Why I really hate hockey...or...#metoo

I'm not really sure how to go about this. I spent so much of my life trying to pretend like it didn't happen, and pretending like even if it did happen, it really didn't matter. Needed to "man up" and fight through it, like men are taught to do. I'm sure this is the first time I've openly acknowledged that it even happened to anyone than maybe my therapist and my parents.

#metoo

When I was a kid, I played hockey- this isn't that big a deal- I'm from Minnesota, and even the kids in the cities and suburbs played- and we had our own pond that froze over for six months a year, so I always had a place to practice- I supposed if I'd lived in Arizona I might have played hoop or baseball the same way, but alas, that's not how shit worked. Not sure what y'all know about hockey, but I can tell you that as a sport, not the most diverse activity in the world, and especially where I lived, where I was the only black kid in the county, much less the city. And, if it's not too arrogant to say, I was really fucking good- it was probably my most natural sport (and I played Olympic Development soccer later to give a measuring stick of abilities) and the sport that I had the most love for. I'd go out on the pond and practice from the minute I got home until it was too dark to see and even then, it took Ma Dukes to call me in- I'd have played all night if they let me.

When I was seven, I started playing club hockey in Grand Forks, ND. My dad would drive me the almost 100 miles each way from Northern Minnesota to get me to practice twice a week. And it seemed my parents really loved watching me play- it was something the whole family did together, and it kind of brought us together, spending almost 2 hours in each direction to go play led to some incredible conversations on the drive- these conversations gave my parents a cleaner window into my soul, and I gained a vastly better understanding of them from these road trips. It was obvious that hockey was integral to what we were doing as a family. 

What they didn't know, was from the age of eight and for over a year afterwards, I had a hockey coach who felt that part of his job was to be sexually suggestive to me, masturbate in front of me, offer me nude massages and told me if I told anyone, I'd "never fucking play again."

Which is why my parents were devastated when I told my parents I was done and wanted to quit. They wanted to know why. I sure as fuck didn't want to tell them. It was only when my dad said he wouldn't let me quit (he really hated quitting things- probably why I'm quick to pull the trigger to get out of some shit I hate was watching him do a ton of shit I hate) that I swallowed my pride and told my parents:

"I don't like the coach."

That was an insufficient reason for Pops. "I hate my boss too, but you don't see me quitting. Sometimes you have to fight thro..."

"He tried to pull down my pants today."

I've seen many looks on my parents' faces but nothing like this: I couldn't tell what was going on, but could clearly tell something was wrong. So I did what any 9-year-old kid would do.

"I'm sorry."

My dad just got up and went outside for a moment. My mom wanted to know more about what happened- was this the first time? What else had he asked me to do? Had I done anything to him? Did he do anything to me? Did you tell him to leave you alone? My dad returned before I gave my answers.

"Was this the first time?"

No, he's asked me to do things pretty much every day. 

What else had he asked me to do? 

He's offered me naked massages, offered me cash to touch him after he pulled his stuff out. He would make me watch him touch himself until something came out and ask me to touch the stuff coming out of his stuff (my vocabulary was clearly limited)

Had I done anything to him? 

No.

Did he do anything to me? 

What do you mean?

Did he put his thing in you?
Where???

When did this start?

About a month after the new coach came in. 

Did you tell him to leave you alone? 

I told him I was gonna tell you but he said he'd not play me ever if I told anyone.

Why didn't you tell us earlier?
Hockey was important to us. But now I hate playing and I want to never do that again. And since I told you, he said I'd never play again, so...."

I can honestly say I was fortunate- my parents believed me, thought what he did was fucked up and were there to support me in every way possible. After I told my parents what happened, my dad just said "I'll take you to practice, but don't worry, we're not staying...and when we arrived, my dad, just asked "Which one" and when I pointed him out, I saw a side of my dad I didn't know existed, as he dragged the coach outside for a "conversation" that involved Dad showing him the use of his hands in a combat situation (which apparently he learned in Vietnam) and beat. the. hell. out. of. my. coach. Immediately upon finishing the beating, my dad and I got back in the car and went home. On both the ride down and the ride back, my father drove in absolute silence- no radio, no speaking. Nothing but a Bataan Death March feel on the way down, and a Reverse Bataan on the way back. As we pulled into the driveway, he just looked at me and said he was sorry. We went in the house, he and my mom left the room and all I could hear was him crying while she told him to not worry about it. I never asked what that was about, and I'm absolutely sure I'm a better person for not knowing. That was my last day in a hockey rink as a player, and I never played another game again (I did skate with Golden Bear Hockey but they were so. fucking. bad. that I never played a game with them).

Fast forward 35 years....I'd like to think that any effects of that shit head of a coach have run their course. But I know they haven't.  I like to tell people that the reason I stopped loving hockey related to my North Stars moved to Dallas. And while that may very well have been the straw that broke the camel's back, if I'm honest with myself, I know that wasn't when it ended- it ended when a old white man made me watch him masturbate and told me if I told anyone, I'd not play, when he knew how important hockey was to not just me, but to my entire family. I even still a weird feeling when I watch hockey- despite a literally quarter-century hiatus from the game, sitting in the stands for the first home game for the Las Vegas Golden Knights, thousands of miles from home of my hockey nightmares, I still felt it- every time I began to get comfortable at the game, I'd begin to feel sick to my stomach in the same way I did when I had to go to practice and knew of the inevitable.

More importantly, I'm 100% sure it fucked me with regard to issues of trust. Most of you that know me understand that I trust almost nobody- and it takes a ton of time, effort and honestly, even some good luck for me to even think about trusting you. I didn't really give it a lot of thought until I started thinking about my time with a predator- but one of the reasons I don't trust easily or often is tied to the idea that someone who I needed to trust, someone who had obtained the trust of my parents, violated my trust and attempted to violate me in ways unconscionable. If the person you trust crushes that trust, they're not crushing that trust, they're crushing trust, which tends to be irreversible. Not just in his actions, which were perverse, but the entire thing- placing me in situations he knew would elicit the responses he wanted. He chose to do things that would make sure I didn't say anything. 

It also made me, for a long time, really hate myself. I fully understand the victim should never feel responsible for the abuse. I get it. But none of that really changed the look in my parents' eyes when I told them- it's one I'll never forget, because it was the same look they had when I was diagnosed with leukaemia: like someone had destroyed their hearts, simultaneously. I remember at that time looking at the doctor and hating him, not for telling me I had something that I couldn't pronounce and no real understanding of what it meant for me, but for his words and the way they made my parents feel. The only other time I saw that reaction from them was when I told them about the abuse. Only problem- this time I was the one delivering the news. I was the one who told them what seemed to kill them inside. And the same hatred I had for the doctor that day only a few years earlier I now fostered in my own heart for myself. I know my coach is the perpetrator, but he didn't have to tell them and break their hearts.

Why did I even write this? I'd pushed it into the depths of my mind and soul for over a third of a century. But in some ways, I've been waiting for 30+ years to write this. I think I've had the vocabulary to do so for most of that time, but my fear restrained me. Not really sure what there was to be afraid of, but one of the wonderful curses of masculinity is an inability to articulate how we feel- we're socially trained to do and to act, not to feel. I was afraid if I told anyone, they'd think less of me. I was afraid they'd think it was consensual. I was afraid everyone would just shun me. I was afraid of all those things. But the thing I was most afraid of: I was afraid nobody would believe me. And as horrifying as having to live through the ordeal was, as miserable as it made me feel while it was happening, I'd shown the courage to tell someone, and they'd not have believed me, I'm not sure how I would have dealt with that. I know more women than I should who have a story (or multiple stories) like the one I describe, and sometimes way worse than what I described.

This is just a reminder that abuse isn't gender specific. I also hope it gives someone peace of mind to know they weren't alone.

It's now abundantly clear the magnitude of abuse targeted at girls and women. I just wanted to make it clear that the issue is broader than that.