Who knew that puck bunnies were an international species

Let me go back 30 or 35 years to when I spent a significant portion of my life in one rink or another. I grew up in a small city where skating and its variations were the center of almost everyone's social and athletic life. We all skated -- and quite well -- by the time we entered school. And being a hockey player was a natural step in most boys (and some girls) development.

By extension, cheerleaders were important but I always poo poo'ed them as pathetic and only one step above the garden-variety puck bunny. What can I say, I was a feminist in those heady days.

Unfortunately, I was, by default, a bit of a hypocrite because my teenage boyfriend was a hockey player -- and a good one at that. Therefore, in the years before I could drive, I just got dropped off at the rink regularly to watch games and the odd practice. And then, when I got my license, my boyfriend's parents withdrew themselves from the child-imposed obligation of picking up and dropping off of their offspring hockey players figuring that if I had a car and I was going to be there anyway, I might as well do all the driving. (That was years before I started to hate the carpooling obligations that came with being a parent.)

What I did learn at a very young age is that wherever there are young male athletes, there are admiring young babes. And when those young athletes are hockey players then the babes are called puck bunnies. Let me state here, once and for all: I was never a puck bunny. I was just too cool and I had no interest in hockey players in general. For me, my association with hockey players was a very specific thing.

When we entered the Canada Center in Metulla two days ago, I wasn't sure if there would be any puck bunnies. I wasn't really sure if puck bunnies were a Canadian phenomenon. Now I know for sure: wherever a hockey player can skate, a puck bunny can hop.

It makes perfect sense but I guess I was trying to convince myself that in Israel things are different. They aren't, but it was worth a try.

I did follow the whole Wilt Chamberlain "I-had-20,000-sex-partners" story about 18 years back and I have watched enough movies about professional athletes to get the picture about the meeting and mating of groupies and athletes. However, I was very taken by the Israeli puck bunnies. They were a new phenomenon for me.

First of all they don't wear boots or winter jackets. Technically that should compromise the title "bunnies" because bunnies should be warm and fluffy. These girls, on the other hand, were in the arena wearing tank tops and shorts. Yes, we were in a rink but this is Israel and even the rink wasn't cold. So what does this make them I wondered? Puck iguanas? Puck chameleons? Puck lizards? None of those terms really works because the whole point is to appear soft and cuddly.

Second, Israeli puck bunnies don't know a thing about hockey. This may be an unreasonable expectation but I expect my puck bunnies to know a thing or two about the game. It just seems fair. Otherwise, they should stalk athletes from a sport they understand. How can you define yourself with the word "puck" if you don't know what a puck is? In Israel this would suggest that there is a wealth of football (North Americans read soccer here) bunnies.

And finally, from the little I saw in Metulla, these Middle Eastern Puck Hedgehogs (I checked and Israel has hedgehogs and they are cute), can at best muster about 20 English words. I wasn't born yesterday and I realize that they speak the international language of hot and sweaty, but I think a few words in a common language should be essential. They do have that coy "sweet little innocent me" thing happening, but as a voyeur, it was just making me nauseous.

The truth is the MEPHs have the most necessary ingredients for sports groupies everywhere. They wear way too much make-up. They flirt with wild abandon that no self-respecting woman could ever muster. They are completely inappropriately dressed. They come across like ditzoids. And most important, they know that coquitish sells.

In other words, puck bunny or puck honey, I am going to have to fight this battle alone.

You can go home again -- for a little while

We just got back from the International Jewish Hockey Tournament at the Canada Center in Metulla. Most of you know that I was really looking forward to it, but it wasn't until I walked into the arena that I knew exactly why I was so excited to be there.

In the two seconds it took to cross the threshold from the northern Israeli town of Metulla into the arena, I essentially entered a time warp that took me back 30 years.

The smells and the sounds of the rink are so deeply ingrained into my inner childhood being that if I had seen one of my old high school friends walking towards me in her Kodiak work boots and Ski Cruiser winter jacket, it wouldn't have surprised me in the least. I probably would have had a harder time explaining who my children were to my old friend because I am pretty sure I could have completely dismissed the past three decades effortlessly at that moment.

I have to admit that I felt more alive than I have felt in a long time. And it was easy to ignore the hebrew advertisements along the boards. I'm short -- I see what I want to see.

And then there was the audience. Mostly Canadians as I suspected. My cousin Sheila was there just as she might well have been in Sydney, Nova Scotia or Toronto. We have been watching hockey together for a very long time.

My other cousin Phil sat with us through the first two games. Now that was unusual because in the old days he would have been suited up and unable to sit down. Goalies can barely walk in their gear -- let alone sit in the stands. And he was a great goalie.

Since he is my cousin I have bragging rights. He was first goalie in one of the first Junior Canada Cup Tournaments years ago -- and the best part of the story is that Patrick Roi (who went on to become an NHL super-goalie) was second goalie. In case you are wondering why Phil didn't make it to the NHL, I will venture the guess that at least in those days Jewish boys did not become professional hockey players -- they became the players' lawyers and doctors. Their mothers didn't allow them to do things that could get them hurt.

I would say that nothing has changed, but I live in Israel and my sons are going to be Israeli soldiers before I know it. I don't want to think about that right now, so back to hockey.

I would be remiss to overlook the Russian colour-commentator -- who said about twenty words in English per game. In all fairness I couldn't manage 20 words in Russian on any topic but next year I think they should give the job to me. I would give them colour with a capital C.

The first game we watched was between the Canadian and US seniors' teams. Seniors here means 20 plus. Even the NHL hockey only had one real "senior" ever in its ranks and Gordie Howe as a very special hockey player. Obviously hockey has its own vocabulary.

The seniors played a great game. Or at least I thought they did. I haven't seen a real game in three years so I may have lost my critical observation edge. Canada was all over the US (as it should have been) for most of the game, but then they lost their will to win and those Americans took it by one goal in sudden death overtime. Oh the pain. I stood for the American national anthem out of Canadian politeness.

The second game was amazing. It was played by what was billed as the weaker Canadian Junior team and the US Junior team. Without going through the whole game play-by-play, I will simply say that one should never underestimate the will to win. The game went into sudden death overtime and then into penalty shots. The best part (besides winning the game) was that all the Canadians in the audience -- players from other teams and the rest of the fans -- worked together to harass the American players while they were trying to take their penalty shots. Everyone else in the rink just looked on in amazement -- because they had never seen the well-oiled Canadian hockey machine at work before. We didn't even know each other but that had nothing to do with us collectively working towards the same goal.

For the records, I didn't sing the Canadian national anthem because for some reason the Canadian government keeps changing the words and I don't even know the most up-to-date version. Who the heck changes the words in their national anthem? At least the Americans are consistent! I'll give them that.

The third game was a bit disappointing, but that was inevitable after the highs and lows of the second game. Also, the third game was played between the make-believe Israeli team (which consisted of a few Russian-born or raised Israelis and a lot of Canadian kids with Israeli-born parents) and the stronger Canadian Junior team. Not the best set-up for a group that had to work and think together. A team needs a collective psyche -- and a collective psyche takes time to create and requires everyone to speak the same language! Also, word has it that not all those Russian players were Jewish -- you can learn a lot when you get into the shower with another guy. So, maybe it was God's wrath. Oh don't roll your eyes; this is the Holy Land and things like that can happen here!

Finally, after three games, I reluctantly left the rink -- and my past -- behind. I had to get back to my real life and feed my starving children. Interestingly enough, I have been rather melancholy all day today but I wouldn't have missed it for anything. I just wish I still had my Kodiak boots.

Hockey Week in Israel

Finally, this past Friday night, the NHL playoffs ended. Now I know what most of you are thinking: "the NHL playoffs? What the heck is that? And why is she writing about them?"

Most of you only know me as my Israeli self but the truth is that I have a long and illustrious history as a Canadian and Canadians and hockey are inextricably linked. In fact, I still sigh with relief on the odd day that the Country Club changes its sports channel away from the latest soccer game and plays a hockey game. On those rare days, as I walk uphill on the stationary bike, I am filled with a sense of the familiar.

Now if you noticed above, today is June 14th which means the last professional hockey game played in North American took place on June 12th. Technically, yes, hockey is a winter sport, but that's before advertisers and other business people got their hands on it and realized that it was a money maker.

There's barely a spot in the Western Hemisphere where ice occurs naturally at this time of the year, but that has nothing to do with the hockey playoffs. I remember when the hockey season used to end in April, and then May. And with a little more planning, they will probably soon drag it out until August. Soon the players will have to play in swim trunks and shoulder pads -- it will be too hot for those polyester jerseys.

Which is why, in consistent hockey logic, there is a big junior hockey tournament about to begin in Metullah in a few weeks. Now, I am not complaining. In fact I am looking forward to it. But I am having a hard time getting my mind around hockey and the sweltering heat of the Israeli summer. Note to the Canadians: you think you know heat! ha! You know nothing of the real heat of the Middle Eastern summer which begins well, now.

This is not to suggest that we will not get in the car and drive to Metullah, which is on Israel's northern border just a mere hop, skip and jump from our good friend Nasrallah & co. in southern Lebanon. Oh there's nothing to worry about, I've just been waiting for an opportunity to use Nasrallah's name in my blog and the hockey tournament gave me that chance.

There are many great things about this tournament. Not the least of which is that my cousin's husband, who is a well-known sports writer for Canada's most respected sports section of a newspaper, will be here and my cousin is coming with him. He used to have his face plastered all over the sides of buses in Toronto which is a real indicator of his prestige in Canadian sportsville.

Second, another one of my cousins is coaching one of the teams. I could go into his story but since most of my readers know nothing about hockey, I would be wasting space and you just wouldn't appreciate the story.

Third, we are going to watch some half decent hockey up close. While junior hockey isn't exactly the NHL, it's as close as we are ever going to get three hours from home in the center of Israel.

Fourth, it is an opportunity to wear a sweater in Israel in July. You don't start off cold but if you sit in the Canada Center rink for a few hours, trust me, you will eventually start to feel cold.

Fifth, there are always seats because most Israelis don't understand hockey. For the most part, the rink will be filled with Russians, Canadians and a few miscellaneous others. Of course, I am sure there will be some of those slimy white-trash chicks who always come out of the woodwork when athletes come to town. They don't know hockey, but they know a hot young bod when they see one.

And finally, if the last tournament was any indication of what was to come, there will be some old time NHL'ers there coaching some of the teams. And because they are in Israel and just dying to speak to a native-English speaker we will all inevitably end up in the Canada Center foyer talking together in a way that would probably never happen in Toronto. In fact, last time we attended one fellow showed up with one of the oldtime NHLer's hockey card and had him sign it. It was a great moment for the rest of us.

But all this greatness isn't without its irony. My Canadian-born children, who have been raised in Israel on a healthy dose of soccer and basketball, will sit there complaining that they need another hot chocolate to keep them going once the excitement of the ice-cleaning Zamboni is over. The entire hockey experience will be lost on them, and Chaim and I will be left to go it alone.