As if growing up with the same last name as a bumbling Nazi from Hogan's Heroes wasn't painful enough. Now I am starting to look like him. At least Sgt. Schultz was a sweet, harmless Nazi. I lean a bit more toward the Colonel Klink side of the Germanic genetic pool.
Today as I spiral into what one co-hockey parent calls, "tournament brain", I realize spending 3 days at an arena is a bit like Stalag 13.
For the most part, you'll find a cast of allies, all married together for a united cause: our children. And, like Hogan, we can escape, but report back for the cause. Toss in a cast of characters with nothing in common but hockey, add boredom-induced silliness and you've got the makings of a sitcom.
As in most successful TV shows, there has to be a bad guy, or a bit of underlying drama to keep things moving along. Would Gilligan make it off the island? Would Uncle Charlie ever catch Steve with his pants down, resulting in "My Four Sons".
In the real Stalag 13 land there is a wonderfully, wicked word only the Germans would come up with. Schadenfreude. It means a 'malicious satisfaction obtained from the misfortunes of others'. I think it is also an excellent hockey word. Imagine a parent secretly wishing little superstar Johnny would have a bad day, or sprain an ankle, so their bubble boy could make the team. That's what I am talking about.
Schadnefraude happens. I myself have felt it on occasion. Seldom, if ever, directed at the children, I have inwardly longed to see certain parents get run over by the Zamboni. But, it's the nature of the beast. Hockey parents are notorious for craziness, and I have found the more A's on a kid's jacket, the crazier some parents can get. At least here in Nova Scotia, no one has any money. You should see what they get up to in Toronto, where money can buy your kid a ride on the AAA bench, all season long.
But that's life in Stalag 13. Today, and for the next 3 days, I will turn my brain off and happily know nothing. I will enjoy my fellow detainees, and the peaceful herd mentality of captivity.
With any luck, there'll be a fight. Hockey fights are good for killing time. My money is on the Dad with the beer belly and the axe to grind because he thinks his kid should have been on the team last year, but the assistant coach's kid's second cousin made it. He's spittin' mad, and looks like he'd take a swing at the goalie's grandmother if she looked sideways at him.
Other than that, and the weak defenseman's mom is apparently sleeping with the Manager's wife – Schultz knows nothing.
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