Dads on the Rail

Dads on the Rail

In countless rinks in northern climes we watch the games being played

Or the Zamboni circling round and round between

Gruff and anxious, pensive and expecting

We are the dads on the rail

You’ve seen us before, no matter the rink

Even at the early morning practices or mean-nothing scrimmages we’re there

Words barked to our players, car coaching even though we’ve been told not too

We are the dads on the rail

Sometimes we move around depending on the crowd

On the boards, under the scoreboard, or the top row of the stands we’ll be

Careful to watch our coffees sitting on the dasher so it doesn’t spill during a hard check

We are the dads on the rail

While moms, grandparents own the bleachers and mark territory with stadium blankets

Siblings with mouths stained slushy blue asking for one more quarter for a vending machine gumball

Volunteers working concessions selling the $4 hot dog, chips, and soda meal deal

We are the dads on the rail

Go get ‘em sport... Play Hard… Move your feet…Don’t forget what I told you…..

Phrases we command to our mites and squirts as they hop down out of the SUV’s

Runny nosed and laden with top dollar gear they drag bags and sticks into the rinks

We are the dads on the rail

And when the puck drops we see every mistake, missed pass, and bad call

We’ll tell the dads next to us that it wasn’t a trip; the kid stepped on his stick

Hey Ref you’re missing a good game! Hey coach my kid isn’t seeing enough ice time!

We are the dads on the rail

When the handshakes are exchanged and the Zamboni doors open we linger

From out of the locker room come our players, red faced and exerted, sometimes teary, sometimes not

And in those faces we again see a child, our child; the scoreboard reset to zeros

We are the dads on the rail

Can I hang out with Billy? Can we stay to watch the Bantam game? They plead

Can I have a box of popcorn? Are Grandma and Grandpa coming to lunch with us?

It’s hard to be hard, it’s good to exhale

We are the dads on the rail

The bags and sticks are loaded up and we’re on the way home

Quiet but not too quiet we ask questions about what coach said after the game

And in a few minutes we watch heavy eyes close in the rearview mirror

We are the dads on the rail

The time is fleeting and gear gets outgrown, a season ends

Hockey life fades, friends find other things to do, and suddenly we’re not as good as we thought we were

A new season starts, The Zamboni doors close and new players hit the ice

There are new dads on the rail