OutTakes
by Edd Merritt

When it comes to political stance, I’m a slapshot man. . .
“Slapshot Man” by The Zambonis

Until now I’ve stayed aloof from writing politics. I figured I’d listen to the candidates and see whether one of them really blew hot or cold before I became a bit more vocal.
That was until “hockey mom” became the descriptor of choice for Mrs. Palin. I can’t hold back any longer. Realizing this column may send me into exile, I’ve prepared my last supper. And, as my son’s friend remarked while their hockey team was losing badly, “We oughta hang our wet towels on the goal lamp. They’d be dry in a minute.”
I’m the towel; trample me if you like.
The term “hockey mom” rings bells for me.
I’ll start with my own mom. She nearly blew her chances by first enrolling me in figure skating. I hated it. I was the lone boy among 15 girls. The instructor added insult to injury, calling me “little boy with the coonskin cap.” That night I shed the fur hat for earmuffs and a helmet and asked my parents to drive me to Bamber Valley where peewee hockey was just starting. By the way, this happened eight or nine years before Alaska attained statehood.
There were few other players as young as I. Most members of the team were three and four years older, and several of them would later trade in skates for football cleats. Nevertheless, my mother dressed me for the occasion and sent me to the makeshift rink on a frozen river a mile out of town.
Dressing me for the occasion was a “hockey mom” responsibility. Indoor rinks were few and far between, and Minnesota winters could produce bone-chilling winds. But the overriding factor then was that hockey was a “man’s” sport, son – the lower the temperature, the harder the ice. Turn up the testosterone, bite the bullet and freeze your nose.
A friend’s “hockey mom” was from Tennessee, and she dressed him like Ralphie’s little brother in A Christmas Story, layer upon layer until he was immobilized. Not until she returned to her car could he hobble behind a tree to peel off a sweater so he could move his arms.
In addition to providing external wrappings, my “hockey mom” made sure we were well padded internally. A hot and hearty meal just before hitting the ice was not only encouraged, it was required – despite even my dad’s protestation. First rule for my hockey mom was, don’t play hungry.
I am unable point with certainty to a cause-and-effect relationship, but I strongly believe that her feeding habits carried over to other team mothers and created the need for the rink’s first port-a-let.
A real creature of habit, mother retained her elements of “hockey momdom” through my high school career. Granted, my varsity coach discouraged dressing for warmth. I’d work up a sweat faster, and warming sheds soon supplemented toilets.
My own kids’ “hockey mom” chose a different emphasis, although food remained a central element in her work. The food, however, produced revenue for the team rather than nutrition for the players. Beth found rink life more bearable behind the concession stand than among other mothers gossiping as their sons cavorted on the ice.
In my experience, each “mom” chooses an area of responsibility that she cultivates carefully. Our Charlotte Central School Principal, Monica led the 6 a.m. cheering section. She was expert at carrying on a conversation in the stands in a normal tone of voice, then just at the right moment punctuate it loudly with – “SHOOT!” Without losing a beat, she would return to her previous conversation. She was “fan mom,” charged with giving voice to an otherwise empty arena.
Another South Burlington friend had a push-me, pull-you relationship with the sport. It was the ultimate in love/hate. She couldn’t bear to watch the action on the ice when her son – a short but tough defenseman – looked as though he were about to be run over by opposing bullies. “They can’t do that to my Jake, can they?” she would query. “Well, Edie, in fact they can, but, if you watch carefully, you’ll see what your Jake does to them before they get the chance.”
It was usually followed by mom hiding her head and cooing, “Oooh, oooh Jake be careful.”
We would remind her that hockey is a contact sport. That would hold her until the next rush when, once again she feared for Jake’s life – and reiterated her desire to replace his plastic armor with stainless steel.
Some “hockey moms” were stoics. Their mantra often was, “If he’s going to make the NHL, he’ll have to learn to be tough now. Knock that Essex sucker on his rear.
Sitting on a youth board of directors, I also discovered that “hockey dads” often sent “hockey moms” to do the dirty administrative work required to run an organization that breeds competition among its own members.
“You deal with parents, dear. I’ll coach the players,” he said. Once again, mom drew the short straw.
So, what does all this about being a “hockey mom” mean in terms of developing an ability to lead a dangerously unstable country through one of its most difficult periods in modern history?
“It doesn’t mean jack.”
Don’t get me wrong. “Hockey momdom” is not a bad thing for anyone to endure. Hockey is still a great sport despite its soaring cost. But hockey and mom are separate items on the parent platter. A mom caters to hockey, but hockey doesn’t necessarily return the favor. It is one course from which to select, and, frankly, sometimes I wish I had tested a few more entrees. What it means to an individual is entirely what she chooses to make of it. But don’t tell me to vote for somebody simply because she’s a “hockey mom.”
I’ve been there. I love them. Yet, beware generalizations. Some shoot left handed; some shoot right handed. Some cook mean grits; others don’t know what grits means. Some can check. Others can’t tie their own laces. “Hockey moms,” like hats and skates, come in many styles and sizes.

And all the mothers are running around
Looking for their children but they can’t be found
Cause they’re down by the pond playing hockey with the monkey
-“The Hockey Monkey” by the Zambonis