The great Canadian pastime (as seen by an American)

This was a reply I wrote to a hockey post written by Wil Wheaton at WWdN: In Exile. I did not intend it to be so long, but that's how it ended up. I thought I would share it here.

I never played hockey. In fact, I never saw a hockey game until that guy I was cyber-dating came to visit from Canada and took me to see the Sharks in San Jose. About two years later, I found myself living in Ontario, Canada with him and his two teenage sons.

Both boys played hockey. The older played defence while the younger was a goalie. I quickly learned the special torture that is being the (step)mom of a goalie; agonizing over every shot, cheering like mad when he stood on his head. The first few years after I moved, I drove with my husband and either boy to hockey arenas all over southern Ontario; those trips are still my main source for remembering the geography of this area.

The guy and I got married. For various sentimental reasons, we decided to get married in February, which happened to fall smackdab in the middle of the minor league playoffs. My soon-to-be husband, who was coaching the younger son's team in the playoffs, specifically told the convener not to schedule any games that day because we were getting married. She didn't. She did schedule a game the night before and the day after, though. Yes, I got married in-between hockey games.

The day I received my Permanent Residence status for Canada (Canadian version of a green card), my husband and I went to a game at the old, wood-beamed, cavernous community arena to watch our younger boy play. We were standing aisle of the old arena, my hand in the pocket of his jacket and his arm around me, when one of the players fired the puck over the glass. My husband instinctively did the hockey puck duck, which unfortunately pulled me directly into its path. I had a lovely bruise on my upper arm for days.

And so I was officially made Canadian.