The most invigorating, yet uncomfortable feeling in the world is the icy breath of wind that sneaks, with a devilish purpose, through four in a half layers of winter clothes, to flash freeze your spine. Growing up in central Maine during the winter, and born the son of a hockey loving father, 6:00 A.M. icy wind gusts were just a part of growing up. Every weekend, Dad would wake me up at an ungodly hour, toast raisin bread in the oven (he’d add the butter before turning on the toaster so the butter was melted and hot), warm up the Chevy Trailblazer, and get us out the door on time.
To me, these mornings were magical. The world was pitch black and quiet. My dad and I, fruitlessly hitting the seat warmers in a subzero Trailblazer, were the only people in existence, navigating the tundra that was Maine winter. As we travelled to the rink, the sun would bravely start its climb into the morning sky, and it was the only mornings during the year I remember getting to see the sunrise.
This existential feeling allowed me to prepare for my ice time better than any other trip to the rink. Sure, I was cold, and dreaded slipping into my freezing Under Armor and cold, stiff, chest protector, but mentally, I was focused and ready for the game, there were no distractions.
After the game, the world had begun to wake up around us, but I always felt on these days I was privy to a secret part of the world no one else could see. I’d been up and had already put in a full game’s effort before most people’s alarms went off, it was a cool feeling for a young kid. If I was lucky, on away games, we’d always stop and enjoy some breakfast before heading back home, or more often, the next game of the day!
I didn’t appreciate it then, but I do now: the dedication of hockey parents and families throughout the winter months. No sport is quite so demanding on time, money, and travel as hockey, and yet families make it work one way or another. These cold morning starts help build an athletes’ character and build a foundation for high level hockey in young hockey players. Even through college, our workouts would begin before the campus café even opened. What better way than to begin learning the early morning grind than at 6 years old?
When I look back at life on Morrill Street in Winthrop, Maine, these are the moments that stand out to me. Every time the winter wind creeps through my jacket, I’m reminded of those icy, frigid, mornings hauling my gear to the Trailblazer, the wind numbing every part of me, but the magic of the silent morning and reward of hitting the ice at the end of our car ride invigorating me.
This ritual happened every winter weekend until I was 16 and Dad openly breathed a sigh of relief, happy I could finally drive myself. But secretly, and he’ll never admit it, I’m sure he wished he was still part of the early morning quest to the rink. Because even when I would wake at quarter of four for a 5:30 A.M. practice, ready to drive myself, Dad would always be up first, stoking the wood stoves and holding a Tupperware full of toasted raisin bread to hand to me on my way out the door.
