by Linda Campbell Rehmann

Created on: January 07, 2009

1975

I am five, and beaming in the back row. Twenty boys, three dads, and one girl. I am sporting a bright green "Hobb's General Store" sweater, green socks and flimsy leather skates. The previous Christmas, my list to Santa had read: "helmet, gloves, skates, elbow pads, shin pads, shoulder pads, pants". My parents, being long-haired hippy lovechildren, thankfully have no problem letting me play hockey. Having been a moving target for my older brother's pucks and balls my whole life, perhaps they see some potential. And they challenge authority and convention at every opportunity, so having a daughter who wants to whack people with a stick rather than wear a tutu probably brings a tear of pride to their eyes.

Most boys start playing at this early age in rural Ontario, but not many girls. We begin by pushing chairs around the ice until we can stand and eventually stride on our own, and I feel as though I have grown wings. It never bothers me that I am the only girl; I don't think about it, really. It isn't about who you are, it is about what you can do. On the ice I feel fast and free and electrified, and I love it.

Where I come from it's not ice hockey, just hockey. The photo is the official hockey school picture, we got one every year for posterity, consisting of a large group picture and a smaller individual shot in a cardboard frame. I am elated in the team photo, peering out from between two kids I cannot identify (I do recognize one or two other faces in the group). The coaches had called us to the sideboards for the photo, and we had all sprinted over like there was free ice cream.

The photographer had everyone stand together in a group. No one sitting or kneeling, no short kids in the front and tall kids in the back, just "stand over there and I'll take your picture." Then we heard the yelling. My friend Matthew did not like to have his picture taken, and had adamantly refused to get on the ice that day. But apparently his mother (whom I know to be a loving and non-abusive person) felt that he should be in the picture, for posterity's sake. We could hear him screaming as she carried him under the armpits along the front row of the concrete bleachers. Arriving at the group, she deposited him behind everyone else. "Say cheese," the photographer instructed, and everyone did, Matt included, his jeans and boots barely showing through the crowd of hockey socks and skates. As soon as the flashbulb popped, Mrs. Saunders snatched up her son again and walked him out of the rink.

I always smile when I look at this picture because I remember Matt's distress so vividly. He went on to be an amazing university hockey player and a successful entrepreneur, but I will always remember him as the kid who didn't want to be in the hockey school picture.

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