You get up at ungodly hours to pack heavy equipment bags into an SUV and then drive untold miles to rinks 30 towns away. You spend your weekend sitting on cold metal bleachers, drinking bad hot chocolate until the last player waddles out of the locker room to make the long drive back home.
You are the hockey mom, whose dedication knows no bounds ... and whose gratitude is, unfortunately, an occasional flying puck slamming into your torso. Ouch.
Here's to you, hockey moms of the world, for your ability to hang in there and laugh it off ... until your inevitable tirade at the coach for not teaching that [expletive] kid how to play the [expletive] puck off the [expletive] [expletive] glass, you [expletive].
(For the record: We'd like to buy a beverage for the "did ya get his number?" guy. Classic.)