Through The Glass

(I read a slightly different piece and changed to fit my story) 

You can barely see him through the foggy glass of early morning hockey or late night practice. 

The familiar clicks of sticks on ice and pucks hitting the boards.  

And that familiar kind of grinding sound the skate blades make as he turns hard through the corners. 

And among all the foggy silhouettes, you see him. The skating style you could pick out from anywhere. The way he swings his arms. The way he digs and glides around the corners. 

To you it’s a kind of magic. That’s your kid out there. 

On the second warmup lap, a stick hits the glass and startles you. 

It’s him. And he wants to make sure you’re watching. He smiles and chuckles at the reaction. 

Sure he is older now. More independent. The teen years make you face your own mortality. You realize how quickly this time has gone by.

Maybe he makes you drop him off around the corner so his friends don’t see you. 

Maybe he rolls his eyes sometimes. 

But he still loves you. 

Needs you. 

And although he may never admit it, he cares that you’re watching. 

He wants you to see how good he’s doing. 

That you approve of him

That you’re proud of him. 

So you still matter so much. Even when you don’t feel like it. 

He is just figuring it out. And it’s hard to be half kid and half adult. You probably remember. 

So things come out sideways. 

But not right now. Not this moment right here. It’s always perfect. It’s his safe spot. 

As the game starts, there’s just a joy in how he plays. How he goes after the puck as if it’s the most important thing in the world. And it is. At least for now. 

Because this is the place we all come to share the dream. To feel alive. 

Maybe it’s just about doing something to be active. 

Maybe it’s social. Maybe it’s team. 

And maybe it’s the quiet hope we are all so fearful to admit. That desire to play in the big time, and be the heroes we so badly want to be. 

So the game goes like so many.  Frozen moments in time that weave together a lifetime of treasured memories. I’ll have them forever. 

Battles for the puck. Offsides more times than you ever want to count. Them someone takes a cheap shot and hurts your kid and momma bear comes out. Part of you hates it because he deserves better. 

And part of you shakes it off because you realize this is real life now. The world isn’t always so fair and kind. 

But we get the hell back up—when we refuse to quit—we’re taking a stand. You can’t stop me. Ever. 

And we’re saying we refuse to be broken by anything. 

That’s the amazing thing about hockey. In just one game, you’ve lived out an entire lifetime. 

Joy and pain. 

Hope and disappointment. 

And when everything goes exactly right, it’s magic. 

The cheers. 

The pride. 

The team. 

He knows all of that without saying a word. 

There’s a beauty so great when you take advantage of the gifts that are wrapped in so many frozen moments. This is the space where you feel everything. Absolutely everything. 

And as the game ends—as the handshake lines scatter and the sea of boys pours off the ice—you see him. 

Tired. Red-faced. Sweaty and exhausted. 

But there’s just something about that smile. 

You’ll never forget it. 

It says I love you and I’m proud and I’m happy in a way I can never shape with words. 

And when you can’t find the words, you know you’re in the presence of God that makes all of this so incredibly, heartwarmingly, bittersweet beautiful. 

It’s like he found a way to fly. 

All of it was worth it. 

The sweaty car rides, hockey bags, and broken sticks, thousands of miles, hours of window time, long talks about life, the ever revolving bank account, hotels, plane rides and bumps and bruises were all somehow worth it. 

Just to see that smile.

Keep flying and keep dreaming!