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I had enjoyed being a Dad, I really did, but it's hard work as well. Being a grandfather on the other hand mostly makes up for the stress of raising a boy, especially observing certain like-father, like-son moments between my son Matt and grandson Patrick.
Like Matt and me before him, Patrick frequently wears his emotions out on his sleeve and occasionally they get out of hand with a robust temper, again very much our male family trait. I never cared how emotive Matt needed to be as long as his temper never interfered with his need to respect any adult authority that might be involved.
Our family's generations have lived up North in that state snugly nestled between three of the five Great Lakes and also bordering Canada. Both countries suffer from terribly cold winters, but also share winter-time sports, especially ice hockey.
Everyone tends to think that Canadian passions for ice hockey exceeds that of their neighbors to the south and of the world in general. This is not true as ice hockey's passions are shared internationally.
As I sit here in layered clothing watching my grandson's junior varsity high school ice hockey team take on a crosstown rival, I doubt there is much difference at all between the high passions displayed by those on the ice in front of me and their Canadian or other international counterparts around the world. In any case, it all starts from the top.
Professional ice hockey in North America, the National Hockey League (NHL), is a very tough contact sport. You are going to hit and get hit. Emotions are going to boil over and there are going to be fights between players; but in the main, these incidents of aggression between adults are controlled and do not represent a threat to or loss of respect to those who control the game.
Similarly, fighting occurs in ice hockey's amateur ranks but is less tolerated, the penalties far more severe than in the professional ranks save one commonality. Players are never to allow physical combat to extend to on-ice officials, a huge no-no at any level.
I was looking down a few rows to the player's bench at my son. Matt had played high school hockey in his day and now was coaching Patrick's team. I had not coached my son in his day, but really enjoyed how my son Matt had matured as a person through sports participation and now was a coach and superb role model for his son and the other boys as well.
The score was tied, 3-3 and in the final or third period of timed play. Patrick had in fact scored two of his team's three goals putting big smiles on his Dad's and my face as well.
The flow of the game had stopped and there ensued some very brisk pushing and shoving between rival players around Patrick's goalie, the referee and linesmen rushing in to prevent things from getting out of hand. Normally, this was no big deal, but suddenly a linesman found himself flat on his back.
He had been shoved down and the referee, a college aged boy wearing the red arm band of ultimate on-ice authority, grabbed the arm of the offending player and pulled him towards his team's bench and coach.
My lips pursed as #14, grandson Patrick's number, was the boy in tow. Matt had seen the whole thing and after listening and likely apologizing to the referee, he issued Patrick a short sharp lecture and then pointed to the rink door and locker-room and sent my grandson off in shame.
I blew my cheeks out and then quickly made my way down to the bench. Matt turned, his face stern and red and he looked at me a moment before his face softened as we silently shared a common memory, Want me to go check on him?
I asked, never one to need to interfere in Matt's otherwise excellent discipline of my grandson.
Matt nodded, Give him a piece of my mind Dad, thanks,
and then he turned back to managing the rest of his team's game.
I took my time. It would do Patrick good to isolate a bit and contemplate his unwise physical aggression and by the time I got into the locker, he was half undressed and sitting glumly on the narrow wooden bench in front of the lockers.
I admired Patrick's size and muscular physique. I had played a little ice hockey in my time, but I was a skinny wimp compared to boys of the present ice hockey generation. I sat down next to him and slipped my arm around his wide shoulders.
Dad's pissed,
he sighed, looking down at his feet. I nodded, Yes, he is. You of all boys should know better than to have pushed a linesman, Pat.
Patrick sat back and palmed his face, I know, what was I thinking? I promised Dad I would never do that, especially after ...
and then his speech stopped, hands falling into his lap as he looked at me, his face a bit downcast.
Did I let him down, grandpa? Do you think he thinks he's a failure when I fuck up like this sometimes?
Patrick's spontaneous insight and incisive question hit me like a ton of bricks provoking sensitive memories of my own upbringing. Do you think he's failed?
I asked in return. Patrick didn't hesitate, Well no!! Dad ... he's ...
and then he stopped, head tilted a bit and one corner of his mouth lifted, I get it, thanks grandpa ... so I guess I'm really gonna get it when I get home.
And what about here, in front of the guys?
I reminded him. He blew out his cheeks, Oh yea. Shit,
and I patted him on the back, You'll be fine Pat, just get ready and don't keep him waiting, OK?
I stood and he did too and then he hugged me closely, I love you grandpa.
I love you too Patrick,
I hugged him back feeling strangely envious.
As I stood to leave the locker-room, I saw Patrick's jersey on the floor and picked it up. The number on the jersey, number fourteen, sent my mind back about 22 years and another hockey jersey number fourteen of my acquaintance ...
The game had gotten out of hand score-wise, 6-3 and there was only two minutes left on the clock. Son Matt's team was on the short end of the score to a bitter cross-town rival. The boys were starting to get chippy and emotions were running very high at the end of that evening's game.
Predictably, some rough play on the boards resulted in a lot of harsh pushing and shoving and finally two fights broke out. I was glad to see that Matt was just watching at first and as the on-ice officials finally broke up the fights I looked down just a moment.
Suddenly my attention was taken by a flurry of bodies once again. I saw jersey number fourteen, Matt's number, fly into another boy, crashing the boy to the ice. The referee rushed over to separate Matt from further contact.
That should have been it. Matt should have just skated away, but that's not what happened. Instead, my son started to argue and wrestle with the referee!
I stood there aghast and embarrassed. One might fight and get into it with the other team's players but one never, ever physically engages an on-ice official, no matter what!
I stood speechless as my precious boy even tried to punch the ref, a much larger man, but missed. The ref finally wrestled Matt to the ice as a linesman came in to make sure Matt ceased his aggression.
I could not fathom my son's very poor judgment and watched him skate off the ice rink and towards the dressing room. The temptation to run back to the dressing room and give my son a piece of my mind was very strong, but I delayed and met his Coach at the dressing room door instead.
I have to lower the boom on him in front of his teammates, I'm sorry Vance,he said to me with a solemn expression.
That's OK Bill. You do what you need to do. He's in big trouble when I get him home,I replied.
What do you have planned?he asked me.A very sore backside,I replied.OK well, then I'll get him started for you.Ordinarily, parents are not allowed in the locker room just after a game, but Bill let me through to observe my son's discipline.
The room was silent as the boys all stripped off their gear, showered and all but one got dressed. The naked boy at the end was my son Matt and we all watched his Coach reach into his duffle and out came the dreaded wooden spanking paddle.
Matt's head dipped down a bit as his Coach raised his voice,
What happened out there at the end of the game is somewhat understandable. They were chippy at the end, so were you guys. You had a couple fair fights, fine. Those of you who fought won't be playing for at least a game, but you will be practicing nonetheless!Then Bill looked at my naked son,
You, Matt. What you did was completely and totally out of line. I have warned you and your teammates time and time again, never, ever touch a ref. You tried to throw a punch at him son!and then Bill looked at me before he finished. I merely nodded my approval.
I would give you ten hard swats for something this bad; but I understand you are in big trouble with your father over your behavior. Five swats for you and you too will practice with the team no matter if you're suspended for the rest of the year, understand?
Yes sir,Matt replied and only briefly glanced in my direction; but in that short span of time, I saw a look of disappointment on his face and my stomach lurched just a little.
Very well, bend over, grab your ankles son and don't let go!I watched then as my son assumed the position. Bill centered the paddle over Matt's rump and looked around the room,
I will not ...and the paddle flew to its target and the room filled with the crack of wood on flesh,... tolerate disrespect of referees off or on the ice!and Matt's face drew up in a hard wince as swat number two landed.I watched the faces of the other boys. Most looked, some did not; but no boy's forehead was not furrowed with empathy as Coach's paddle had reached each of them at one time or another.
Are you EVER going to do that again Matt?and the third swat landed. Matt whimpered just a little and then shouted,NO SIR!
See ...and then Matt yelped as swat number four hit home,... that you don't!and as the last paddle swat licked my son's butt, he flew up and grabbed his red throbbing rear with both hands.I noticed Matt squirming in his seat on the ride home. I felt for him as I was squirming in my mind. He said nothing for a long time until we reached the driveway,
Dad, I'm really sorry I embarrassed you. It will never happen again,his tone signaling genuine regret.
Good. See that it doesn't. Now go to your room. I'm going to be in with the strop in just a few minutes. Be ready.
Yes sir,he briskly replied seeming to have resolved to take his punishment like a man.I went to the garage and my workbench. The razor strop was hanging on its nail. I went to reach for it as I had done thankfully not too many times for Matt in the past; but unlike before, I hesitated and in that moment wondered what my own Dad's feelings had been at moments like this.
I went to Matt's room and was glad to see Matt bare ass naked, laying on a pillow, fully stretched out and ready. I stepped to his side and saw that his bared bottom was still quite red but with no evidence that I should not proceed. His head was turned and he looked at me with understandable anxiety.
Do you have anything to say son?I asked.No sir. Only that I love you Dad and I know I need this even though I don't want it.I nodded at my son's respect, but admired his heart-felt and honest emotion.
How many dad?he then asked.Until I think you've had enough son.
Yes sir,he said quietly and then prepared himself.As it had done on my bare butt in my father's grasp, the wide brown well maintained leather pushed my son past his limits and he started to cry at about the same I had, the tenth or so lick. I continued for another ten as he bawled and then sobbed into his pillow, his hips gyrating with each painful cut.
I stopped and did the same as I had been taught and always practiced with Matt,
OK Matt. You stay still for ten minutes and then you are free to go.I went out to the backyard, a mixture of emotions tasking me. At times like this, my father would completely disappear and I would not see him until the next day. I wondered why he did that, had I offended him that badly?
I checked my watch for the ten minutes and when I thought it was about right, I found my way back inside the patio door just as Matt was coming towards me. He reached out and hugged me without hesitation,
I'll never do it again Dad. Thank you for ... well ... for being my Dad.A huge lump caught in my throat as I hugged my son tightly, my son's surprise confession and need for physical contact a welcome change as well as a balm to a Dad's worry and doubt ...
The memory and lasting impressions of those moments long ago faded as I walked away from Patrick and out of the dressing room to wait for the game to finish. In my absence, the other team had taken advantage of Patrick's penalty and scored a power play goal, winning the game, 4-3. Patrick's teammates strode glumly past me and into the dressing room, their voices low.
I waited for Matt who stopped and looked at me. I was about to experience one of those like-father, like-son moments and he knew it. He shrugged. I chuckled, Maybe we should retire #14?
He smirked, What and spoil the family tradition?
I followed Matt into the dressing room and noticed Patrick had wisely showered and now sat on the bench wrapped in a towel, his face mimicking that of his teammates.
Matt spoke, Listen up everyone. That was a bit of mess out there at the end. I don't blame anyone for getting their dander riled up, but don't put the other team on a power play if you do and certainly never because you disobeyed Rule #1, never engage an on-ice official ... Patrick!
Patrick looked up as his father reached for and got the spanking paddle out of his duffle. I had to smile a bit, it was the same paddle that Matt's coach had used on him years before.
Front and center son, bend over and don't let go. Five licks for you mister, but please feel free to tell everyone what's going to happen at home!
Patrick blushed, I'm going to get a bare butt whipping,
he confessed just loud enough for his friends to hear and then bent over. I saw not a few boys whisper to each other, a few with cracked or knowing smiles.
Patrick was stoic as his father issued him five stout licks and only his face moved with each painful smack. My concern and empathy was more with Matt at that moment, he seemed a bit subdued.
As for Patrick's teammates, none smiled now and a few tried to appear unmoved. I knew better. No boy can watch another get a painful public paddling and not put himself in the boy's place. I was sure all got the point.
On the way home in the car, Patrick's spirits seemed OK. Guess I'm gonna get suspended, huh?
Patrick asked his Dad. Matt seemed lost in thought and didn't answer right away.
I could tell his wheels were turning a bit before he finally answered, Yes and you will still practice with the team,
Matt replied not looking at Pat. We parked in the driveway and all headed in the front door.
Matt looked at his son after we got inside, Go to your room Matt, get ready.
Patrick nodded a quiet, Yes sir,
and disappeared.
Matt gestured to me and we went into the kitchen and then out the side door and into the garage a few moments later. I watched Matt go to pluck a very familiar razor strop from its hook above his workbench.
And just as happened with me long ago, Matt's reach stopped for just a few moments before he finally brought the leather into his grasp and looked down at it, Dad, do you think I'm a good father?
Like Patrick's had, Matt's question hit me hard. Maybe I was just getting old and old folks are prone to sentimentality and lumps in throats. Well, I did have a few miles logged onto life's odometer.
I quickly walked to my son, the lump really big as I took the strop from his hands, laid it on the workbench and then wrapped my arms around Matt.
I never had the courage to ask your grandfather the same question son. I wish that I had,
and then I felt Matt hug me even tighter as just then I really missed my old man, his untimely passing many years before.
You were ... no are, a great Dad!
Matt said as if forcing the words through his own throat's lump. I sighed, enjoying once again the echoes of my son's sixteen-year-old voice out of the distant past.
I gave Matt's forehead a peck, then gently broke our embrace and put the strop back into his hands, That means a lot Matt, thank you. Now go do your duty son,
and let his question go unanswered.
* * * * *
We walked back into the house together and down the hallway towards Patrick's room. I respectfully stopped outside Patrick's door not automatically walking in, such father-son moments as these I thought deserving of privacy.
But it wasn't long before I heard, Dad? Get in here!
Matt said and quickly followed by, Grandpa! Please! Come in and shut the door. I need to get this over!
I stepped into the room, closed the door and pulled up a chair to sit at a comfortable distance. Patrick was prone, naked and looking back at me his torso angled up on his elbows and then he lay flat down, his body stretched out lengthwise on his bed, his middle propped a bit up on a pillow.
Matt stood at Patrick's bedside and looked back at me for a moment. I nodded to him and then over the next few minutes, the sounds of the present mixed with my memories of them from the past.
Try as I might, as I heard the strop's distinctive crack I could not recall the physical pain of my own punishments from my father. But I certainly did recall the emotional pain of him doing his duty, telling me to stay put for awhile and then disappearing from my room with nothing else ever done or said.
When I heard Matt say, OK son, we're done,
I finally raised my head. Patrick stood up, rubbed his sore bum for just a bit as Matt lay the strop to the side.
One more large lump formed in my own throat as I watched Pat's arms open and embrace his father of his own accord right then and there, the question having been asked was now answered.
Grandpa?
Pat looked at me through teary but relieved eyes waving me towards them. Matt beckoned me as well but only with his red eyes. I strode forward and gratefully embraced both my son and my grandson. I placed a kiss on my grandson's forehead and then on my son's cheek.
I'm so very proud of both of you,
I said through a rough throat, closed my eyes and with a wave of my mind's eye, motioned a shy memory of my own father into our little circle.
PJ Franklin