From the Sidelines: Breaking the ice in coed hockey

By Karen Rosenberg

The counselor at the Can-Am hockey camp lofted the puck toward me for the 100th time. "You can shoot harder at me," I shouted. I was the only girl on the ice, the only girl in the goalie training program, and the only girl in the entire summer camp at Lake Placid that week--but I expected to be treated like the other goalies who were fending off slap shots. The counselor stopped shooting, skated over, and said, "It's not because you're a girl. It's because when I look at you, I see a small goalie, and I don't want to shoot too hard. But I'll give you some harder shots if you want." His next one dented my helmet.

When my ears stopped ringing, I considered what he had said. His comments made me realize that the situation was more complex than I had supposed, and that perhaps I was too defensive about my unusual status as the only girl at a guys' camp in what is often considered a guys' sport. During the rest of that week, I was challenged and pushed to the limits of my ability as much as any boy in the program. Sure, there were a few exceptions, like former Philadelphia Flyers goalie Bob Froese, who focused more on my ponytail than my positioning, saying, "Corey Hirsch always told me, `I'd rather be dead than red in the head,' but you're the prettiest goalie I've seen." But he was part of the old guard, from the days before players wore helmets, before Cammi Granato and Manon Rheaume. The newer players seemed to be able to adjust to a female presence; on the ice, I was treated just like one of the guys.

Off the ice, it was a different story. The physical locker-room issues were easily solved by separate changing rooms, but more subtle tensions lingered. I encountered a variety of reactions. Some of the boys turned red if they uttered a swear word in my presence, while others were a little too friendly. Many simply ignored me. Camp friendships began to form during precious spare time and the walks from room to rink, which were often marked by aggressive wallops on the back or ridiculous pranks involving athletic supporters. Of course, I was included in none of these male-bonding rituals, and I wouldn't have wanted to take part in most of them. Still, I wouldn't have minded a friendly "How're ya doin'?" from time to time. It's difficult to feel like part of a team when you're lacing your skates alone in a cold, silent locker room.

The week's experience gave me a good idea of what to expect the following year, when I was to play as a backup goalie on my high school hockey team. In previous years I had only played on a girls' club team, apart from occasional weekend pick-up games on frozen ponds with my father's "geezer league." The camp experience made me believe that I would receive equal treatment on the ice. While it gave me less hope for off-ice treatment, I was optimistic that during a long season, I would come to be viewed as an equal in every respect.

Again, on the ice, there was no doubt that I was part of the team. My coach and teammates expected the same from me that they would from any male player; no one tamed their shots or excused me from lung-burning "suicides." And I saw even more game time than I had expected due to the starting goalie's midseason wrist fracture. Yet once we left the ice I encountered the same awkwardness, the same silent treatment that I had experienced at camp. Long bus rides became an opportunity to bond with my Walkman and "focus on the game" while everyone around me chattered away. I couldn't tell if their behavior stemmed from adolescent discomfort in the presence of the opposite gender or from resentment at my violation of an unspoken code.

Given, female teams have their own gender-specific topics of locker-room conversation, and a male joining a female team would likely feel awkward. It's no surprise that the dynamics of team interaction owe much to shared physical experience or that teams tend to encourage conformity. However, none of this explains why, when I recently ran into my team's other goalie at a local rink, he barely offered me a nod despite the countless 5:45 a.m. practices we once endured together. At the team's annual alumni game, why was I only greeted silently with a few silent raised eyebrows?

As women's hockey--and women's sports in general--gain momentum, more and more women will find themselves on predominantly men's teams. Each season, I see more women in the IM hockey locker room, and on several teams, women are among the dominant regulars. Yet in light of this shift toward truly coed teams, it is more important for players not to divide along gender lines the moment they step off the ice.

Any successful team depends on a close group of individuals who support each other in and out of the game. Achieving these bonds on coed teams is difficult but by no means impossible. Teammates of both sexes must simply be willing to make the effort.

Back to Sports...