The Stop and Wave

Danny played hockey like he was a figure skater. At least when he was five years old. The whole family would sit in the stands at the Stoneham Arena and watch Danny glide down the ice on two rubbery legs during his very first hockey games. He loved being out on the ice, especially because he got the chance to wave to his adoring fan club. Sitting between sparse family clans in the bleachers with my hot chocolate, I was envious that I didn’t have older siblings myself. I would stare out at Danny and watch him hustle halfway toward the traveling puck and then grimace as he would inevitably give up on the pursuit. Like a figure skater who just ended a perfect routine, he would search the stands, and then wave to us from the ice with a smile that could have powered the zamboni. He was thrilled to be skating, he was thrilled that we were all there, and he was thrilled to be the center of attention for an hour.

My mom thought it was adorable – the waving and the happiness. Danny’s future athletic frame was hostage to flexible and supple muscles and every move he made on the ice echoed through layers of hockey equipment. When he would do the “Stop & Wave”, he never quite stopped or waved. He would lift his hand off his stick, nudge his helmet off his forehead with the oversized glove, look up almost to the ceiling with his eyes barely peeking out from underneath, smile and twist his arm at us like the Queen of England. This would all happen as he was still gliding on the ice. We all thought it was adorable. Actually, the only person I imagine did not find this behavior adorable was Gretchen, who at the time was deadly serious about hockey and had her deadly serious reputation to uphold around boys who doubted her serious talent. I can see her at seven, rolling her eyes at her brother on the ice as she stood with her nose against the plexiglass boards.

My dad thought it was cute, too, but noticed that Danny was having a hard time re-establishing his grip on his hockey stick after each “Stop & Wave.” After what I am sure were deep contemplations about strategy and implementation, my dad decided that he was going to place a piece of hockey tape at the point on the stick where Danny should replace his hand after each waving episode. I recall standing in the kitchen, eating cereal, watching my dad sit on a chair as he questioned Danny about the precise spot where the tape should be applied.

My dad is very precise and offers a similar line of questioning to each of his children, regardless of the subject matter: “Ok…now, show me exactly.”

Which always results in exasperated responses like Danny’s at the time: “Right there, Dad!”

My dad requested that he show him exactly how he held his stick.

As Danny was standing in his hockey uniform he displayed one of his stronger characteristics that he exudes today: confidence bordering on arrogance. He took the stick and without an ounce of humor, which at age 14 I thought was very funny, walked into the living room where there was plenty of space and studiously envisioned himself on the ice. He placed his hands on the stick, bent his rubbery legs, and grounded the blade into the wood floor. My dad watched him with equal solemnity.

“Ok. Come back over here. Let me see,” he had convinced my dad that he had marked the correct spot on the stick.

With cereal in mouth, I was giggling and Danny saw me. That’s always bad. If he’s not trying to make you laugh, and you are doing just that, he will hold a grudge for days (it may be longer now). I got the grudge face thrust at me that morning.

That day at the rink, Danny’s recovery from each “Stop & Wave” routine sped up just a little bit. After each Queen Elizabeth wave, he quickly placed his hand right back down on the stick, where it was marked with tape and continued on his rubbery legs to catch up with the puck. I’m not sure how long the “Stop & Wave” continued during Danny’s early hockey career. At some point the puck stole his undivided attention, or the competition to reach the puck presented itself, or maybe Gretchen gave him a talking to, or maybe the fan club dwindled.

Nine years separate me and Danny and it is almost impossible for me to not chuckle when I see him for the first time in awhile. He was eight years old when I left home for college, so the majority of my memories of him are affectionate. For the most part I missed the 12 year old brother phase which I “enjoyed” with Tommy and nothing that Danny and I went through together was traumatic. I think that I have been in physical fights with all of my siblings except for Danny: he quickly went from being too small to being too big to engage in anything of the sort. And him being too big makes me giggle. He may be 6’2” and weigh 185 pounds, but little does he know that when he walks into a room I see rubbery legs through his athletic frame. When I watch him drive off in his car waving out the window, I imagine him gazing back at the steering wheel looking for the piece of tape where his hand should land.