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But this year was the year I found I couldn’t physically go to the games. Luc is a pitcher in baseball and when things aren’t going well they take him out — and I don’t get anxious watching him pitch. I grew up around hockey in Alberta when the Edmonton Oilers were good, and I loved the game. They were these tiny little bells, and so I gave mine a few shakes and then put it away in my purse and forgot about it. Cheering goals and cheering saves — and cheering effort — and I found that the bell I had was too small for my hand. I held onto the smaller bell because it was a good distraction for my younger son at the games — he was just an infant when this started. I keep my bells in my battle bag — it’s basically a giant purse.But with hockey, my anxiety has been getting worse. I started bringing the bell to my eldest son’s games — mostly because it was still in my purse. If I forget the battle bag at home on game days I will turn the car around and go and get it. They may not be able to hear me cheering or yelling for them, but they hear those bells. My sons actually gave me two cowbells for Christmas — the bells have kind of become a joke around the other hockey parents — but now I have these extra bells in my battle bag.It was like these parents were their kids’ agents, trying to get them a spot on the team — and these kids were all of seven. No one actually offered me any money, but there were offers from parents to help on the bench, to be the trainer, or the manager — in exchange for getting their kid on the team. The parents had some drinks and socialized, and the kids tore around the place, playing mini-hockey. Then one of the player’s mothers stood up in front of the whole room — in front of her own kid, and he was a nice kid — and she ripped me a new one. I have flexible work hours, and so I can drive to hockey when others can’t. I program all stops into the GPS ahead of time — to save time and confusion — if there is not an adult navigator with me.Away from the rink, these are absolutely normal, high functioning people with good jobs. She starts yelling at me and saying how I didn’t play her son on the power play and that he needed better linemates — and that he would score more goals with better linemates. She apologized to me the next day — we even won the tournament — but I told her I preferred if we didn’t chat anymore that season. The van is stocked with healthy snacks like fruit, some cheese and crackers, maybe bagels or muffins, and water and/or juice (sometimes breakfast is on the go) in case the passengers get hungry.She ended up crashing into the wall and banging up her shoulder quite badly.

I remember thinking at the time that that was kind of weird, but I didn’t really think all that much about it. Her son was on the team — he was a nice kid — and her husband, for whatever reason, wasn’t on the trip. He would get dropped off outside the arena and picked up outside the arena. My husband, Henri, thought I was crazy for thinking like that.

So all these Moms go out shopping and when they get back to the hotel there is lots drinking and carrying on and someone decides to go and check in on the coach. All the parents started whispering about what had gone on the next morning. The manager wasn’t saying anything, but a week later she sends this scathing email to all the parents blaming them for spreading rumours and lies and ruining her life. After that, we never saw her again at a game or a practice — and we never saw the husband either. I guess the shame was too much for his parents to show their faces around the rink. He told me when things go wrong on the ice people blame the goalie. It was house league and the parents clapped at the games. It was when Luc moved up to a more competitive league that the problems started for me.

The coach didn’t have a kid on the team, but he definitely had a girlfriend. There wasn’t any nakedness, but they were definitely swapping spit. There was more pressure — the pressure didn’t bother Luc — but I would go to these games and I would hear these parents talking and I would find myself not wanting to be there. The other Moms would make me sit in the middle of the row so I couldn’t run out. I don’t know if it is a mother thing, wanting to protect your kid from peoples’ comments or his own self-criticisms, but my kid was the kid that had to stay out there, in the net, when things weren’t going well. Like any good Mom you are there for your kid and Luc loved hockey, so I went to support him. We went to an Edmonton Oil Kings game and they were giving away bells as a fan promotion. It was blue and yellow — blue and yellow are the Leduc Roughnecks team colours — and it had a handle.

Most bitter of all is the potent showcase of frequently naughty and often near-criminal behaviours adults will engage in, all in the name of hockey. The kids don’t know any better because they are just kids, and they get all wound up and start running around and hitting one another — and that’s when the parents get all wound up.

We’re talking about Canadian hockey parents — and coaches — and we set out to interview as many as we could across the country, to pull from them the truth, the whole truth, in all its gory detail, about minor hockey. And then that’s when the real craziness begins, because it is the parents who are the real crazies. Of course, we’re only talking about the bad stuff — the parents. It is like university, and it is the guys that never get out, whose wives keep such a tight leash on them, that wind up going crazy at tournaments — while their kid is asleep in a hotel room. No one has ever been arrested, but it can be like prom night.

So, how about I give you $10,000 — and I am going to put another $30,000 toward the team — and you’re going to put Little Johnny on the team, and how does that sound? The things people do to get their kids to where they want them to be — it is a tough thing to watch — because in almost all the cases I’ve seen the kids don’t want to be there, because the kids know they don’t deserve to be there.

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