The rink is cold, the morning gray,
A hockey dad starts his day.
Boots crunch in snow, the frost bites deep,
But we’re here for the game, no time for sleep.

The air is thick with that ammonia’s sting,
A frozen blast from the ice maker’s ring.
Locker rooms smell like a butcher’s stall,
Where pads are piled in a heap out in the hall.

The canteen hums with a greasy beat,
Home fries fried in oil—that’s old and sweet,
The scent has lingered since the 'Cup was won,
Back when the 'Habs were the only ones.

Moms start shouting, their voices sharp,
At refs and linesmen, raising the bar.
Their passion is fierce, their faces turn red,
While kids run wild, no cares in their heads.

The old ladies huddle in coats so thick,
Grumbling about the cold, quick as a flick.
But they cheer and clap for every goal,
Proud of the team, body and soul.

It’s a world of chaos, but love is clear,
In the cold rink air, through the laughter and fear.
As a hockey dad, I stand with pride,
Watching my kid, as their dreams collide

-M.S Chandler