Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet.
~Vietnamese Proverb
The good Lord blessed us with four children, all born in fairly rapid succession in the 1980s. Two, separated by a mere sixteen months, are particularly close.
Sarah, the older, and Brian, the younger, were constant play companions as toddlers. That bond continued throughout their childhood, and became even stronger when sports became a big part of their lives. No matter the sport, the two would be in the yard or the driveway — one the quarterback, the other a receiver; one a pitcher, the other a catcher; one a shooting guard, the other a defender.
But among the variety of sports that our children tried, hockey seemed to bring the clan closest together. As Brian progressed through the youth-hockey ranks beginning at age six, Sarah became his biggest fan. She wouldn’t miss a game. Whether it was at our community rink on the other side of town or a three-day tournament across the border in Canada, she would be cheering wildly from the bleachers.
As he entered his preteens, Brian became a pretty good defense-man and was selected to play travel hockey. As the competitiveness increased on the ice, the intensity also increased in the stands.
Sarah’s dedication to her brother never waned. But, as kids often do, Sarah would occasionally break a household rule and face some discipline from Mom and Dad.
On one occasion, she did something worthy of a punishment. Sending her to her room seemed a little childish, and taking away TV privileges was no big deal to her, but she needed to face some consequences for the infraction.
So, as parents, we told her (and I quote), “We’re not taking you to Brian’s hockey game on Saturday.”
Well, you would’ve thought she had been sentenced to life in prison. She begged, pleaded, ranted, raved and negotiated for a different punishment. But we stuck to our guns and reaffirmed, “We’re not taking you to Brian’s game Saturday.”
It was a local game, and at age twelve, Sarah was old enough to be left home alone for a couple hours, no matter how mad she was. As the rest of the family headed to the rink, I felt like we had achieved a parental victory, assured that she had accepted her punishment.
The winters in our hometown of Oswego, New York, are harsh, but this was an especially bitter February day. Not only did we have our usual several feet of snow on the ground, but we were also dealing with sub-freezing temperatures.
During a stoppage of play about midway through the first period of the game, I happened to look across the rink and was shocked to see Sarah walk in. I immediately went over to my wife and asked, “Did you go home and get Sarah?”
My wife and I were usually on the same page when it came to disciplining the kids, so she looked surprised and asked, “No, why?”
I could only point across the rink and mumble, “I think that’s her.”
I wasn’t certain looking that far across the expanse of ice, but her blue-and-gold winter coat was unmistakable. Some of my uncertainty came from looking at her face, which was as red as a tomato. I was also stunned because she had been grounded from the game, and neither my wife nor I had backtracked on the punishment.
The first period ended moments later, so we approached her. Her face was indeed bright red, and she had ice in her eyebrows.
“I thought we told you that you couldn’t come to the game today,” I barked.
“No,” she replied as if she had rehearsed this line. “You said you weren’t ‘taking’ me to the game.”
Though I was an English teacher and have studied linguistics, I was speechless.
Darn, I thought. She’s right. I did say “taking.” But how did she get to the rink? When I asked her who brought her, she replied, “Nobody.”
Considering the wind-chill factor, and taking into account the two miles from our home to the rink, I knew she couldn’t have walked, but I had to ask anyway. “Did you walk?”
With a look of stubbornness and sheer determination, she looked me in the eyes and stated, “Nope. I rode my bike.”
No way! I was dumbfounded. In a climate where sometimes SUVs with snow tires and four-wheel drive get stuck, she rode her bicycle two miles to watch her brother play a hockey game?
I actually thought she was joking. I figured she had cajoled an unsuspecting grandparent into giving her a ride. I was sure that I had hung the kids’ bikes on hooks from the garage ceiling for winter storage.
Again, I said, “No way!”
“Yep,” she boasted as only a defiant twelve-year-old can. “I got my bike down with a ladder, pumped up the tires, and here I am.”
Still not believing, I said “no way” for a third time and added, “Where’s the bike?”
“I parked it out in the snow bank,” she replied.
I had to confirm. With the Zamboni still doing its intermission resurfacing of the ice, I went outside to investigate. Sure enough, her purple ten-speed bicycle was propped up in the snow that had been plowed from the parking lot.
As a parent, I always hated to be outsmarted by my kids, but I chalked this one up in the loss column. Technically, Sarah didn’t disobey us. We didn’t say she couldn’t go to the game; we said we weren’t taking her! In addition, she demonstrated independence and resourcefulness in getting to the game, while continuing her loyalty to her brother as his number-one fan.
As bizarre as it seems for a twelve-year-old to ride a bicycle two miles on a February day in the snowbelt of Upstate New York, Sarah wasn’t just crazy; she was crazy about her brother.
~Mike McCrobie
