Page 63 of Practice Makes Perfect
“We’ll have wine and cheese!” she declares, as if that solves everything. “And don’t worry about whether they’ll enjoy it,” she continues. “I don’t care if they enjoy it! You’re my boy, and I’m going to support you!”
I sigh internally, but don’t dare say anything. My mother has always been my biggest cheerleader—the one who drove me to 6 a.m. practices before she went to teach, who learned hockey despite having no previous interest in sports, who still has my broken youth hockey stick mounted in our living room.
But sometimes her enthusiasm feels less like support and more like suffocation.
“Lincoln? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, Mom. I’m here.” I rub my eyes. “Just tired from practice.”
“Oh! How was practice? Did you work on that thing the scout mentioned? What was it—your left-side checking?”
“How do you even know what the scout said to Coach?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
She laughs. “The hockey moms’ message board, of course! Someone’s husband overheard and posted about it!”
Of course. The infamous message board—my mother’s primary source of information about my hockey life since she can’t physically be at every practice and game. I’ve learned not to ask too many questions about what gets shared there. The less I know, the better for my mental health and the team.
“We actually spent most of practice running drills until Maine threw up,” I say, deflecting. “Coach wasn’t happy about the Colgate game.”
“Well, you’ll do better against Brown. I know it.”
This perfectly captures my mother’s unconditional—almost blindly optimistic—faith in me. It’s simultaneously heartwarming and crushing. I should be grateful. Hell, Iamgrateful, because most of my teammates have parents who barely know what position they play. But sometimes I wish she’d… dial it back.
“Actually,” she continues, her voice shifting into conspiracy mode, “Meredith’s husband—you know Meredith, with the twin boys?—well, her cousin works at a sports management agency, and she heard that a few scouts might be at your Brown game!”
My stomach clenches. “Mom?—”
“I know, I know. Don’t talk about the scouts!” She laughs. “But I’m just saying…”
“I’ll do my best, Mom,” I mutter, as if I can just pencil in a hat trick.
“You always do, sweetheart! And?—”
There’s a brief shuffling sound, and then my dad’s voice comes through the phone. “Hey, son. How’s it going?” he says.
The relief is instant. I exhale, not realizing I’d been holding my breath. “Hey, Dad.”
My father’s voice is the calm after my mother’s verbal storm—measured, quiet, with none of her dramatic inflections. In the background, I can hear her protesting that she wasn’t finished talking to me, but truth be told I’m glad for a moment of respite.
“Your mother’s been hogging the phone, so I thought I’d jump in,” he says. “How are classes going?”
The simple question—about something other than hockey—makes my shoulders relax for the first time in this conversation.
“They’re good. Advanced Kinesiology is kicking my ass a bit, but I like the challenge.”
“That’s your sports medicine focus, right?” I can almost visualize my dad’s eyebrow raise. “With the rehab emphasis?”
He remembers. Of course he does.
My dad might be quieter, but he listens.
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re studying recovery protocols for serious joint and ligament injuries. It’s actually pretty relevant to what Mike’s going through.”
“How is he doing? Still struggling with being sidelined?”
“You could say that,” I respond. “He’s… Well, it’s complicated.”
“Injuries always are—physically and mentally.” My dad pauses. “Your grandfather was never the same after his back gave out at the construction site. Not just because of the pain, but because he lost his sense of purpose. His work was everything to him, and providing for his family was his life’s mission.”
