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loki604
Don't Blame the Refs
So this will be quite long just to warn you. But I was thinking about all of this (this being Patrick and Brendan Burke + family + hockey) and wanted to share a family hockey story, and thought maybe you guys would have some too. I know I harp on a lot about the whole gay thing, but I promise this isn't a soapbox rant - it was just a story I felt the need to tell in response to Patrick Burke's dedication to a cause. I think what his brother did while he was alive was amazing; my brother has been pretty cool too.
On that site where Patrick Burke (for those playing catch up, current scout for the Flyers, son of Brian, brother of Brendan (who was gay and came out and then tragically died in a car accident), founder of the You can Play Project, which is geared towards fighting homophobia in sports) was inviting questions, I sent him a private message. He and Brendan have been inspirations to me for awhile. So I figured I would tell him the story about me, my brother, hockey, and me being gay. It's long so I didn't expect him to read it.
I'll throw his message here first, since it's short. If you want to read what I wrote him, I'll post it below that.
After my initial message, he sent me: Thank you for the great note. Please thank your brother on my behalf. I will continue to fight for LGBT athletes until the day I die. Best of luck, P Burke
Here's what I sent him (I went back and edited some because I might send it to my brother since Patrick told me to thank him):
Patrick,
<snip> The parts where I thanked Patrick <snip>
I am a 24-year old lesbian. I have been a hockey fan since I can remember (seven? eight years old?). I know you are a Flyers guy now, but bear with me even though I'm a Pens fan.
I have an older brother. It is my relationship with him that has been influenced both by hockey and by being gay. When I think of my relationship with my brother, two things stick out in my mind:
1) Going to see Mario Lemieux's comeback game live at the civic arena. I was 13 when I saw that game. It was the only game I went to that year; my parents had bought tickets as a Christmas gift to that particular game by pure chance. And I sat with my brother and there was this surreal moment as that 66 banner came down. My brother and I were not very much alike; still, at this place, at this time, we were thinking and marveling and being grateful for the same thing: hockey. It brought us together. We were a close family by default. We were a closer family and even actual friends because of nights like that, ones that seemed to me to transcend the label of the well-we-do-share-blood family. It made it something real, tangible. If I concentrated hard in that moment, I could reach out and touch it. It was just a hockey game to a lot of people; to me, I felt closer to my brother than I ever had in my entire life. A seed had been planted before - hockey was the thing we were somewhat united by - but this game solidified it.
We were so different! I was a nerdy book-loving 13-year old. My 19 year-old-brother, a jock who had little patience for me, given my age. Hockey brought us back to common ground. It still does to this day. We might get into an argument and then the next day, my brother is texting me to make sure I watched some amazing goal or to comment on a particular trade rumor. I get a little defensive of hockey when people try to trivialize it. I don't know if it's like that for you because it means so much to you, or because you've been around it to the point where it's commonplace, you're more able to shrug those comments off. I would respect either one. But hockey for me, while available to anyone with access to a TV, a radio, a public library, or a rink, sometimes never stops being a bond between my brother and I. Like I'm a little kid again, I want to keep it a secret. Something we have exclusive rights to. But I've grown up and realized that hockey is only a part of our relationship; and while pucks and sticks no longer define that relationship, hockey has created a solid foundation, one much stronger than that of the house we grew up in.
And my brother got even better:
When I realized I was gay, the next realization that occurred to me was all the people I had to tell. I admit, I told my sisters before my brother. It's not that I thought my brother would have a problem with it, but I was nervous about having a conversation with him. Also, I anticipated acceptance from him, but I felt that I never could be sure...how could I until I told him? I was a goalie, an unfamiliar shooter was coming towards me on the penalty shot, and all I had was some experience, technique, reflexes, and a whole lot of guesswork. If you put them all together on paper, it sounded like you might make a save, but when you're the unsure one, you're sitting back, playing deep in the crease, waiting for the other guy to make the first move. Even though it might have been scarier, it would have probably been easier to go with the poke check.
My brother's wife already knew; she was the first one who knew, actually. We were very close and I had known her since I was a child. She was compassionate and understanding, a person I knew wouldn't force me into any decision. She would be calm. Non-judgmental. She would listen. What I will never forget is her agreeing to keep my secret. She was married to my brother. But this was my story to tell or hand out the rights to. She understood that, even though it would have been completely reasonable for her to tell me that she had to say something. I didn't wait that long to tell him the truth. But a few months later, when my sisters knew and it came time to explain everything to my brother, I just couldn't do it. I felt strange, disconnected. My sister-in-law offered to tell him. I took her up on it. Kind of cowardly for sure, but it was really more of an uncomfortable feeling.
He called me soon after.
"Why did you wait so long?" He asked me. "Did you think I would say something? Did you think I would be mad?" No response from me right away. I drank in his words. I hadn't taken them for granted before. And I didn't then. He was annoyed and possibly hurt, not because I was gay, but because he interpreted my actions as a vote of non-confidence. I shouldn't have been happy and relieved, but I was. As much as you always want to imagine the best possible coming out scenario, the realistic voice in your head kicks in, warning you not to set yourself up for disappointment. Can't get too confident. You want to believe the best of everyone and think things are all on your side, but even with my brother, I was weary of the trap game. I could worry about the bigger threat down the road and lose two points right in front of me. Best to treat every seeming-opponent the same. Finally, I spoke; "No...not that," I said. "It was just...honestly awkward...I don't know..." Then there was the I love you. It meant a lot, but people put it on too high of a pedestal relative to everything else. He said a lot of things that meant just as much: "We have your back." "I'm still going to make fun of you, so don't think you're getting off the hook." "I wish you had told me sooner, but I'm so glad you were able to go to sister-in-law and talk to her. I wouldn't want her to tell me unless you wanted me to know."
Not all of my extended family knows. A lot of them are against homosexuality. But when the topic comes up, when other family members say negative things about gays, it's hard to hear what they're saying, really. My brother barely lets them talk. He doesn't ever say he's fighting for me, but of course he is. He always is. You get checked a lot during the course of a game, a season. A lot of those checks are dirty, ugly hits; they summon in you a fleeting moment of disbelief. You're down on the ice; for a second the wind is knocked out of you. You wonder if you really were just wrecked that hard. But me? I collect my helmet. I get up. By the time I'm back on my skates, my brother is in the scrum, trying to drop the gloves. I stand taller when he does that, I’m much prouder, and while my team might be short a couple guys, the rest of the league put together couldn't match their intensity, their loyalty. I try to barrel my way into the skirmish. When my brother sticks up for me, I believe in myself ten times more. I can take any of those guys. My brother is yapping, still trying to get the other guy to back his dirty hit up with some punches. When the dirty player, the bigot, won't drop 'em?
My brother collects his discarded gloves from the ice, takes the number of the gutless adversary, who tries to hide behind a whistle or words, and skates to the penalty box. Gives me a head nod. Next time, it says.
In real life, the emotion takes over and it's hard for me to speak.
In the alternate hockey life, I point my stick at my brother and head towards center ice.
Next goal is for him.
Fin.
If you made it that far, that's my long drawn-out story about how hockey has had an impact on my family and my life. I know this forum isn't exactly the proper place for something like this, but between what Patrick Burke is doing and the way it all ties in with my own brother, I couldn't help but post this in hopes of possibly hearing some other hockey and family stories. Plus, I "know" you people somewhat. And lastly, since Patrick is a member of the Flyers organization, I may have gained a modicum of respect for them.
May have.
On that site where Patrick Burke (for those playing catch up, current scout for the Flyers, son of Brian, brother of Brendan (who was gay and came out and then tragically died in a car accident), founder of the You can Play Project, which is geared towards fighting homophobia in sports) was inviting questions, I sent him a private message. He and Brendan have been inspirations to me for awhile. So I figured I would tell him the story about me, my brother, hockey, and me being gay. It's long so I didn't expect him to read it.
I'll throw his message here first, since it's short. If you want to read what I wrote him, I'll post it below that.
After my initial message, he sent me: Thank you for the great note. Please thank your brother on my behalf. I will continue to fight for LGBT athletes until the day I die. Best of luck, P Burke
Here's what I sent him (I went back and edited some because I might send it to my brother since Patrick told me to thank him):
Patrick,
<snip> The parts where I thanked Patrick <snip>
I am a 24-year old lesbian. I have been a hockey fan since I can remember (seven? eight years old?). I know you are a Flyers guy now, but bear with me even though I'm a Pens fan.
I have an older brother. It is my relationship with him that has been influenced both by hockey and by being gay. When I think of my relationship with my brother, two things stick out in my mind: 1) Going to see Mario Lemieux's comeback game live at the civic arena. I was 13 when I saw that game. It was the only game I went to that year; my parents had bought tickets as a Christmas gift to that particular game by pure chance. And I sat with my brother and there was this surreal moment as that 66 banner came down. My brother and I were not very much alike; still, at this place, at this time, we were thinking and marveling and being grateful for the same thing: hockey. It brought us together. We were a close family by default. We were a closer family and even actual friends because of nights like that, ones that seemed to me to transcend the label of the well-we-do-share-blood family. It made it something real, tangible. If I concentrated hard in that moment, I could reach out and touch it. It was just a hockey game to a lot of people; to me, I felt closer to my brother than I ever had in my entire life. A seed had been planted before - hockey was the thing we were somewhat united by - but this game solidified it.
We were so different! I was a nerdy book-loving 13-year old. My 19 year-old-brother, a jock who had little patience for me, given my age. Hockey brought us back to common ground. It still does to this day. We might get into an argument and then the next day, my brother is texting me to make sure I watched some amazing goal or to comment on a particular trade rumor. I get a little defensive of hockey when people try to trivialize it. I don't know if it's like that for you because it means so much to you, or because you've been around it to the point where it's commonplace, you're more able to shrug those comments off. I would respect either one. But hockey for me, while available to anyone with access to a TV, a radio, a public library, or a rink, sometimes never stops being a bond between my brother and I. Like I'm a little kid again, I want to keep it a secret. Something we have exclusive rights to. But I've grown up and realized that hockey is only a part of our relationship; and while pucks and sticks no longer define that relationship, hockey has created a solid foundation, one much stronger than that of the house we grew up in.
And my brother got even better:
When I realized I was gay, the next realization that occurred to me was all the people I had to tell. I admit, I told my sisters before my brother. It's not that I thought my brother would have a problem with it, but I was nervous about having a conversation with him. Also, I anticipated acceptance from him, but I felt that I never could be sure...how could I until I told him? I was a goalie, an unfamiliar shooter was coming towards me on the penalty shot, and all I had was some experience, technique, reflexes, and a whole lot of guesswork. If you put them all together on paper, it sounded like you might make a save, but when you're the unsure one, you're sitting back, playing deep in the crease, waiting for the other guy to make the first move. Even though it might have been scarier, it would have probably been easier to go with the poke check.
My brother's wife already knew; she was the first one who knew, actually. We were very close and I had known her since I was a child. She was compassionate and understanding, a person I knew wouldn't force me into any decision. She would be calm. Non-judgmental. She would listen. What I will never forget is her agreeing to keep my secret. She was married to my brother. But this was my story to tell or hand out the rights to. She understood that, even though it would have been completely reasonable for her to tell me that she had to say something. I didn't wait that long to tell him the truth. But a few months later, when my sisters knew and it came time to explain everything to my brother, I just couldn't do it. I felt strange, disconnected. My sister-in-law offered to tell him. I took her up on it. Kind of cowardly for sure, but it was really more of an uncomfortable feeling.
He called me soon after.
"Why did you wait so long?" He asked me. "Did you think I would say something? Did you think I would be mad?" No response from me right away. I drank in his words. I hadn't taken them for granted before. And I didn't then. He was annoyed and possibly hurt, not because I was gay, but because he interpreted my actions as a vote of non-confidence. I shouldn't have been happy and relieved, but I was. As much as you always want to imagine the best possible coming out scenario, the realistic voice in your head kicks in, warning you not to set yourself up for disappointment. Can't get too confident. You want to believe the best of everyone and think things are all on your side, but even with my brother, I was weary of the trap game. I could worry about the bigger threat down the road and lose two points right in front of me. Best to treat every seeming-opponent the same. Finally, I spoke; "No...not that," I said. "It was just...honestly awkward...I don't know..." Then there was the I love you. It meant a lot, but people put it on too high of a pedestal relative to everything else. He said a lot of things that meant just as much: "We have your back." "I'm still going to make fun of you, so don't think you're getting off the hook." "I wish you had told me sooner, but I'm so glad you were able to go to sister-in-law and talk to her. I wouldn't want her to tell me unless you wanted me to know."
Not all of my extended family knows. A lot of them are against homosexuality. But when the topic comes up, when other family members say negative things about gays, it's hard to hear what they're saying, really. My brother barely lets them talk. He doesn't ever say he's fighting for me, but of course he is. He always is. You get checked a lot during the course of a game, a season. A lot of those checks are dirty, ugly hits; they summon in you a fleeting moment of disbelief. You're down on the ice; for a second the wind is knocked out of you. You wonder if you really were just wrecked that hard. But me? I collect my helmet. I get up. By the time I'm back on my skates, my brother is in the scrum, trying to drop the gloves. I stand taller when he does that, I’m much prouder, and while my team might be short a couple guys, the rest of the league put together couldn't match their intensity, their loyalty. I try to barrel my way into the skirmish. When my brother sticks up for me, I believe in myself ten times more. I can take any of those guys. My brother is yapping, still trying to get the other guy to back his dirty hit up with some punches. When the dirty player, the bigot, won't drop 'em?
My brother collects his discarded gloves from the ice, takes the number of the gutless adversary, who tries to hide behind a whistle or words, and skates to the penalty box. Gives me a head nod. Next time, it says.
In real life, the emotion takes over and it's hard for me to speak.
In the alternate hockey life, I point my stick at my brother and head towards center ice.
Next goal is for him.
Fin.
If you made it that far, that's my long drawn-out story about how hockey has had an impact on my family and my life. I know this forum isn't exactly the proper place for something like this, but between what Patrick Burke is doing and the way it all ties in with my own brother, I couldn't help but post this in hopes of possibly hearing some other hockey and family stories. Plus, I "know" you people somewhat. And lastly, since Patrick is a member of the Flyers organization, I may have gained a modicum of respect for them.
May have.
)
