Intern

I’ve always spent a lot of time with Dad at work. It was at the backroom of my uncle’s store he made all those hockey masks for me, and it was the same store where I crashed through the glass door. (I was trying to be as cool as Dad and his colleagues who ran up the three stairs inside the store, opened the door, and kept on running.)

When Dad took a job at another store, I followed him there, playing my first games of Pong there, and having endless hours of fun with a typewriter, and a pencil and a fan.

Sami Kapanen, left, being interviewed by Son.

Dad was also the coach of our hockey team, and when kids called him to see if they could join the team, I pretty quickly picked up the key questions, so if they called in the afternoon when I was at home after school, but when Dad was still at work, I would interview the caller.

“Can you skate?”

“I’m the best in my class.”

“A lot of people are best in their class,” I would say, not realizing how arrogant that was, and then I’d invite them to the next practice.

As a teenager, I hung out at the store that Dad managed, recording music with any of the dozens of stereos, watching TV, and occasionally replying to some of the questions the customers would ask.

Since I work from my little home office – or the kitchen, or the porch, or the backyard – the kids never get to follow Dad to work. There are no cute Post-Its or hot chocolate machines like at Mom’s office. No receptionist to tell them how cute they are, no funny boss to tousle their hair.

In fact: what exactly does their Dad do when he says he’s got work to do and he can’t build Lego anymore? I decided I would take Son with me to work when the unofficial European hockey championship tournament came into town. Also, since this is a guy who seems to be a lot more interested in the fact that I’ve interviewed Henrik Lundqvist than any of the Vezina trophies or Swedish championships he’s won, I thought this would be a nice chance to get him to watch a game.

I had picked up his press credentials when I was at the first game of the tournament, so he rode the train and the subway with the yellow accreditation pass around his neck, while I was trying to guess which Star Wars characters he was thinking of.

He had packed his notepad and a pencil in my backpack, together with a thick Donald Duck comic book. He wanted to take his Nintendo, but I said no. You can read at the office, but not play videogames. The last time we were at a game and he did get to take his Nintendo with him, he didn’t know whether the home team were the reds or the whites when I asked him early in the third period.

We got in through the press entrance and went straight for the press hotdogs. Why not, right? Then we bought Son a juice – only coffee, Coke, and mineral water for the press – then climbed to the press box. Or, the press seating area in the regular seats. Just as we had sat down, and I had told him who was playing – the Finns and the Czechs – and shown him the flags up in the rafters, it was time for the national anthems, so we stood up again. To my amazement, Son sang half of the Finnish anthem, smiling all the way through.

For the next 30 minutes, he only lifted his eyes from the comics when something funny was on the jumbotron. He asked me to tell me when something funny was on the jumbotron – or if he was on there.

After the first period, we went back down to the press center, for another hotdog, but Son was full. “That hotdog and all that candy, Dad,” he said. Instead, he went to the bathroom, and while I waited for him, I bumped into Petri Skriko, a former NHLer, and a Finnish Hockey Hall of Famer, now the Washington Capitals’ European scout.

I told him that I had taken my intern with me and introduced him to Son.

“Skriko,” said Son. “You yell a lot?” he said.

“What’s that?” said the Finn who scored 38 goals and 78 points in 80 games with the Vancouver Canucks in 1985-86.

“Your name,” I said. “It’s almost “skrika”, you know, “to yell” in Swedish.”

“No, no, I don’t yell much,” he told Son.

“Maybe it’s one of those ironic names,” I said.

Once back up in our seats, I told Son that Skriko had indeed been a fantastic player in his time, and a great member of Team Finland in many tournaments.

“Wait. Is he a legend?” Son asked me.

“Yes, absolutely, he is a real legend,” I said.

“Did I shake his hand?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Which hand did I use?”

“Right, as always. You always use your right hand when you shake hands with somebody.”

“I’ll never wash it.”

Like that had been a big sacrifice.

And so it went. By the end of the second period, he had finished his Donald Duck and he put his full focus on the action on the jumbotron, and on the people, the happy Finns around us. They wore blue and white, they had funny masks, funny hats, weird costumes, they were singing and dancing, or at least yelling and dancing, and – not that it mattered to Son – they were winning.

In the second intermission, we skipped the hotdogs and the coffee, and the small talk with legends, and went for the souvenirs. Son wanted a Finnish flag. I told him that since he was in the arena as press, he shouldn’t be publicly cheering for any of the teams. Then I bought him a flag and a blue and white Finland hat which he wore proudly.

“Born in Finland,” he said.

We also agreed that when we’d go to the mixed zone to do interviews, we’d put the flag and hat in my bag.

We were the first reporters at the mixed zone because we left the stands early. The game was still on when we arrived. Son got his notebook and pencil and started to draft his questions to Sami Kapanen, the captain of Team Finland:

1. What was it like to score a goal?
2. Was it a tough game?
3. What was it like to win the game?

Sami was the last player to come off the ice. I called out his name to get him to come and lean against the steel fence that separated the players from the media. Sami, a future second-generation Finnish Hockey Hall of Famer, is a super nice guy, and an old friend of the family. His father was one of my inspirations for Son’s name. I congratulated him on the win, then asked Son to come closer so he could interview him. When he said couldn’t write fast enough, I gave him my recorder.

There he was, my little reporter guy Son who likes to make his own magazines, play with words, and write jokes. Barely tall enough to see over the fence, with the press credentials around his neck hanging almost by his knees, his arm straight, pointing the recorder in Sami’s direction, to catch every word he said.

A few minutes later, with the interview done, and even Snowy, the white snowman mascot, having disappeared from the mixed zone, we climbed up the stairs, back into the sunlight. Son put on his Finland hat, and ran with the flag in his hand.

“The weather is perfect for this,” he shouted, with the flag waving in the wind.

Just another day at Dad’s office.

7 thoughts on “Intern

  1. Beautiful. Now he knows what you do, and do so well.
    A friend of mine asked her kindergarten students to draw a picture of what their dad or mom did when they went to work. One little girl turned in a paper with circles all over it. My friend asked her to explain the drawing and she said, "It’s what my dad does. He makes rounds every day!" College, med school, internship and residency —reduced to circles!!!

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