The sun was just rising, and I could see my breath as I dashed into the rink with my bag. The damp smell permeated the air. Familiar and gross, but comforting. Another early Saturday morning with the team. But this team was different. This team was special. I was 2 or 3 years younger than everyone else, and the coach let me skate and shoot as much as I wanted. My heart filled with excitement and my blood pulsed through my veins as I stepped onto the ice. Here we go!
“Girls can’t possibly play hockey as well as boys. I mean, really, what do you expect?”
“There is no way girls can skate that fast. There is no way they can handle a puck like that. Look at his stance?”
“Girls don’t skate that way. Look at his hair, it’s short. That’s a boy. They are definitely cheating.”
“This is bull. Let’s find out. Who should we get to take a picture?”
“Lou will do it, he’s pissed. OK good, we’ll report them.”
All of this chatter behind the scenes. But all I was doing was putting one foot in front of the other on the ice. Oblivious to the rising anger in the stands and the plan for strangers to try and reveal what they thought was a team pimping out a boy hockey player as a girl.
“Jane, get your stuff and get out of the rink quickly!”
“Why? Is everything ok? What happened?” I was scared, why wasn’t anyone talking to me? I had a great game. Isn’t this supposed to be a time to celebrate?
I hurried to get changed. My friends were laughing and dancing their Tik Tok dances. I had cooled down, but started to feel beads of sweat on my forehead. I knew something wasn’t right. My mom’s face looked serious as she waited outside the locker room. Did I do something wrong? She grabbed my hand and led me down the long, damp hallway in a deliberate gait. I stumbled to keep up with her. She stopped and turned to me, “Jane we are going to go right to the car and I’ll explain when we get there.”
A man. About six feet tall. Holding a phone to take pictures. Pictures of me. It’s true. They thought I was a boy. The parents on the other team didn’t believe a girl could play hockey that well. They wanted to expose a drama that didn’t exist. They thought taking a picture of me would prove I was a boy and cement their misguided perception.
Mr. and Mrs. Daley, do you have a minute?” my coach asked.
“Ya, sure, absolutely,” my mom quickly responded.
“Well I wasn’t going to say anything, but this has sort of been happening all season and I didn’t want to draw you into it. But after almost every game, the coach of the opposing teams calls to ask us how we got a waiver.”
“A waiver for what?” my dad asked.
“To have a boy play on the team,” coach answered.
Why couldn’t they just have been happy to see me play?
Whockey Talk 
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