When the fine folks at RumorMeThat asked me to be a contributor to their new hockey blog network, I was excited to share my view on things as a hockey wife.
Uh oh, (Gulp)! Looks like I already used those two little words that conjure up all kinds of preconceptions about what kind of person I just might be. Hockey Wife. Yep, I confess I technically qualify as one. Wow, kind of feels like I’m at a Hockey Wife Anonymous meeting. Hi! I’m Lindsey, and my husband plays hockey.
By no means am I alone in this funny hockey wife world. There are literally hundreds of other women supporting their hockey playing and coaching husbands and boyfriends throughout North America and the world. I don’t consider myself special or one-of-a-kind, well at least not because my husband plays hockey. I just so happened to fall in love with this guy who had a really weird accent and said ‘eh’ a lot. Little did I know that would take me around the world and back for a sport I knew nothing about.
You see, I’m from Texas. That’s right, football-playing, warm-weather loving, what- the-heck-is-hockey Texas. We met in San Antonio and he invited me to my first hockey game. Not going to lie, I had more fun drinking in the crowd than actually paying attention to the goal he scored that night. Was that even good? I mean, a touchdown is worth 6 points, so what does a goal and Player of the Week mean? Another beer please! Yeah, I had a lot to learn.
But I’m sports-minded, and I caught on quick. Which I guess I had to. Nothing like being thrown into the thick of things and learning from the bottom up. I think, because of this, I am not what you might imagine the ‘typical’ hockey wife to be like. I went to college and earned my degree. I worked full time before we met and starting moving from place to place. I didn’t know squat about hockey, so that silly idea that all hockey wives are puck bunnies can be thrown out the window. And I don’t live for designer clothes or handbags and spend lavish amounts of money on pampering myself. Only a small percentage of the wives out there live on an NHL caliber salary. We’ve lived in Europe now longer than we have together in North America. The first three years were spent in Germany, where I became fluent in the language and taught English to non-native speakers. And most recently, I am staying busy freelance writing while freezing my butt off in Finland.
Sure, there are hockey wives out there that are your stereotypical hockey-chasing, crazed fans that act as part agent and manager for the player, whether he wants her to be or not. But, thank heavens, those gals are few and far between. For the most part, hockey wives are absolutely great, intelligent and completely sane women. We are individuals that love our husbands unconditionally, no matter if they are playing hockey or not. It just so happens that we were fated for life with some guy who makes his living on skates. There are ups and downs, just as with any other professional nowadays. And while it isn’t always easy moving multiple times a year, not knowing where next season will take you, and only seeing loved ones and hometown friends a few times a year, I wouldn’t change it for the world.
I’ve come to realize that the most important thing I can do for my husband’s career, is maintain my own identity. So, I might be a hockey wife, but that by no means is my title. I love hockey now, don’t know how I lived without it for 20 some odd years, but whether hockey is here or not, I will still be his wife. A title I wear even more proudly when it doesn’t have hockey in front of it.
So if RumorMeThat still wants me around after this intro, wink wink guys, I’d love to share various opinions on the hockey world from my unique viewpoint. Give a different perspective on issues that journalists and hockey league officials touch on. And when all else fails, I’ll go back and refer to a quote that inspires and really captures the essence of what it is life to be a hockey wife:
I only drink in the afternoon. Or when Johnny’s away. Or before a game.
- Shirley, Slap Shot.
Wait, that can’t be right…