It's not often you stumble across a five foot eight, nine year old. Add hockey skates to the equation and the young boy stands almost five foot ten. Put him against a four foot three, eight year old on the ice and it doesn't take much to work out what the result is.
For six months of the year my youngest son Bradley plays ice hockey for the House League at Chelsea Piers. I think he is a Squeak or a Mite or some other minature term describing the under tens hockey teams that assemble every Sunday morning between six a.m and eight a.m for a highly entertaining and somewhat nerve racking competitive match. There is practice for each team either on weekday afternoons or on 'off Sundays' and Bradley's mood for the remainder of the weekend is pretty much determined by the outcome of the game.
The Spring season is a little light on players as there is a direct relationship between an increase in the outside temperature and the reduction in the number of players from Chelsea Piers available for selection. With that in mind, the powers at be invite two other clubs to participate in the Spring league. One team is from Harlem and the other team is from the land Jack visits when he gets off from climbing the beanstalk.
I helped get Bradley ready for his game. I tied his skates nice and tight, the way he likes them. I adjusted his helmet so as to allow his mouth guard to fit properly and so that the protective headgear was properly in place. He was ready to get on the ice when both Bradley and I spotted him. He was wearing the same hockey jersey as the team we were about to play. We both found this a little confusing. He couldn't possibly be....no, there was no way... you've got to be joking ...how can this be? He was playing for the other team. He was a good foot taller than anyone else in his team and then add some more for the distance between the top of his head and the tallest head in our team. I looked at Bradley and assured him that height didn't matter in this game. I told him he was probably a bad skater and not to think of his height advantage at all. That worked wonders as after fifteen minutes the other team were winning 6-1 and the giant had scored five of them.
I am not one to say nothing. Just ask anyone who knows me. I couldn't resist searching out his parents ,who, upon observing them weren't that tall. I slid behind them in the bleachers and opened up with some small talk. " That number 48 is sure having a great game," I chirped, waiting to engage the parents in some truth seeking conversation. I was now in
"fact finding mode." They responded with a polite and somewhat modest ," thank you, our son is doing well today."
" So how old is he then?" I quickly came back with, not one to beat around the bush. I was still sipping my coffee between the dialog and almost choked to death on one fateful slurp, when they replied that he had just turned nine. I just couldn't believe that this kid was nine years old. It bothered me. I did not accuse the parents of lying, far from it, and my next remark was meant to be humorous rather than confrontational but it probably came out wrong. I asked the parents if they carried with them a copy of their son's birth certificate. They completely ignored my comment and wisely carried on watching the massacre unfolding in front of us on the ice.
Without any hope of finding proof of any age embellishment I returned to my seat dejected. Another parent asked me if I had found out the truth and I revealed somewhat sarcastically and in a raised voice so that certain partieS could hear me' that not only was this kid nine years old but that he had just turned nine. I tried to make a joke of the whole incident by announcing that this same nine year old had driven to the game by himself and had parked next to my Volvo. The other parents from Bradley's team were amused and laughed along with or at me. Not so the relatives of the hockey giant. They moved further away from me in protest. I didn't want to make any more fuss and so I resigned myself to the annoying loss for which Bradley and company could do nothing about. After the game when we were all helping our kids get back into civilian clothes I noticed out of the corner of my eye the Giant standing at the concession stand quietly awaiting his turn. I needed one last banter to help me get over the losing hump that I was feeling. I joined the line immediately after him and waited until he placed his order. He chose a bagel, toasted with butter. The server then asked me what I wanted and I replied " I will have 20 of whatever he is eating." I enjoyed my parting verbal jab. It made me feel so much better and so I retreated back to the four footers who were eager to leave after having been mugged on the ice by a teenager and his friends.
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