My fear of...."the puck"

Pucks frighten me for a variety of reasons (yep, the black rubber disks in hockey games). Actually, even hearing the word, "puck," results in increased heart rate and cold, clammy sweats.
Let me explain my 3 reasons for my fear of "the puck."

never had a chance

In a September post about "Riding with team touque", I alluded to some dark highschool days of desperately trying to fit in...somewhere. Anywhere. Like 90% of the population, high school was not necessarily a fantastic experience for me. I find it difficult to believe that anyone truly shines during their highschool days. First off, you're a teenager. Science has proven that teenagers are basically like brain injured victims with frontal lobe damage. Because the frontal lobe is still developing, teenagers have difficulties with impulse control, problem solving, and emotional control. Add acne, rampantly running hormones, and peer pressure and what you have folks is a recipe for disaster. The odds are simply against us during this trying time of our lives. So not fair. However, I believe that this trying time just makes the discovery of "yourself" in your 20's that much sweeter.


I made the incredibly intelligent decision to align myself with the "hockey players" during my high school years. The Prince Albert Raiders of the WHL were fit, donned shnazzy matching tracksuits, and came from exotic locale such as "Burns Lake, BC" and "Russel, Manitoba." Because of this decision, I was immediately labelled as a "puck." (one who is passed from player to player. Classy). Looking back, I suppose this made me recognizable at our highschool - but not necessarily in a positive way. Constantly worried about graffiti on my locker, (you guessed it) "PUCK," printed flyers distributed throughout the school listing my name under the category of (you guessed it) "puck," or the ulimate teenage catastrophe, finding your vehicle covered in the disgusting words, "Puck Whore" (some added creativity there), my highschool days were filled with anxiety....and desperately trying to appear cool while managing that anxiety.


It sucked, but it certainly didn't affect my life past high school. Those boys who wrote those nasty words simply suffered from teenage brain damage. It's all good. And I moved on to become the ultimate puck and married the Raider's goaltender, my highschool sweetheart. It all worked out. Of course I wish my highschool experience had been different. I wish I would have had the confidence to be friends with a wide variety of people (there's so many cool peops that I went to highschool with that I'm only meeting now as adults!) I was so confused as to who I really was that it was much easier to simply align myself with a group and simply "be" one of them. But...that word, "puck," still freaks me out just a little. Reason #1.


Now what's worse than being labelled a "puck" during your highschool career? How about being hit with one in a very...umm...private place. Yep. It happened.


I was always a little concerned about wayward pucks at hockey games. I regularily seeked out seats in the arena that offered the most puck coverage. I was that fan that weaves and ducks any moment the puck leaves the ice, even when it's headed for the opposite side of the arena. That's why it was so surprising (yet ironic) that this happened to me.


I was watching Evan's hockey game with his mom, Peggy. As per usual, we were messes, flailing our hands in the air, screaming at Evan to "get back in your net!" and dying inside every time the puck crossed Ev's goal line. Sounds like a blast, huh? At one point, the puck left the ice and came flying towards us in our seats. I threw myself over towards Peggy and covered my face in my hands. Only one large part of my body was still exposed. Like a fricken target, the puck hit me squarely on my....ass. Yep. Hard. In fact, the puck actually hit my ass so hard that I donned a red, puffy puck impression on my ass for weeks. Thank god those brain damaged boys at school didn't catch wind of that one! Reason #2.


As discussed in the previous post, "my life as a psycho hockey wife," I suffered from extreme anxiety whilst watching Ev play hockey. It's interesting. When people inquire about how wonderful the hockey life must have been, like a mother who "forgets" childbirth, I rave about how awesome the lifestyle was. It wasn't awesome. In fact, most of it sucked. I began to feel nervous the night before Ev's games. I woke up with a twisted stomach and as the day progressed and game time neared, this twisting intensified. The worst was watching Ev prepare for his game. Usually, he was calm and cool, preparing his pre-game meal, taking a 2 hour pre-game nap (who the hell can nap for 2 hours?). But, occasionally, he was rattled. I knew he was rattled and spent the day trying to "unrattle" him.


I refused to go to the rink for the entire game, and often sat at home, turning the radio off and on to check the score, while silently repeating, "stop the puck, Ev, stop the puck, Ev." I reluctantly dragged my sorry ass to the rink for the middle of the second period and then proceeded to spend much of the game in the bathroom. Just sitting. Hanging out. Super chill. Watching was torture. While the other girlfriends and wives raved about how the games were "so much fun," and "so exciting," I sat nervously in the bathroom, willing the game to be over and the goals against to remain under 3.

proof of my insanity

When I did actually watch the game, I obsessed over missed shots on the shotclock, Ev's position and demeanor in the net (shit, he's too deep in his net), and screens (Damnit, Evan can't see the shot!). I was a fricken mess. Each team had a song that played on the loudspeaker for goals and goals against. To this day, I can recite each team and what song played when Ev got scored on. For real. (ie. Texas = "Roxanne." - hate that song.) And don't even get me started on shootouts. The shootout, in which individual players take shots one-on-one on the goaltender to settle a tie, are a goalie's wife's worst nightmare. What sick individual came up with that one? I recall spending one particular shootout in Scotland outside the rink. Doing a headstand. It made perfect sense at the time.


You get the point? I was out of control. I loathed the hockey. It made me sick. In fact, after reading this, I'm wondering if I should seek out some therapy for some unresolved issues. Reason #3.


Nope. Instead I will face my fears of ...the puck. Cara a cara.
I have a plan. It's in the works. I will confirm this weekend. It's awesome.