It’s already bad enough that my heart walks around outside my body in two separate human forms, but one of those forms insists on strapping blades the width of a butter knife to his feet, skating onto a frozen sheet of water, and throwing himself between a flying rubber disc and another kid whose sole mission in life is to stop said disc.

Honestly, hockey might as well be called “How To Shave 10 Years Off Mom’s Life Expectancy.”

When a kid goes down on the ice, time stands still. When my kid went down two weeks ago, all I could hear was my own heartbeat pounding like a bad techno remix. Luckily, hubby watches him like a hawk on skates, and as soon as we saw him clutching his stomach (instead of, say, dangling a broken arm) we knew—he’d done it on purpose. He threw his body in front of the puck, fully aware it was going to feel like getting hit by a frozen cannonball. Because hey, protect the goal at all costs, right?

As he lay there on the ice and the coach sauntered out (seriously Guy, maybe jog next time?), I sat flanked by two hockey moms. All three of us were telepathically chanting the same mantra: Get up, buddy. Please be okay. Get up. The dads, of course, were silent—pretending they were totally calm but definitely chanting the exact same thing in their heads.

And then, the magic…

One buddy (whose mom was on my left) scooped up A’s stick and skated him to the bench with an arm around his back. The other buddy (yes, the one with the slap shot that caused the whole scene—his mom was on my right) met them at the boards with a fist bump. One proud dad asked if anyone was getting a picture, and hubby—ever confident in our mom paparazzi skills—said, “Oh, I’m sure the ladies got it.” Except, of course, we were all too busy ugly-crying.

And THAT, friends, is why we survive this lunacy of sports schedules: hockey, lacrosse, gymnastics, repeat. It’s not just about the game. It’s about the friendships, the sideline siblings, the sweaty carpool confessions, and the parents who become your tribe. It’s worth every missed College GameDay, rushed weeknight dinner, and bedtime snack run.

Because here’s the lesson:

• A willingly stepped into the line of fire for his team, knowing it would hurt. That’s life—you do the hard, painful stuff because you signed up for it and the team depends on you.
• When he was down, everyone in the rink willed him back up. Even if you’re not directly in the play, you can still cheer, encourage, and celebrate the wins.
• His buddy carried his stick even though he didn’t have to. Sometimes support looks like carrying the weight—sometimes it’s just lightening the load.
• His “competition” checked on him and gave him a fist bump. Because even when you’re technically on opposite sides, compassion still matters.
• The coach? He took his sweet time for a reason. Panic never helps, and honestly, if he sprinted in sneakers on ice, we’d have had two injuries instead of one.

And the parents? We share the burden too. When your kid’s down on the ice, it’s our kid too. We’re all in this together, held together by tape balls, the stench of hockey gear that could knock out a rhino, raucous rink cheers, and maybe a cold pitcher of whatever’s on tap after the game.

That’s teamwork.