This weekend my husband and I traveled out of state to watch our son play hockey. He’s a sophomore in college and his team is doing really well this season. Their 17-3-0 record has us crossing our fingers for nationals, a possible once-in-a-lifetime experience for our family as our son’s career plans will likely see him in an internship in the coming years, not on the ice.
The game itself was exciting at first, and our team seemed well-rested and in peak condition after a long Christmas break. In the second period, we pulled into a 6-0 lead, a score differential that in high school hockey would trigger run-time (when the game clock runs continuously as a sort of mercy for the losing team). There’s no run-time in collegiate hockey, though, so all three twenty-minute periods with every break and stoppage in play had to slowly tick out. And that’s when the game got interesting.
The opposing team pulled their goalie and put in the backup. He skated out onto the ice, banged his stick against the pipes, and crouched into position for puck drop. Because our family has a tradition of standing behind our opponent’s net (so we can be there for goals—our son is a center), and because the game was late and the crowd small, we could hear a lot of what was happening on the ice. And it was hilarious.
We were stunned, and then delighted, as the backup goalie narrated the game, chatting with both his teammates and his competitors whenever there was a break in play. He good-naturedly teased one of our centers, telling him to take the face-off in one of the circles on the other end of the ice instead of mere feet from the goal he was trying to defend. Later, when a puck was deflected into the stands, he laughed: “Just a little souvenir for one of our many fans!” And all throughout the remainder of the game he tapped sticks and clapped backs, congratulating anyone and everyone on good plays. When it was over (they lost 9-1), he skated over to our bench and threw an arm around a few of our players, continuing the conversation as if they were old friends.
I wasn’t on the ice, so I have no idea if the comedian goalie was truly as funny and carefree as he seemed to be from the stands, but I can say that after being a hockey mom for sixteen years, that sort of playful, positive attitude on the ice is hard to come by. Don’t get me wrong, he was a fierce competitor, too, and definitely took his job seriously, but he didn’t take himself too seriously, and it made all the difference.
We were designed to create. To take inspiration from the world around us and make something new. Some people paint or design beautiful buildings or write books. Others craft furniture or bake delicious cakes or compose music that we sing along to in the car.
Whether or not we consider ourselves creative, we are, and one of the most influential things we generate on a regular basis is the space around us.
I’m shocked sometimes by how much our world has changed in the last several years (more?) and how it seems we’ve forsaken the art of creating warm, welcoming spaces for friends and strangers alike. The goalie we encountered this weekend is so memorable because it seems people like him are so rare. In a world where we are pitted against each other in everything from our athletic allegiances to our desire for that coveted table at a local restaurant, our posture toward the people around us is often one of segregation if not outright hostility. I am here and you are there and never the twain shall meet.
That goalie took what could have devolved into an ugly, penalty-ridden mismatch and turned it into an amiable game that ended with what seemed to be sincere appreciation for both the sport and the competition. It was, well, beautiful.
Maybe I am making too much of one person’s affect on a much broader community—and perhaps there are some in the crowd or on the ice who experienced it quite differently than me and my family did. But to me, the space that was created in that ice rink was one of friendly competition, love of sport, and respect for all who attended—no matter which “side” they were on. It felt wildly creative, surprisingly countercultural, and refreshingly different. In short, it inspired me to think about how I move in the world, and how I can create spaces that are warm and invitational instead of cold and closed-off.
Maybe our offering, the very best that we can give to our neighbors and the world around us, is an expansive imagination that sees a way instead of a wall.
As we sit on opposite sides of a gym or discuss divisive issues, and especially as we enter into yet another election year filled with mud-slinging and finger-pointing and trench-digging as we prepare for “war” (and for the love, can we please stop acting as if we are at war with each other), may we pause to consider the connections we can create with something as simple as a smile. A kind word. An uncomplicated but radical thoughtfulness that allows us to hold open a door, speak softly, laugh at our own mistakes.
We are, everyday, creating the world that we live in.
I’m thankful for that goalie this week. For the guy at the grocery store meat counter who always greets me with a smile and a little Monday morning chat. For strangers who give up their seat on a crowded bus. And for all the people who call me again and again to think and move in ways that are creatively nonconformist—and that slowly but surely continue to mend all the broken places.
Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole
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One game, one play at a time, it ALL counts. We have to do better and based on my interactions with high school kids in our little Iowa town, many of them know this and are doing this work.
Thanks for sharing, Nicole. I appreciate the reminder, that we can help to make this joyful manner the norm by cheering them on, AND as you say, try hard ourselves to create affirming, positive, fun spaces around us.
Thank you. We need more stories like this that allow us to see the positive behaviour and attitudes that are possible, to heal our despair and isolation.