cares? But the memory of that moment, that very special moment, when Lincoln entered the arena and those young hockey players raced to his side, gathered en masse around him, clinging to each other as though they would never let go, the hugs, the tears, the feelings those boys had for each other, will never be forgotten in this small town.