I tried. I really did. For a whole season, I strapped on these hockey skates, hand-me-downs that didn’t fit right. They pinched my toes and my heel slipped constantly. They hurt. My dad told me a handful of times if I got into the sport, he’d buy me new ones.
It wasn’t fun. The boys on my team made fun of me because I was small. They treated me differently, and I wanted, so desperately, to be as strong as my sisters, but I just couldn’t do it. So I gave up. I tossed in the towel, and decided I liked soccer more, and pretended, throughout most of my grade school career, that this was true.
My dad tried. I didn’t realize this until I look back now as an adult. He took time out of his busy day to coach me and my team. I don’t think he realized how much I hated it. Not him coaching, but my team. My best friends were on the other team. I hated the girls I played with. During school a few of them had a tendency to push me in the dirt during recess and laugh at me and my tattered dirty clothes.
I had already given up hockey; I couldn’t give up soccer too.
It seemed like Taboo in my family.
She’s the youngest daughter. She doesn’t play hockey.
People recognized me as, “the youngest Erickson” and “Meghan and Kristen’s younger sister.” There was always an added, she doesn’t play hockey.
The demon in my life at the time always ensured people knew. She’d drag me to her side, grip my shoulder tight and tell everyone I played soccer, not hockey. She was proud of it, which made me hate it even more.
And then something switched, and it seems as if overnight, she loved hockey, and then her tone changed. “Yeah, she only plays soccer.” Scorn. I heard it all the time.
“You’re Meghan and Kristen’s sister, right?”
No, my name is Monica. "Yep."
“So, when are you going to start playing hockey?”
Never. "Maybe next season." Fake smile. Gag.
For a handful of years in a row, some hockey tournament ran in mid-March. And for a handful of years in a row, I spent my birthday in a hockey rink, watching my sister’s play. Then we’d go out to dinner, and talk about hockey, and how the tournament was going. And what my sisters could do better next game.
I’d get a handful of ‘Happy Birthday’s’. A friend, whose brother was on their team, once wrapped a gift for me. It was a radio in the shape of an alien head. It was awesome.
Sometimes I got to unwrap my presents on the backseat of a moving car while driving home from Canada. Not exactly my definition of a fun birthday.
It’s hard for me to write this, because I know my dad did everything in his power to make all of us happy. As an adult, I don’t blame him. I don’t hate him, in fact, I love my father. He is the strongest man I know, and the biggest, strongest pillar in my life. I look back now and realize it wasn’t all bad. I had a few friends at these tournaments. I’m resilient. I bounce back. I actually play hockey now on a women’s team with my sister. I love it.
Maybe this stemmed from my recent birthday. I just turned 25. I spent it at home listening to the Reservoir Dogs soundtrack on Vinyl. I bought myself a small cake, and played Tomb Raider. When people asked what I did for my birthday, and they seemed shocked and I see the pity, I immediately back track and say that was how I wanted it- just a quiet night in, hanging with my pup. And people believed it.
But it was fucking lonely. I may or may not have cried.
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