Hockey Mom: C'est moi?

When my son was just three, he saw hockey. It happened in Central Park. We were there for an innocent walk around the Harlem Meer when we came upon the ice rink, and on the ice were ten-year-old gladiators with masks and sticks zooming around the ice. Elliot was transfixed. That winter, we started ice skating and Elliot started watching a compilation video of Alexander Ovechkin set to Dream On. I myself had to take a private lesson to learn how to skate. Helen, my daughter, had better balance, but Elliot, he had a goal. He was determined to skate so he could play hockey. Last winter, we told him, again, that he had to learn to skate before he could play. Every time we went skating, he begged for a hockey stick. Now, the boy is five, and while I signed up three weeks late, Friday we'll get him outfitted in hockey gear and Saturday he'll have his first hockey class. I'm filled with hope and dread. I hope his heart isn't broken by hockey. I hope he can skate with the gear on, not to mention the new skates. I hope loves it. I really do. But if he loves it, are we doomed to years of seven AM games and even earlier practices? Hockey: A love story. Who knew?