The Greatest Sport on Ice, Indeed

By: Patrice L. Leonard  

What classifies a sport as great? Is it the appeal to the masses? Is it the way it brings generations together? Is it the way families can rally around it and bond above all else? Well, actually is all of the above. Hockey, most particularly the NHL, has been a part of my life since the late 1970’s. I was born and raised a Philadelphia Flyers fan. At the tender age of 4 I watched the Flyers win the first of two consecutive Stanley Cups.

Thanks to my father, I now have a deep rooted passion for the home team. I remember nights watching games in the living room of our suburban Philadelphia home while sitting on his lap. I also remember being terrified of Bernie Parent. Well, not actually terrified of Bernie, but of that horrific white goalie mask. I would burry my face in my dad’s chest every time the TV camera man felt the need to zoom in on him. From those moments on I was hopelessly hooked on this then obscure sport.

In a town where baseball and football were king, I was in the minority. I grew up watching the “Great One”. He was, admittedly, not my favorite player. I prefer more of a bruiser type. I yearned for someone, anyone, to hit him with all his might. Then I realized. Nobody could catch him. As reluctant as I was to admit it, watching Gretzky play was very close to a religious experience. I had the pleasure of personally being witness to many of his incredible feats.

Fast forward about a decade. I suffered through what will be the first of true heartbreaks. My Flyers came up against the Gretzky led Oilers, not once, but twice, in the mid-80’s. Although they pushed that first Stanley Cup Final to all seven games, I was not satisfied. The fact that they lost game seven on my birthday made me never forget it. Why would I want to forget it? It molded who I was. That team in the 80’s was my favorite Flyer team to date. That team helped me chose my path in life. From the moment the final horn sounded in that game I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was going to be a sports writer. I was going to cover hockey. I was going to cover my team, the Flyers.

I carried this dream all through grade school and high school and well into the 1990’s. I again watched my team endure heartbreak. This time it was at the hands of the Detroit Red Wings in another seven game series. You ride a roller coaster with these guys. No other sport is going to give you the emotional highs and lows that hockey does. The sport itself is played with raw passion. Grown men become children again as the realization of a life long goal comes closer into view.

Sheer brute strength and lightning fast speed are everyday calls to duty in the NHL. There is no pitcher wearing a coat because he is cold. There is no lineman sitting on the “hotseat” because he has to play in December. There is no point guard complaining about an elbow to the eye. Men play hockey. They play hockey after receiving 25 stitches across his cheek. They play hockey with swollen ankles. They play hockey with broken fingers and toes. They play hockey when parts of their faces are not where God intended.

I went to college, studied journalism and then did nothing for several years. Life happened. My love of the game never waned though. I still watched every game I could, even when I had to move to that waste land of North Jersey. And even in the heart of Rangers and Devils country I stood tall. I watched both of those teams raise the Cup, having gone through the Flyers to get there. Through the pain of defeat you gain strength, you gain resilience and determination. I put that lesson to the test in my own life. I left the world I was comfortable with to start anew.

Fast forward another decade. This time I am in my thirties, a mother, single again. I get a break. Someone up there does love me. I met the man who will pave the way to the dream I began to give up on. I went on an audition and landed a guest spot on a local TV sports talk show.