I once thought if I lost my husband it would be to a game of one-on-one, not to a team sport. I thought if he left in the middle of the night, it would be into the open arms of another more fair and lovely, not into the arms of five other men. I have recently become another statistic of the ruling class. I should say the overruled class. My pleas and my cajoling do nothing to deter my husbandís obsession with his newfound passion, the game of hockey.
I thought when he first told me about taking skating lessons that it would be a great outlet for him. Because he is a workaholic, I thought this would give him a needed break in his busy schedule. Perhaps I should have smelled the rat when my Christmas gift this year was my very own pair of ice skates. He claimed this was so we could skate together and spend more time together. Forget it. I have yet to use my new virgin white skates. The real tip-off should have been my latest present. My husband recently returned from a business trip to San Francisco bearing gifts. Imagine my surprise when I opened the box only to reveal a Sharks T-shirt. At least he remembered, I thought, until I looked at the size large label. I wear a petite...
Like a foolish lover my husband absconds into the wee hours of the night, leaving me to think there must be more to this game than just a stick and a puck. He comforts me by explaining that midnight on a Wednesday is the only time he and his teammates can rent the rink to refine their moves on the slippery surface. Waltzing in at 2:30 in the morning isnít my idea of romantic, but to my husband this is most heroic.
I suppose, after all, I donít really mind. At least I know where he is, he hasnít left me for another woman. But just in case ó I have mastered the art of the body check.
This first appeared in the 07/1992 issue of Hockey