Being a hockey parent isn’t always a simple task > Lack of sleep is normal for dads of skaters

The raucous, rhythmic screech of the radio alarm forces its way into my consciousness. I open my eyes, and slam my hand down on the button. The time is 4:50 a.m. It is a totally dark mid-December morning. For the life of me, I can’t remember why I set the alarm so early.

All of the possibilities run slow-motion through my mind. I don’t have to go to work, I am not headed to the airport for the 6 a.m. flight, and I am definitely not going fishing in December.

My wife mumbles, “Tell him good luck,” rolls over and is instantly back to sleep. I am about to wake her and ask, “Tell who good luck?” when Dan, my 12-year-old, barges into the room and says, “Dad, come on, the coach wants us there early!”

The last connections needed to complete the circuits in my brain finally form and my question is answered. I have made the ultimate commitment as a parent — I am raising a hockey player and now is the time to pay… it’s game time.

Getting dressed involves simply putting on the clothes I took off and left strategically on the bed post the night before. The thought of a shower and a shave doesn’t even enter my mind. I just won’t get too close to anyone.

I stumble down the stairs to the kitchen, where Dan is scarfing down a bowl of cereal. I have a powerful physiological need for a large cup of black coffee, but don’t have the energy to brew one. Fortunately, there is a 7-11 on the way.

While Dan starts putting on his armor (hockey gear), a look out the window reveals what the weather did overnight. The cars are heavily iced over. I go out to warm one up so the trip to the rink will be less painful. My wife’s car is parked closest to the road and I try opening one of its doors, any door, but they’re all frozen shut. I move on to my car. To my relief, the door on the driver’s side reluctantly gives way and the engine kicks over on the second try. Instead of scraping of the windshield, I turn the defrost on high and retreat back inside to get warm.

My son normally gets his gear on in 12 minutes flat, but on mornings like these, he forgets how to lace up his skates. I can lace skates in my sleep. I go into action and soon all of his gear is on and he has doubled in size. We grab his sticks and hockey bag and head out for Indian Island. It is 5:25 a.m.

We stop at the 7-11 for a large black coffee for me and a soft drink for Dan. Traffic is no problem at this time of day. You could drive on the left side of the road if you preferred.

After going though Old Town, we head across the Indian Island bridge and to the Sockalexis Arena. The speed limit is 20 mph and they mean it. I start riding the brake, immediately.

After a few minutes of creeping along, we pull up to the entrance of the arena and Dan jumps out. The presence of one of his teammates reassures me that I haven’t misread the schedule in my sleep-deprived state and gone to the wrong arena. Now, if we haven’t left any of his equipment at home, I can relax.

As we walk in, a group of fathers are talking quietly next to the boards. I nod in recognition, but walk right past them. Those who know me seem to understand this is not my time of day. I sit up in the last row of the bleachers, so I can rest my back against the cement block wall. I open the plastic tab on the coffee cup and after several sips, the magical black brew begins to work. The fog in my brain gradually starts to clear.

The game begins with its usual frenetic pace. Bodies are falling down, slamming into the boards, and into each other, all because of the need to control the hard, black rubber disc on the ice.

The parents are now sitting with me so they, too, can rest their backs. I have seen livelier crowds at funerals. There are no cheers for goals, good passes, or great saves. There are no obnoxious cow bells or horns. No one yells at the refs for a penalty or even at the timekeeper when he forgets to start the clock. Most of the parents look like they would have a hard time coming up with today’s date.

At the end of the first period, the concession stand window opens, and a lot of us walk over for another cup of coffee. The first smatterings of conversation begin, mostly about plans for the rest of the day. We’re still quiet, but are now at least aware of the score. Fortunately, it is not going to be a close game.

The second period is over before I finish my second cup of coffee, and halfway through the third, the refs run the clock so the next game can start on time.

The game ends and I am pleased that we have won. It is especially painful to get up this early and then have to transport home a disgruntled player. I wait patiently for my son, who is always the last one out of the locker room. Finally, at 7:15 a.m., we walk outside and are confronted with a clear, bright morning. As we drive home, the sun is coming up over the horizon. It is a beautiful sight, but I would still rather be asleep.

I start thinking about how good it will feel to go back to bed and pull the down comforter up over me. As we walk into the house at 7:30 a.m., a familiar voice calls out, “Dad, you’re home! Are you driving me to my game?” It is my youngest son, Joe, who is 11 and is on another hockey team. I had forgotten — he has a game at Sawyer Arena at 8:10 a.m. I pause for just a moment, thinking fondly of my bed and the down comforter.

I quickly consider several reasons as to why he should go wake up his mother. Finally, looking at that face full of anticipation, I answer, “Sure, Joe, I wouldn’t miss it!”

Bob Allen is a physician and hockey parent who lives in Orono.