Knights of the Round

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“Gentlemen!” I exclaim as I roll into the dressing room three minutes before I’m supposed to be on the ice. It’s 7:57 AM on a weekday morning at a rink in midtown Toronto, and I am here to play hockey. There’s no better way to start the day.

Despite the grogginess, the men are typically in high spirits. The game is an escape from the rest of our lives, after all. The rules are simple: put the puck in the other team’s net, and stop them from doing it to you. We’ve been tempered from a young age to do just this. The game is Canadiana etched in permanent marker on our heartstrings. “The call of hockey” as the email subject would typically read is instinctual.

We all learn the fundamentals of the game in different circumstances. Some of the players we skate with never left their neighbourhood rink. Some of us (like me) made it all the way up to Timmons for a provincial championship. A few actually climbed the mountain: played in the pros, in Europe or the NHL. They are literally the heroes the rest of us grew up idolizing and wanting to be. Like the ones in the stories and tales of King Arthur’s Camelot. Yet, for whatever reason: whether it’s limited talent (me), family commitments, or hip replacements, we all eventually end up at the same place.

8 AM in an otherwise empty midtown Toronto hockey rink.

There’s a through-line to this morning ritual. It’s a mini-culture that persists across decades as the individual players join and inevitably leave. The group emulates the ship of Theseus, it swaps out its members, and yet somehow always remains familiar.

The same archetypes are there. The retired guy. The young professional who is thanking his stars that his boss will let him come in late once or twice a week because she understands how important hockey is. The entrepreneur who makes his own schedule. The young father who rolls in late because he had to drop the twins off at school. That one guy who… well you’re not really sure who that guy is or what he does at all.

You could find any of these avatars at any point in the timeline. Those guys are all there, the faces are different, but they are there. Arguing about whether or not the puck really crossed the line on that fourth one. Whether or not the teams were fair. “How’s business?”, “How is your back feeling?”, “Did you see the game last night?”, “How are your parents?”, “How have you been holding up?”

Hockey is the throughline that accompanies each and every season of life.

There are some times when you roll in and you feel terrible. You had an argument with the wife, or you think you might lose your job, or you’re just sick of dark Canadian winters. But you get out there on the ice, and as you rip around a couple times you begin to shed that weight. Your body warms as you handle the puck. You start to skate and your stride puts you a step ahead of the baggage. Your heart rate spikes. You lock in on making that pass. You connect with your teammate. You somehow became part of something else entirely, a constantly evolving fraternity.

That camaraderie is almost never explicitly mentioned, but it’s the real reason why everyone is there. The feeling of togetherness. A safe space for men that existed long before safe spaces were a named concept.

There are little moments, like when a teammate falls down hard after colliding with someone, or when the oldest and slowest guy on the ice scores a goal that you witness the purest ideal of masculinity. Men helping each other. Supporting each other, and showing care and affection in ways that don’t need words.

When you’re on a team, even ones as insignificant as this, you are valuable. Your incentive structures change. Your success is in the service of others and vice versa.

The result is that you always leave feeling a little better than you did when you walked in. Even when you played terribly. Because after a couple of jokes in the room the sting of losing wears off, and you start looking forward again.

There is a real equalization that happens in a hockey dressing room. A democratization facilitated by the game. A handful of men, sitting in the round, on the same level, all able to clearly see and hear each other. They are literally putting on their armour, as they prepare for battle. While they get dressed, some hold court, some prefer to listen. Some crack jokes, some talk politics, some tell stories. Whatever it is, they are all equal.

I like to think that that represents what Canada should be at its core. People sitting in a circle, equal. Both supporting each other and competing with each other. Pushing one another to be better and to win. Men who come in with very different perspectives and experiences, but who all share a mutual respect and love for a game that brings them back to the good ol’ days.

There are great lessons to be learned as well. At 34, I am still a relatively junior member of this particular outpost of the hockey player club. That brings real perspective and admiration: I am always in awe of the other player’s professional and personal achievements. It is an extreme privilege to sit across from people who have moved mountains. But there’s also something humbling and even comical when you’re showering naked next to extremely successful professionals, fathers, CEOs, and captains of industry.

The 90 minutes you spend at the rink can be described as a meeting place, a sanctuary, a training ground, and sometimes when the blood boils, a bit of a crucible. I imagine those heroes of old Arthurian legend. Sirs Gawain, Lancelot, and Percival.

When I look around the dressing room, I see these men with whom I share a bond that can only be understood if you truly know what “I played hockey with him” means. I see those men, and I see heroes wielding hockey sticks with the passion and dexterity of battle hardened gallants. In suits of armour, charging forward.

I see the knights of the round.

Jacob Citron is the editor in chief at accordingto.ca. During the days he owns and operates a Life Insurance brokerage. He started accordingto to restore the missing middle. Get in touch, he'd love to hear from you.

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