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The Hockey Dad Chronicles

Christmas 2002 was on a Wednesday. My wife pulled down all the decorations on Thursday. On Friday, we drove to Nashville, Tenn., for the Southern Ice Lightning Hockey Invitational. "Southern Ice" was the name of the arena. "Lightning" was the name of the team. The invitational drew teams from some pretty far-flung locations: The Baton Rouge Kingfish were there, along with the Kenasaw Lazers, the Memphis Blues and the Evansville Thunder. I"ve always wondered who comes up with the names of these teams. The Baton Rouge Kingfish? Who else plays in Louisiana? The Skatin" Cajuns? The New Orleans Andouille Sausages? The Shreveport Funny Tawkin" Crackahs? "The Nashville Lightning" was a pretty interesting name, one of those team monikers that originates from local weather patterns or natural disasters peculiar to the area. There"s a pro soccer squad in California called "The San Jose Earthquake," and there must be more than a hundred various collegiate and professional sports in tornado alley that call themselves "The Cyclones." Why in God"s name would anyone want to name a sports team after the absolute worst aspect of their hometown? How "bout the "Compton Drive-Bys" or the "Detroit Unemployed Drunks"? The "Bronx Gang-Bangers" or the "Staten Island Cosa Nostra Stoolies"? Three cheers for our "New Jersey Toxins"! Let"s hear it for our "Las Vegas STDs" and a warm welcome for the visiting team, the "Seattle Anal-Retentive Double-Income No-Kids Yuppies Who Moved Here from L.A."! Hockey in Nashville? I wondered just what we were in for. Was somebody going to play the Canadian National Anthem on a banjo? Tables lined the hallways of the Southern Ice Lightning home rink, filled with items for a silent auction. You could bid on pucks signed by NHL stars, a small guitar autographed by Vince Gill and Amy Grant, even a mini-bike. Oh, and just to remind you that you were in Baptist country, you could also bid on a series of VeggieTales Bible Stories DVDs. (For those unfamiliar with VeggieTales, it"s a cartoon series created by people who seemed to think that Scripture would be more palatable to first-graders if, say, Noah was a talking two-dimensional artichoke.) The games ahead of ours had all run late. Our 4 p.m. face-off wouldn"t come "til at least 4:30. As my wife and I made small talk with some of the other hockey parents from Indy, we heard a crack, a whistle and a gasp from the crowd watching the game that was in progress. We spun toward the ice. A child, 11 or 12 years old, was lying in the middle of the ice and writhing in pain. Two adult men leaned over him, asking him questions and prodding him gently. The refs marshaled boys from both teams away from the accident scene and herded them toward their respective benches. News rocketed through the spectators. An assistant coach from Memphis told us that the child who was hurt was a Nashville local and that EMTs were on the way, sirens wailing. The adults on the ice hoisted the boy to his feet. Both teams hammered their sticks on the ice or the boards in rhythm - it was the only way a hockey player in full pads and gloves was able to applaud. The boy set one skate on the ice gingerly as the adults who shouldered him lifted his feet up. The injured kid kept his right foot off the ice as best he could, grimacing as the adults hauled him toward the exits and a waiting ambulance. Mr. Shaver, father of three hockey-playing boys, spoke knowingly, aloud but to no one in particular: "That child"s got a broken leg." My wife rubbed her temples. "It"s OK," I told her. "Checking isn"t allowed in our son"s league!" My dear, sweet, patient and loving wife told me to shut up. Well, I thought, at least no one had named a youth hockey team "The Tennessee Fractured Tibia." Wank & O"Brien make up monikers each weekday morning on RadioNow 93.1