A woman's take on the coolest game on Earth

By Anna Ziegler

Many people are shocked when they walk into my dorm room for the first time and notice my poster of the New York Rangers hanging amidst photographs of family and friends. "You're a hockey fan?" they inevitably ask. "Of course," I say, always surprised by their astonishment. Is it so inconceivable that a female English major should enjoy a huge check against the boards when the sound resounds throughout the arena, or a tense power play situation when her team is down by one and the clock is ticking down in the third period?

In fact, my whole family became hockey fans during my freshman year in high school, our love for the sport sealed by Mike Richter's save on Pavel Bure's second period penalty shot in Game Four of the 1994 Stanley Cup finals. Of course, the fact that the Rangers won the Cup for the first time in 44 years also helped increase our burgeoning enthusiasm. Watching hockey replaced The Cosby Show and The Wonder Years as a family bonding activity. We'd never been big sports fans before, but we had become fanatics. We sat together tensely a few times a week to cheer on the Blueshirts, really invested in whether they won or lost . We cared about when and if the injured players would return, and about how Neil Smith and the front office could continue to make such seemingly inane moves. We talked about the Rangers at dinner and during car rides.

Hockey became such a central part of my life that I even wrote a personal statement for college about my family's ability to bond over hockey. I wrote about the first NHL game I went to, when my younger brother took me to Madison Square Garden and told me when to sit and stand, and how to avoid the wrath of the bully behind us who berated us for not being consistently loud enough throughout the game. My brother's constant trips to the bathroom after each large soda left me alone and frightened at the mercy of our rowdy section members. Obviously, I wanted to show Yale how strong and brave I was.

At that game I couldn't help but notice the primarily male crowd around me, ranging from the male beer guzzler (who was hooting at the opposing team's goalie, shouting, "Hex-tall, Hex-tall," even after the game had come to a close), to the male business executive, seated in the front of the arena in his suit and tie, entertaining clients while keeping a close eye on the puck.Once I got over my initial intimidation, I really enjoyed myself at that and future hockey games; I didn't understand why hockey didn't draw more women. Perhaps, as a result of writing the personal statement, hockey helped get me into the college of my choice, and Yale accepted me in order to fill its small but important female hockey fan slot.

I've concluded that the essential parts of the game appeal to a unisex crowd--there is nothing inherently male about loving the beauty of a tense moment ended with a goal or a save, nor is there any mandate that one must watch with a Heineken in hand, a derogatory chant on one's lips. The hockey fan, as many don't seem to understand, is in fact quite refined. He or she must be unendingly patient. After all, hockey is a game of waiting for one rare opening, one slip of a stick that will let the puck pass, skidding, careful and deeply cared about, into the enemy net. The game's glory arises from the scarcity of these chances.

Hockey appeals to me as an escape. Since the game forces one to keep an eye on a tiny puck (unless the game is on FOX, whose annoying red line delineates the puck's path), watching is a completely engrossing activity. While watching carefully, I've also noticed that hockey is based on a fundamental contradiction. Although I wouldn't compare it to the antitheses of William Wordsworth, I think there is something to be said for a sport whose players appear graceful much of the time, while injuring people at other times.

Over the years, I've grown attached to certain quirky players: to the completely inarticulate but lovable Esa Tikannen, to Mike Richter with his squeaky-Mickey Mouse-ish voice, and, of course, to The Great One (how could one not?) as he slips into and out of his office, formulating his graceful plans of attack.

As much as I love the players, what I appreciate most is that they seem to love each other more than we love them. In their triumphant throng after the rare goal, the players exude a genuine happiness that also spreads to the viewer, male or female. Women can absorb this ardor, and derive great satisfaction from this game, just as easily as men can.

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