Traditions

Christmas on the Rocks

By Kirk Siegler, 12-22-05

	Troubleshooting - Players double as handymen when the goals break

For most families, the holiday season means gift giving, baking, eating, parties, maybe even caroling. For ours, it’s blood sport.

That’s because for the last two decades or so, Christmas day on a small pond near Missoula has been more a clash of cultures, an ideological war over ideas, terrorism on ice really, than a celebration of the joyous holiday season.

For most of us, it’s the only time we’ll lace up skates the whole year, and there’s usually a few who’ve never been on them – they’re issued a loaner pair of figure skates with roots that trace back to the Industrial Revolution. To call this hockey would be irresponsible. It’s more like flailing really, or tripping or pushing or biting or stick-throwing or all five at once. It’s pretty organic. Most people wear ski helmets and knee pads better suited for volleyball. It’s also required that you not know how to skate, or if you do, you’d better as hell not do it more than once a year.

We usually don’t keep score either, because it’s so rare that a puck will actually make it through the homemade, wooden goal. It’s not rare, however, that an exposed nail on those score markers will put the fear of god into the eyes of an incoming skater.

Still, the game has evolved over time, for better or worse. At its finest hour, in the late nineties, it was nearly class warfare out there. That was when some neighbors, not naming any names (Ken Britton and family), used to bring over their relatives from Minnesota and Sun Valley. The whole nature of the game changed. All of the sudden, seven or eight people could actually skate, and more importantly, stop on command. And much to the chagrin of the others, these uninvited guests could easily steal pucks and effortlessly place them between the goal posts – at speeds and heights we had never before seen. Some in our family took it personal, going straight for the youngest Britton’s knees. Others took more conciliatory routes and sat out if they weren’t tapped to play with the good guys. The Brittons have since moved away mysteriously, and both the tone and skill level of the game have spiraled dramatically.

We’ve made up the difference by adding alcohol to the festivities. My dad now offers up his homemade eggnog, a nearly flammable elixir of 12 egg whites, chewy orange rinds and at least two-fifths of bourbon. We’ve found drinking can give much needed confidence to first time skaters, and add fuel to the fire of the battle-hardened more experienced players.

	Skaters and spectators take a break for a much deserved toast of Aquavit, a Scandinavian holiday favorite

It’s also anecdotally contributed to a fair number of injuries. The aforementioned eggnog guy two years ago collided with a family friend, tearing several ligaments in his knee in the process. That family friend, not naming any names (Lisa Blank), has since conveniently been showing up just as night falls, and the players are heading in for dinner.

To say that we males can be a bit obsessive with tasks is an understatement. For each year, starting around the 21st, my dad (who’s since recovered) proudly puts on his Hartford Whalers jersey (now a collector's item from the defunct NHL team that he scored from one of my brother’s old girlfriends) and heads down to the family pond with his prized snow shovel. Emblazoned with the moniker “Siegler� on his back, and one of his sons’ tired old ski hats, the man can be seen and heard shoveling snow well into the wee hours of the morning in the days leading up to Christmas.

But most of us aren’t complaining, and pretty much everyone remembers to thank him for all his hard work. I did in person around 11:45 last night, in hopes that, come Christmas Day, he’d pour me a little extra eggnog and I’d have the confidence to transition from a first time skater, to a battle hardened veteran.

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