The tines that bind.

One year ago today, my child left the Maritimes for Quebec, armed with hopes, dreams, and a newly-mended hip that had sidelined him for most of his rookie hockey season.

Before his plane would land, a twist of fate resulted in his first brush with evil – and my re-entry into a world I'd managed to escape – although not unscathed. My son was heading way too close to my "home".

Twist and climb and draw the blinds – but you cannot out-fox your past.

This year – one that saw me hit rock bottom with maternal worry, also found me on top of the world – Kilimanjaro – brushing away fears, and untimely tears for a man who'd lost his beautiful life two days before I'd set out for Tanzania.

Losing the most positively influential person in my child's life, sucked the life out of me. And now, that child – whom I'd raised strategically out of harm's way – was surrounded by my past. He'd be playing hockey, a one-beer joy ride from my ol' stompin' ground, and my family.

The control freak had to let go of the wheel.

This would be a year of forgiveness through clenched teeth, now that my only child was geographically closer to my mother. This Google map hiccup – while great for my son's hockey – exposed me once again to the disrespect and negativity bestowed upon me by my family – in particular, my only sibling – a brother who has belittled me for as long as I can remember.

And so it began. Like a dull can opener slowly shredding through tough skin, I stuck little pieces of toilet paper on a fresh wounds. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I overheard a telephone conversation between my child and his Uncle – my brother. I didn't need ears to understand what was being said. I've heard it all before. Poisonous arrows slung from a very dark, unhappy place where my brother has been hiding his entire life – stepping out of his moldy, money-obsessed closet, long enough to knock me me down. His aim was true – straight through my child – toward me.

The lack of respect and hatred were a familiar tune. Never mind that against all odds, I've raised a happy, confident, kind human being. My unplanned parenting style was to take everything I'd learned from my own childhood, and do the complete opposite. It was lonely at times, but it worked.

Yesterday, I had to sit my son down and explain to my son why we have lived our lives separately from my family. Why I had placed a protective bubble around him. Why our lives had real Christmas trees. Breakfast. Respect. Hugs. Security. Adventures we couldn't afford. Freakishly early bedtimes. Conversations. Rules, boundaries, discipline, love, and laughter. Giving, without expecting something in return. Fights and forgiveness. And no need for closed doors.

Describing my childhood to my son was painful, and although I hate the word: cathartic. It made me realize how much it must piss off my family that the shining star – the only grandchild – sprang from the loins of an asshole like me. The crazy sister. The financial disaster. The wild child. The dropout. The fuck up.

Imagine that.

On a recent trip home to see my mother – who'd been facing blood pressure spikes of 228 – she pulled out her jewelry box and proceeded to walk me through the history of our family jewels.

"I just need you to know where things come from, in case I conk," My mother explained.

Grandma Schultz's wedding diamond resurfaced – lodged in a shockingly modern setting – something I wouldn't wear even if my hands were graceful and manicured, instead of ravaged by stress. Earrings. Watches. Aunt Pearl's gold link bracelet, purported to be "worth something".

"Thank you." I said, with a sick feeling, suddenly realizing my mother doesn't even know who I am, and I really didn't want her to die. "But these things don't belong to me."

I don't belong to them, I thought.

"Oh well." She said, closing the wooden box. "You'd probably pawn everything anyway."

And there it was.

The elephant in the room winked at me – a reminder that I already had enough family heirlooms, thank you – like the feeling of worthlessness somebody left me in their will. Besides, I knew my mother's house and all of her earthly possessions would be reduced to column in a bank statement before I even knew she was gone.

Like the time I found out about my mom's first heart attack on Facebook, from my cousin Janis.

With familial lines of communication shaky at best – this past June 1, my brother told me I "wasn't worth a long distance call". Not exactly a Hallmark happy birthday moment.

He also keeps my grandmother's sterling silver flatware hidden away in its original box. I have nothing of hers, well, except for her ass and her barbed-wire sense of humour. Fully aware of my commitment to flying solo, my brother has repeatedly promised to give me her silver as a wedding gift.

He hates me that much.

But, my mismatched assortment of forks and knives work just fine, and yesterday it dawned on me why it is said that, 'you can't go home again'. Maybe it's because you've never really loved yourself enough to leave.

Today, though, there's a refreshing snap of change in the air. My beautiful boy is around for few more weeks before heading back to Ontario. He likes it there, but says "this" is home.

This. This love. Whatever this is that I have built for us. This is my home too. I take it with me wherever I go. Hopefully he will too.

Today, I'm going to buy some clear nail polish and put a layer between myself and whatever's been eating away at me this past year.

A nice, shiny coat of "Let it go." 

Foul balls.

Several August moons ago, I stormed up to the registration tent at the Nova Scotia Open and tried to remove myself from the tennis tournament.

“What’s the problem?” asked the official.

“My partner is an asshole.” I replied.

“What category are you in?” he asked.

“Parent and Child,” I said.

My child — an otherwise, mild-mannered lad — hates to lose. In what is intended to be a “fun” event at the annual tournament, my refusal to smash the ball at our five-year-old opponent had my doubles partner frothing at the mouth.

Never mind that the adult opponent spared no pace when directing shots at my kid. I just wasn't going there.

Directly after our match, Justin McDonough — son of Alexa, and poster boy for sportsmanship — pulled my little McEnroe aside, and explained why I had done the right thing.

“Winning is not as important as being a decent human being.” he said.

Hearing those words from Justin was the difference between me wrapping my racket around my kid’s neck, or buying him an ice-cream cone.

Later on — in the same Parent and Child category — I watched a father push his own son down and out of the way, so he could smash a winning forehand at the child on the other side of the net.

Evidently, the win-at-all-costs mentality is omnipresent. From the hockey coach who tripped a 13-year-old in a post-game handshake - to the infamous Tour de France - to questionable line calls in junior tennis.  

A recent survey for the British Cricket Foundation found that two-thirds of U.K. children feel under pressure to cheat.


At the inaugural parent meeting in Atom AAA, the coach announced that fair and equal play was his modus operandi — that is, until playoffs, tournaments (or against Sackville) — then he’d be shortening the bench. Any parent who wasn’t OK with that could “find another team.”

Nobody budged. Perhaps parental bragging rights to AAA was more important than pulling splinters out of a child’s butt.


Which explains the fat man yelling, “Pull the goalie!” at the Joe Lamontagne minor hockey tournament in Cole Harbour. The goalie was a little girl who could barely reach the top of the net to grab her water bottle. Sure, the score was lopsided — but this was Atom House League, not the NHL — and she was doing her best.

The fat man eventually stormed out, sparing me the effort of kicking him in the 5-hole. I later discovered that his son was the backup goalie. 

Thus confirming my belief that the misbehaving adult waving the ‘win-at-all costs’ flag, likely carries a suitcase full of squashed dreams.

Heck, no one is more resentful than myself, with parents who ignored my desire to be the next Chris Evert — resulting in me swapping my racket for a bong, at 14.

But eventually, you just have to let it go.

I played a “friendly” game of 21 recently. The mercury was pushing 35C and we had the tennis courts to ourselves. With 21 (and heat stroke) within reach, I asked the cute young pro to fetch us a couple of cold Smirnoff Ices.

My opponent — an otherwise intelligent woman (despite ridiculous porno moans with every stroke) — suddenly conceded, and began muttering insults.

Dumbstruck, I wasn’t sure if she hated life, hated vodka, or simply hated losing to someone who didn’t treat an osteoporosis-preventing game of 21 like a Wimbledon final.

What’s worse is, she made me hate the game — momentarily — and I felt like the little goalie trying to shut out the fat man.

“Sports do not build character. They reveal it.” 

If famed basketball coach John Wooden’s words ring true, then I am a foul-mouthed competitor, with a thirst for fun at all costs.

And at this stage of the game, I’m good with that.

Originally published by the Chronicle Herald.

The power of pink.

Cars spill out onto aptly named Vimy Avenue. Many a war has been fought here, and as we wander through the familiar door, I sense the fight against mould and memory is a losing battle. 

I choke up on so many levels.

I was six when this ol’ barn in Halifax was christened Centennial Arena, and this is where it all began. “It” being my life as a hockey mom. My launch into a foreign society that would become family — albeit dysfunctional — with a cousin or two you would happily run over in the rink parking lot.

In 1967, hockey was the only religion in our Chicago home. My dad dragged us to Blackhawks games, silencing us with cotton candy that I would throw up, faithfully, on the way home. Little girls didn’t play hockey in my world. I wonder what my life would have been like if they had.

Tonight though, we are spectators. My boy is beside me, wishing he wasn’t, and we have come to cheer on the Halifax Hawks midget double-A team — for no other reason than love and support — a little something I picked up along with rink-fry ass.

Tonight, things look like any other hockey game — except for the ponytails, and the provincial championship on the line.

From what I understand, the Halifax girls have their hands full with this corn-fed Annapolis Valley team. And, as fate would have it, this game had a history before it began. Two weeks ago, in double overtime, with a score of 0-0, the power went out.

The hockey community is notoriously quick to point fingers (just ask James Reimer). Crappy officiating. The goalie. The coach. The list is endless. But Nova Scotia Power?

Hockey rules dictated that the entire game had to be replayed. In the ensuing weeks, Halifax used their blackout momentum to upset the Valley in the league championship. But could they keep the sparks flying?

There’s a familiar face behind the Halifax bench. From my perch, I see a tiny patch of bald in what was a full head of hair when he began coaching my child a decade ago. Graham Burgess is a legend in this community. He is the encouraging word to the defenceman who turned over the puck. He is unwavering post-game praise.

While other coaches lead with the grace of Mayor Rob Ford, Burgess guides his troops with civility. Tonight, eyeing my son in the bleachers, Burgess’s smile induces my second wave of nostalgia.

Afterward, I asked Burgess how coaching girls is different. “Girls comprehend a system quicker,” he said. “And their egos aren’t as big.” He believes that “you can push girls, but you have to keep it positive.”

“This is a good thing for any coach to do — with girls and boys." He believes. "We’re managing positive thoughts and feelings to enable your athletes to perform better.”

I now understand why the jump from bantam to major midget was so hard for some boys. It wasn’t the step up in speed and strength. It was the leap from Coach Burgess.

The first documented women’s hockey game was in 1892, but enthusiasm has been skyrocketing since 1998. Last year, 87,230 girls enrolled in hockey across Canada — thanks, in part, to role models such as Hayley Wickenheiser.

I used to love watching Halifax’s Jillian Saulnier outskate the boys, until her career took a successful NCAA turn. Once, while stacking wood at a neighbour’s, Jillian was the first to put down her road-hockey stick and pitch in, working long after the boys quit.

It is that kind of feisty spirit that brings me to the rink.

Tonight, I'm cheering on a kid who “stands out,” according to Burgess, because she’s a “fierce competitor who plays as hard as she possibly can every shift.”

Sophie Kinley also has a smile that could light up a darkened arena.

As fate would have it, Sophie’s efforts weren’t enough to help stave off the vengeful Valley team. Or the ensuing tears.

For a few, tonight would be their last hockey game. The lucky ones will play varsity. Others may coach, referee or join a “wine” league. Some will simply “hang ’em up.”

What these players will never hang up are the life skills and memories gained from hockey. Teamwork. Respect. And a few stories to tell their granddaughters.

Burgess says the “power outage” game was one he will “cherish forever.” A game that exemplified “determination, emotional control and amazing sacrifice.”

Bitter, and lacking those fine qualities, I chirp, silently, “Screw you, Nova Scotia Power.” 

There’s enough sparkle in these players to illuminate the world.

Originally published in the Chronicle Herald. Cindy Schultz is a natural-born cynic who owns her own advertising and branding agency. Her son plays in the OHL.

And by Centennial, you mean built in 1967?

“I want to play hockey.” My son said. Repeatedly.

“No you don’t.” I replied.

To say I was a reluctant hockey mom is like saying Sidney Crosby is a guy who plays hockey. When my son was born, my doctor friend said, “Bad hockey birthday.” I had no idea what that meant – nor did I care. But much like “good penalty”, “rink fries” and “50/50 duty” I was destined to find out. 

We were free spirits, my kid and me. Unbridled by schedules or fatherly influence, we traveled spontaneously, and spent winter weekends on the ski slopes. I grew up skiing – hockey was something people did because they couldn’t afford to ski. That stupid statement sounds even more ridiculous now, as I sit on a nest egg feathered with broken hockey sticks – their individual cost could feed a family of 4 for a week.

But the “I want to play hockey” whining eventually wore me down, so I figured a stiff pair of Canadian Tire skates and a few bounces off an unforgiving surface would put an end to this hockey shit once and for all. We chose a cloudy November day and laced up at the now demolished Dal rink. My kid hit the ice, and made Bambi look like Mario fucking Lemieux. I gave him 5 minutes before we’d be sipping hot chocolate, crossing “Play hockey” off his little bucket list.

No such luck. Even with kids half his height and age buzzing past him, my gangly six-year old barely stopped to lick the snot off his nose. I could tell by the glazed expression under his Hannibal Lecter cage, that I was screwed.

Enter Craig Moore, brother of Moosehead’s broadcaster John. Craig and I had worked together, and I was hoping to garner some sympathy from the bleachers. Instead, I got support. Craig said we had long missed Timbit registration, but he could likely get my kid on a team. I suddenly felt sick, and slid silently, sheepishly through the Tim Horton’s drive thru on the way home.

The sobering “call” came a few Friday nights later. I was knee deep in a bottle of wine, relaxing by the fire, when my world hit the boards. Someone named Coach McAdam said my son was to be at Centennial, in full gear, at 6:30 the following morning. Oh, and if he didn’t have a neck guard, he wouldn’t be allowed on the ice.

A neck guard? What the hell is a neck guard? Where is Centennial? 6:30?  

To say my son grew up without a father is a lie. He grew up with a dozen fathers and I didn’t have to sleep with one of them (which is a good thing considering one dare not shave their legs in February for fear of freezing to death in the Devonshire Arena). Donny. Graham. Steve. Kevin. I was about to discover that the roster of good men who volunteer their time, is endless. I was about to discover that this hockey journey would make my son a better man.

I was also about to discover that the roster of hockey parents is a socioeconomically diverse, and largely, jolly group – sprinkled with a few overzealous fanatics who think their kid is one growth spurt away from going to “the show”. Never mind that something like 0.1% of minor hockey players ever do. While sports bring out the best in children, it also tends to bring out the asshole in parents.

For instance, I watched in horror one tryout, as a ‘goalie dad’ openly high-fived his child every time the competition let a puck slide by. (And let’s talk about tryouts. Two months of heart-breaking agony, resulting in a team that could have been chosen by 5 moms over a box of wine.)

I was once pulled into a hotel room and instructed by a dad, to tell my kid, “When he starts to suck, to skate over to the bench and let his kid play.”

One “passionate” hockey mother claims her son was unjustly blacklisted, after it took the police to break up a fight – a mid-game Donnybrook between her and the referee.

And, it took a moment for the words, “We’re going to get a shut out every other game” to sink in. Did that son-of-a-bitch goalie dad, just insult my 8 year-old child… to his face?

Oh ya, did I mention that my little defenseman decided that having pucks shot at his face, padded by lost hope of ever having retirement savings would be fun? To quote our patriotic peacock, Don Cherry, “The most difficult position in hockey, is being the goalie’s mother.”

Welcome to my world. Throw on some coffee-stained sweatpants, empty your wallet, and sit by me. 

halifaxbroad@gmail.com

The edited, censored version of this appears in the Chronicle Herald: April 20th.