Keresztes 1

Two Can Play at That Game

I curl up into one of the smallest chairs I have ever seen, trying to preserve as much body

heat as possible. Around me, a couple dozen more knowledgeable spectators don sweat suits and

huddle under plush throw blankets. In front of me, the players take the ice in their three inch

padding, strapping on helmets and carrying hockey sticks. After running through their drills and

taking to the benches, the hockey players are pink-faced and beads of sweat form across their

forehead. Around me, older couples ignore their younger children and converse with each other

about which preparatory schools would be best for Sam and Alex to attend. A rotund man

proclaims, I want La Salle! I can see so many more of their games if they are close to me. To

which the woman he is sharing a blanket with responds disapprovingly Lets see if they get

scholarships. Who even knows if they want to be at school together? A bright red countdown

on the scoreboards over each end of the Pollard Family Rink at Brown University reaches 0:00

and a horn blare, stopping their conversation. From each bench, five hockey players and one

goalie immediately stand up and step onto the ice, taking their positions around the center circle

of the ice rink.

One player from each team stands in the center of the rink squared to each other with an

official between them, slightly off to the side. Each of the two center players eyes is trained on

the referees hand, waiting for a muscle twitch or some other indication that he will drop the

puck. The clock is reset to twenty minutes and the official slams the black, rubber hockey puck

between them beginning the game. The face-off begins the second the puck leaves the officials

hand as each teams five players battle to determine who gains possession first. The green team

comes away with the puck and the hard-hitting ice hockey game is under full swing. Minutes

later a whistle screeched out, the clock froze and all play halted. There are two players lying flat

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on the ice and both referees skate towards them and extend a hand to help the players to their

skates. From across the rink I notice that while one referee directs one of the players away from

the incident by the shoulder, the other referee skated towards the scorekeepers box and spoke to

the two boys in it. Just loudly enough for the spectators to hear he says, blue, twenty-two,

contact to the head, indicating to the scorekeeper the team, player and type of penalty that had

just occurred.

This part of the game was not new to me; I have only watched two hockey games in my

life and the only one I attended was competitive. I understood the physicality of the game. I was

familiar with the idea of broad shouldered players in layers of padding balancing on ice skates

while trying to maintain control of the puck and keep the other team from stealing the puck

away. But I was not accustomed to the rules. And I was even less familiar with seeing long

ponytails protruding from the base of each players helmet. At the end of the first period of the

game, the team headed to their benches and removed their helmets.

As they removed their helmets I realized that the long ponytails did not belong to young

male hockey players. The teams participating in the New England Yankee Conference

Tournament were composed entirely of young women with the exception of one or two

coaches per team. This tournament was being held so that girls in three different age groups

from the New England region get the same ability to play for college preparatory schools in the

region and increase their chances of eventually playing in college. Yet, unlike conventional

hockey games, where there are three periods to a game, the tournament only called for two

periods forcing the girls to play their hardest in less time.

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During the second period of the game, I had the pleasure of being able to sit rink-side in

the scorekeepers box with my friend John, an intern at Brown, and my boyfriend Frank, who

was working to help keep statistics. At the first blow of the whistle, players return to their

position on the ice. In front of me, in the much colder scorekeepers box, is a small cutout. A

referee with a grizzly, black beard skates up to the box. He puts his mouth near the cutout and

says, blue, thirty. Green, one, indicating the goalies for the two teams on the ice, before

zipping away to the center circle where the players are lined up for another face off. About

three minutes into the period, a player catches another players arm as they went to take a shot,

known as a hook in hockey, and play stops again. The other referee then approaches the box

and says fifteen, hook, repeating the statement once after to be sure that the scorekeepers have

heard him correctly.

As the game continues, John mentions to Frank that this is a tournament more for

college prep schools to come and recruit the best players in the area to their teams. But its also

another tryout for their own team, I saw two like thirteen year olds leave in tears yesterday

because they played horribly and were cut before the tournament even ended. There is a crash

directly in front of us. I look up to see two girls at the plexiglass border to the rink, better known

as the boards. One of the girls is pinned directly against the boards, her white and pink helmet

open towards me. Her sweaty forehead and expression reflect her concentration and

determination; her eyes are directed at the ice, but her eyes are also a clear reminder that this is

womens hockey. Her eyelashes are coated with black mascara.

Despite the ferocity that some of the girls exhibit on the ice during play and the extremely

high number of penalties in the game, I can see across the ice to where the spectators are sitting.

While all the men on the far side are as intrigued by the game as I would expect, the women in

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the stands did not appear very different. They cheered and jeered along with the men around

them and, on more than one occasion, seemed more interested than the men they were sitting

with. Unlike most mothers who envision their daughters dancing, doing gymnastics, running

track or playing volleyball, occasionally springing for a contact sport such as softball, soccer or

basketball, the mothers in the stand stood one hundred percent behind their hockey skate wearing

daughters and helped them put a hockey stick in their hand.

Suddenly, the cheering grows louder and I see the entire blue team surrounding the green

team. Only two members of the green team are there helping their goalie while the three other

teammates are hustling towards the bench for their substitutes. One of the green substitutes

makes it to the player with the puck just in time. As the girl on the blue time takes her shot, the

girl subbing in for the green team catches the puck with the edge of her stick and deflects it away

from the goal it is heading towards. Number seven on the blue team retrieves the puck and

quickly passes the puck to number fifteen. Number fifteen takes aim at the goal, where number

three is prepared to help out if needed; she lines up and takes a shot untouchable by the green

defense. Three stops the puck and lets it fall to the ice, not realized by some of the green team

who searches for the puck behind the goal. She then knocks the puck backwards, between the

legs of the unsuspecting green goalie, and into the net. Next to me, Frank cries out, Oh my

God, no way! She scored in the five-hole! A whistle blows confirming the goal, the clock

stops its countdown again and the blue team erupts with cheers. The referee skates towards the

scorekeepers box again, this time saying seven, fifteen, three, for the scorekeeper to indicate

first, which players assisted in the goal, and lastly, who scored the goal.

In the United States, womens only hockey teams are becoming more common. But even

after the passing of Title IX and the implementation of womens college hockey teams, girls in

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the sport are still trying to play the sport they love without discrimination. After the first game

of the tournament I watched, I had the ability to talk to Samantha, who scored the only goal for

the blue team helping the team win their game. She was no longer in her massive uniform, and

instead in a pair of grey sweats that swallowed her lower body and a tight fitting burgundy shirt

that showed off her small frame. In her perfectly manicured right hand, she was carrying the

same pink and white helmet that the girl who had been slammed into the boards was wearing. In

her left hand, where a small chip interrupted her clean manicure, she carried a blue jersey with

the number three on the back. After correcting me that she would prefer to be called Sam, she

explained that this was the first time she played in an all-girls hockey team. She said that

previously she was the girl on the boys team. Despite the growing number of all-girls teams,

ice hockey is still dominated by males.

Watching the blue and green girls teams play ice hockey in the tournament was a

reflection of the changing nature of the sport. The young women on these teams played as hard

as they could, proving their worth in the sport to themselves, their coach(es) and family, and

most importantly to the hockey fans present that day. But their goal stems farther than just

getting their own team and finally being separate from the boys. These girls have dedicated their

time to perfecting their game, and they played better, faster and stronger than the mens team that

I watched previously because they do not get any opportunity to join any hockey team at the

local ice rink.

The girls teams played fantastic for the entire game and in each game that followed and

never seemed to tire. Maybe some of them grew motivated when they the saw the people up in

the press boxes at the very top of the rink, wrapped up in clothing sporting the names of various

preparatory academies. Maybe they just had a natural ability to play hockey. Maybe they train

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harder than they did the day before, every day. Regardless of the case, the girls played with

every ounce of their being. Every time a girl subbed in she skated faster and more controlled

than the girl she gave a break to. Shots became more accurate and goalies had to work harder.

Saves became more spectacular. Regardless of if these girls will end up playing at the academies

that came to recruit new team members for their schools, they would forever be pioneers of the

game. They are taking the general ideas of what girls are supposed to be doing and tossing it out

a window to allow themselves to succeed in what they enjoy doing, even if it is traditionally a

boys game.

Eight hours after I first arrived at the Pollard Family Rink, I had forgotten about the cold

inside the rink. A blare of the horn signaled the ending of the last game and another blare of the

horn announced that there would be no more games that day. As the game ended, the referees

removed the goals for one last time as the final two teams lined up to shake hands. Not a single

parent appeared disappointed in how their daughter performed during their game. The Zamboni

reentered the rink for the last time of the day and the rink fell silent as the spectators hustled out

of their seats to meet their daughters by the front entrance.