There’s No Crying in Minor Hockey Parenting (Until There Is)

This year my son played U18 minor hockey. That means “Under 18” so all the players were either 16 or 17 (or turned 18 early this year). And I saw more tears shed at the rink recently than during hockey school or those early days of house league.

Some of those tears were from the kids, but mostly they were from the parents. Full-on streaming tears as the final buzzer sounded on what, for many families, was their son’s very last minor hockey game.

Those years of early mornings, then late games, and long drives, tournaments, and team group chats are over in an instant.

Last week, my son’s team won the provincial championships. It was an epic and exhausting weekend to cap off a really incredible season. Our group of mostly 2009-born kids played up in a 2008/2009 division. For two of our families, it was the end of everything that defined their last decade.

The Grind Is Real (And Then It’s Gone)

Hockey life is a lot.

The practices are often at inconvenient times and extras are added randomly. Your entire weekends often disappear into arenas. It feels like endless juggling, schedules, carpools, and constantly worrying if you’re heading to the right rink.

It’s exhausting. It’s expensive. And (for me) it’s also a bit of a godsend.

With my ADHD, the structure of the hockey season gives my life shape. It creates boundaries. It tells me where I need to be and when and I organize everything else around it. The long winters move faster. I love always having somewhere to go, something to do, and someone to see.

It also gives me a built-in social life and support from parents I might have been too shy to ask for otherwise during a particularly challenging and vulnerable time of our lives.

Despite horrific Toronto traffic, my favourite parts of the hockey season are the car rides. Just my son and I and long drives and our “radio ADHD” of random songs we belt out together. Then we switch to his pre-game playlist of mostly ‘80s metal and early ‘90s rap.

And this year, thanks to extended unemployment, I could drive him and his teammates to high school hockey games which are often across the city at very inconvenient times. I loved driving them. The banter, the gossip, and their running commentary on everything and nothing was hilarious and good-natured and completely unfiltered. I got a front-row seat to who they are and who they are becoming. These are good kids and I truly delight in watching them grow up alongside my son.

It’s Not Just Hockey

Minor hockey culture can be… a lot. There’s pressure and politics, and bruised egos and broken hearts. There are definitely times you question why you do any of this at all.

But my goal was not to raise a good hockey player. It was always to raise a good person. And I wanted to support my son through that environment without getting swallowed up by it. Obviously there is still a component of toxicity in minor hockey culture so my goal was to help him navigate through without getting caught up in it and without being driven away because of it.

I’m pretty sure we succeeded. We really hit the hockey family jackpot with a parent bench that is fair and kind but somehow still competitive. And the players and their families are all really lovely people who I’m beyond grateful for.

So I got to watch him and all of these boys grow up alongside each other. It’s truly been a joy in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until now.

The Grief Is Real

At the final games this season, I watched parents cry as their sons stepped off the ice for the last time. It wasn’t because their team lost. It was because there was no next season.

No more practices. No more games. No more tournaments. No more Team Snap or carpools or weekends spent in arenas.

They’re done. It’s over.

It’s clear that they weren’t just saying goodbye to hockey. They were saying goodbye to a version of their lives and a version of their kids that are gone forever. That would take the best of us a long time to process.

What Comes Next?

My son has one more year of minor hockey, and I am very grateful for that. But things will be shifting.

He’ll be driving himself to practice. I’ll still go to the games, but I won’t have to sort out all of the logistics like I’ve always done. The constant proximity and built-in togetherness with my son will be loosening (as it should).

I’m not worried about what I’ll do with myself. (More yoga. More reading. Maybe even a weekend to myself that happens between October and April. Can you imagine?!)

And when he’s done, I will miss it. I will really really miss it.

I will miss the early mornings and the late games and the long drives. I will miss the conversations and the laughter and the feeling of being right there. I won’t particularly miss the rinks with sub-par snack bars or chaotic parking lots but I will miss my weekly fries and gravy at home games.

My son might not miss my helpful advice about a sport I’ve never played.

He might, though.

For Parents in the Thick of It

Once upon a time as a rookie hockey mom, I earnestly shared tips for how to manage. If you’re in the early years of minor hockey parenting right now, if your weekends are a blur of practices and games and you’re counting down the weeks to a break, know that one day you might miss it more than you expect.

Not all of it.

But the time together… That time is precious.

Eventually the final buzzer will mark the end of our kid’s last hockey game. And for some parents it’s unlikely they’ll ever be a spectator or supporter for their kid in sports again. We will be able to go away for Family Day Weekend or March Break, so there is definitely an upside.