As everyone knows, hockey isn’t just a sport in Canada: it’s a cult, a national mistress, and an identity — not to mention a multi-billion-dollar industry.
When my son turned five, I found a million reasons not to sign him up for hockey. His father, of Aussie descent, has never put blade to ice, so there was no paternal pressure. The schedules, even for the most minor of minor hockey, are legendarily inconvenient. The equipment bag, which requires its own zip code, emits a uniquely repellent smell that still rockets me back to my own childhood. And — a much larger objection — I’ve always hated the way the NHL glorifies violence.
But my son, appetite whetted by the Canucks’ riotous Stanley Cup run, desperately wanted to play. More