From Couchwarmer to Goalscorer
Kyle isn’t much of an active child. He prefers to lay on the couch in the fetal position with his thumb in his mouth, eyes wide open, thinking about Heaven-only-knows. Every once in a while, he’ll let out a chuckle or get up quickly and run to Dad or me and ask a question. If he does that, it’s a really deep, life altering question such as, “How do the astronauts get to the Moon?” or “When the dinosaurs died, why did the other animals not?” It comes as a surprise usually because he changes gears rapidly, from lazily lounging on the couch to springing up and asking his question with such intensity and haste that his voice rises as high as his eyebrows!
This morning, Dad left to run some errands, and the children completed their laundry chores. Kyle took his favored spot on the couch and coiled into position. I tinkered with my sewing project in the den with the doors open. After a few minutes, I heard Kyle’s feet shuffling across the rug. Actually, his pants’ legs were making the shuffle sound because he wears them so low. I stopped moving scissors and pattern tissue across my desk to hear his mumbling:
“Takes the puck… passes to Yzerman… Federov…”
I take a peek into the living room and see Kyle’s handling the hockey stick, gliding it along the rug. His hair is long, to his waist, covers his face as he looks down to the end of the hockey stick.
“Hull… takes the puck… Chelios… to Federov…”
We make eye contact. He stops. I pretend to stare as he continues to look at me but moves toward the couch.
“Mommy, why are you staring?”
“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking of something.” I go back to my tinkering at the sewing table. He returns to his game. After a few minutes, I hear his mumbling again:
“Yzerman takes the puck. To Chelios. He shoots! HE SCORES!”
From the corner of my eye, I see that Kyle has his stick above his head. He picks up his heels and “skates” like Mike Eruzione did when he scored the winning goal against the Soviets during the Olympic games in 1980.
I try my darndest to be nonchalant when we make eye contact again. He puts down his stick and runs into his bedroom where he and Ty have their own hockey game, leaving me to my own giggles for the next few minutes.
