This story was originally published in 2010.

Of all the fates I imagined for myself, hockey dad was at the bottom of the list.

I never played the game - I grew up as a downhill skier, hang glider pilot and car nut. But the Gods had a new plan: At the age of four, my son Willie announced that he was taking up Canada's national game.

The next 14 years were a blur of early-morning practices, circling Zambonis and maxed-out credit cards. We lived like carnival roustabouts, constantly on the road. Our vehicles smelled like rolling locker rooms. At its peak, my son's career ran virtually year-round: I drove to Ottawa in a January ice storm, and to a summer training camp with the air conditioning set on max.

Every Friday, I had to schlep Will to a rink on the edge of the Toronto suburbs at the height of rush hour, battling the worst traffic in Canada. Then it was off to Pickering, or maybe Pittsburgh. For a hockey dad, the road was endless. There was always another rink, another tournament, another hockey horizon.

So when the end came, I wasn't ready. And I didn't see it coming.

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