--Photographs Courtesy of Rodney Rampy
James cruises over to pick out head gear. I hesitate a moment, given the lice situation and all, and then it's like, what the hell. I am so tired. Let this kid have something good. besides, the insides are plastic. I wonder, briefly, if there is something they spray in these things, but given the lack of attendance at any of the points of command, I am sure they are not de-lousing the helmets.
C'est La Vie, C'est La Guerre. It is now the official start time for our lesson.
"Well, James, let's get out there."
James can't wait. He barrels, with a swagger, for the doors that lead out to the ice. I am really ticked that my kid is hobbling around with worn out skates and a helmet that doesn't fit, and not an elbow pad to his wobbly name.
There is one other tiny little boy out on the ice. He is in blue snow pants, a helmet, and hockey skates. His ankles collapse inward, his knees are knocking, and he's hanging on to the rink's edge like it's the deck of the Titanic.
His parents look tight-lipped out onto the ice at the spectre of their precious angel splashing his brains out as his skates slip out under him.
I quickly find out that the Peewee lesson was no different last week. There was no coach, no equipment, nada. They were told, it's best for kids just to get the feel of the ice.
"Well, I can let my kid get the feel of the ice for a hell of a lot less than $85. And I'd have skates on so I could help him!" Ooooh, I do get fiesty. The clock was ticking. James was floundering. I stalked back to the front and dug around for the manager.
"This isn't going well, I'd like my check back."
"Um, well, it isn't always like this, I'd like you to wait 'til next week. There's usually a volunteer out there with the kids."
"Well, there isn't now. My kid's at risk and I'm very disappointed."
Manager Man looks out over the smoke coming off my fuzzy hair.
"Ahh, it looks like they're here now. See." He points.
"Ahh. Good. Uh. This lesson was supposed to start at 5:15. It is now 5:40. Please tell me they'll be skating an extra 20 minutes."
"Ahh. No."
"Unbelievable."
"Sorry."
Stalk, stomp, huff. Somewhere between the rows of skate-scarred benches, and the penalty box out in the rink, I get my act together. I can see out on the ice. I can see that my child is having
Last week, despite head lice, James started learning to play hockey. When Daniel was in Mighty Mights, it averaged out to about $5 a lesson: you got an hour of ice time, skates, puffy pants, all kinds of shin and elbow guards, a helmet with a grill, and coolest of all --- a stick.
Having head lice is not so bad when you are fantasizing about holding a hockey stick. So we get to the rink half an hour early to suit up. There is no one at the desk, no one in the lobby, and no one manning the concessions. Hmmmm.
A rumple-haird 20-something emerged from somewhere and verified we were in the right place at the right time, he just didn't know who was in charge. Then a manager came out. I handed him a check for $85 and he handed James a pair of size 3 skates. Okay. We got into them. Now what?
I go back to Mr. Rumple-hair, "So . . . is this it? No shin or elbow guards? How 'bout a helmet?"
He starts looking left and right.
"I think that's it," he said.
Huh.
Let me make it clear. James has zero sense of balance. He spends all of his time at the Roller Rink falling on his heinie, or with me trying to keep him standing by hoisting him up by his armpits. It will be about another ten years before James' motor skills suit his stature. The guy needs help . . . no kidding. James on skates--on ice--Danger Will Robinson.
I begin to look left and right myself.
Other little skaters are filing in. They are all tricked out--think "Can you Pimp My Hockey Player?" Proud boys full of swagger (skates make everybody swagger), with cool helmets, big robot-like gloves, and shiny sticks. These kids are bristling with kid-size doses of testosterone and confidence.
Having head lice is not so bad when you are fantasizing about holding a hockey stick. So we get to the rink half an hour early to suit up. There is no one at the desk, no one in the lobby, and no one manning the concessions. Hmmmm.
A rumple-haird 20-something emerged from somewhere and verified we were in the right place at the right time, he just didn't know who was in charge. Then a manager came out. I handed him a check for $85 and he handed James a pair of size 3 skates. Okay. We got into them. Now what?
I go back to Mr. Rumple-hair, "So . . . is this it? No shin or elbow guards? How 'bout a helmet?"
He starts looking left and right.
"I think that's it," he said.
Huh.
Let me make it clear. James has zero sense of balance. He spends all of his time at the Roller Rink falling on his heinie, or with me trying to keep him standing by hoisting him up by his armpits. It will be about another ten years before James' motor skills suit his stature. The guy needs help . . . no kidding. James on skates--on ice--Danger Will Robinson.
I begin to look left and right myself.
Other little skaters are filing in. They are all tricked out--think "Can you Pimp My Hockey Player?" Proud boys full of swagger (skates make everybody swagger), with cool helmets, big robot-like gloves, and shiny sticks. These kids are bristling with kid-size doses of testosterone and confidence.
"I guess he could pick out a helmet." Rumple-hair says as he heads out with his bristlers.
James cruises over to pick out head gear. I hesitate a moment, given the lice situation and all, and then it's like, what the hell. I am so tired. Let this kid have something good. besides, the insides are plastic. I wonder, briefly, if there is something they spray in these things, but given the lack of attendance at any of the points of command, I am sure they are not de-lousing the helmets.
C'est La Vie, C'est La Guerre. It is now the official start time for our lesson.
"Well, James, let's get out there."
James can't wait. He barrels, with a swagger, for the doors that lead out to the ice. I am really ticked that my kid is hobbling around with worn out skates and a helmet that doesn't fit, and not an elbow pad to his wobbly name.
There is one other tiny little boy out on the ice. He is in blue snow pants, a helmet, and hockey skates. His ankles collapse inward, his knees are knocking, and he's hanging on to the rink's edge like it's the deck of the Titanic.
His parents look tight-lipped out onto the ice at the spectre of their precious angel splashing his brains out as his skates slip out under him.
I quickly find out that the Peewee lesson was no different last week. There was no coach, no equipment, nada. They were told, it's best for kids just to get the feel of the ice.
"Well, I can let my kid get the feel of the ice for a hell of a lot less than $85. And I'd have skates on so I could help him!" Ooooh, I do get fiesty. The clock was ticking. James was floundering. I stalked back to the front and dug around for the manager.
"This isn't going well, I'd like my check back."
"Um, well, it isn't always like this, I'd like you to wait 'til next week. There's usually a volunteer out there with the kids."
"Well, there isn't now. My kid's at risk and I'm very disappointed."
Manager Man looks out over the smoke coming off my fuzzy hair.
"Ahh, it looks like they're here now. See." He points.
"Ahh. Good. Uh. This lesson was supposed to start at 5:15. It is now 5:40. Please tell me they'll be skating an extra 20 minutes."
"Ahh. No."
"Unbelievable."
"Sorry."
Stalk, stomp, huff. Somewhere between the rows of skate-scarred benches, and the penalty box out in the rink, I get my act together. I can see out on the ice. I can see that my child is having
fun. He's moving, he's trying something new. I tell myself to get my game face on and suck it up.
By the time I meet up with the Grimlips again, there is a nice guy on skates working hard to keep James upright. I keep waiting for James to give up. He falls over and over and over again.
I keep the grin plastered to my face, keep my thumbs Chaney-style--rigidly pointed toward the heavens. Good Job, Bud. Splat. It takes everything I have not to race out onto the ice in my sneakers.
I keep the grin plastered to my face, keep my thumbs Chaney-style--rigidly pointed toward the heavens. Good Job, Bud. Splat. It takes everything I have not to race out onto the ice in my sneakers.
The thing is, James loved every minute. He went back for more punishment . . . twice this week. The coaches are now on board, they are terrified of me, and so, now treat me with the greatest fear and respect. My kid is getting everything he needs--including a really good time, a sport of his own, joy, accomplishment, and new friends. Plus, he now has his very own sporty red hockey stick.
I have to ask myself, when was the last time I applied myself with such fearlessness and passion? When was the last time I let myself fail, repeatedly, in order to grow? I can't remember. But, I am watching my child. I am paying attention. There is definately something to be learned here, and those who know me, know it applies to my writing.
I have to ask myself, when was the last time I applied myself with such fearlessness and passion? When was the last time I let myself fail, repeatedly, in order to grow? I can't remember. But, I am watching my child. I am paying attention. There is definately something to be learned here, and those who know me, know it applies to my writing.
Splat!
Thanks for sending me the photos Rodney.
3 comments:
I'm honestly thinking of calling Jackson County Health Services on you!
Beautiful metaphor for tenaciousness in playing and writing Marcia! Those kids teach us despite ourselves don't they?
Well I was 99.9% sure he was louse free. And I remember once the ladies at t-ball spraying the batting helmets with Lysol. You know to get rid of the Lys. And just so anybody heading for the RRRink is nervous--We haven't had an outbreak since the first week of January. Phew.
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