My mother and father are in one frame, then all my siblings are in their own. I lean forward to see what they’re thinking. Part of me expects that they’re here to be here, but they’ll be distracted by something else. You know, here for support. A family obligation thing.
But every one of them is watching. Every time I look, their eyes are all locked on the screen. I’m surprised by how much that means to me.
A whistle on the screen blows, and I look away.
“What just happened?” my youngest sister, Sona, asks.
“Ohh, look. Whatever just happened, it’s leading to a fight,” Navi says.
We watch in silence as the teams on the ice end up gathered around the two fighting. As if something is spread through the air, one by one, they all begin fighting. The four refs are trying to break them up.
I’ve noticed that Julian rarely fights. He generally skates away. There are times when he’s tripped or intentionally bulldozed and he’ll retaliate if the refs don’t call it. Otherwise, he doesn’t get involved. He says sitting in the ‘sin bin’ is frustrating, so he avoids it when at all possible.
“Interference, two minutes, Minnesota number eight. Instigating, two minutes, Chicago number twenty-two,”the ref on the television says.
“What does that mean?” Sona asks again.
“So, from what I’ve read, interference is when one player stops or slows down another player when that other player doesn’t have the puck,” I say.
“You’re allowed to interfere when someonehasthe puck?” my oldest sister, Ishika, asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“If they couldn’t interfere, that means there’d just be goal after goal,” Navi says. “In every contact sport, you need to be able to make contact with the person who has the, uh, object that is used to score to attempt topreventthat goal. That’s why there’s a defense position.”
“Ah,” Sona says. “Yeah, okay.”
“Then why did the other team get a time-out for fighting? I’ve seen like three fights today that haven’t had timeouts,” Kiaan asks.
It’s fun having all my siblings here. It also makes me realize I know a little more about hockey than I realized. “First, it’s apenalty. Not a time-out. They laugh when you call it a timeout. And second, Julian says that all refs make shit calls. Sometimes calling a penalty and sometimes not calling the same penalty later. Why they chose this fight? Don’t know.”
“That’s crap,” Sona says.
I nod. “I guess it’s pretty normal in all sports.”
We’re not an overly sporty household. Navi keeps up with a bunch of sports, though I’m not sure he does so because he’s highly invested in the sport. I think it’s more about statistics and watching the standings change every week. It’s the numbers that fascinate him more than the sports themselves.
Otherwise, the only sport my father’s taken an interest in was golf, and that lasted a few years before he declared it was far too boring and slow paced to spend time. My brother thought maybe Dad wasn’t good at it and didn’t want to take the time to become good at it.
Then we watched golf on television and after an hour, we decided it was definitely too boring to watch. But maybe it was more fun to play? We were trying to give it the benefit of the doubt.
Just before the second period ends, I send Julian a text. Just something simple.
Me
You’re the highlight of this entire game. I can’t wait till you get home.
My finger hovers over the send. Is that too corny? It’s definitely the truth. This game is rough and I’m certainly more invested when he’s on the ice. I hit send and drop my phone onto the couch.
The sound signaling the end of the period has the gameplay stopping. Chicago’s team is heading directly for the chutewithout lingering. I bet it’s hard for them. The stress and frustration.
“Turn the screen,” my father says.
I obediently do so and am looking at my family now.
“Is this what all games look like?” Ishika asks.
