|The Wray Family (Scott, Owen, Masen & Shanna) Leave Rapid City Today For the Next Chapter Back Home In Ontario|
The end of an era takes place today as the last two players in the Central Hockey League that also played in the Western Professional Hockey League (WPHL) before the two leagues merged in 2001 have retired. I am talking about Allen's Daniel Tetrault who played for the Austin Ice Bats (WPHL) and Raipd City's Scott Wray who played for the Lake Charles Ice Pirates (WPHL). Two outstanding players who are also great leaders. Tetrault was a key part of Allen's championship season this year and of course Allen fans will never forget the Rapid City championship winning goal Wray scored against Allen in 2010. It is no surprise that both Scott & Daniel have moved to the coaching ranks and you can be assured they will both make great coaches.
Scott Wray will become the first head coach of the Powassan Voodoos, a Tier 2, Junior A team of the Northern Ontario Junior Hockey League. Wray had applied to be a coach of his former junior team, in North Bay, Ontario, but was offered and accepted the head coaching job at North Bay’s farm club, the Voodoos. Driving the decision for Wray and his family is the chance to return home. “We’ve been gone for 15 years, my entire adulthood,” Wray said. “I’m excited about it. It’s a good chance for my kids to meet some cousins and family they haven’t been able to meet over the years,” he said. “We’re just excited to go home to do what we love."
But this story is not about Daniel Tetrault or Scott Wray but about Scott's wife Shanna. Who is Shanna Wray you ask? Here is how she describes herself, "I’m a part-time wife (he plays hockey and is often referred to as Mr. Sometimes) and full time mom (to Owen and Masen, often referred to as little monsters). I whip through life on the tails of a caffeine high and would do just about anything for carbs. I am a wannabe blogger. Sports Psychologist (not really but might as well be). Hopelessly in love with my hockey player, high-school-sweetheart-turned-husband and my two boys. Obsessions include a Boston Terrier named Guinness and a Sheepadoodle named Molson, photography, writing and my macbook."
Shanna and I have become "blogger friends" over the years and I have written about her blog many times as she is a great writer. Her ability to write with total honestly and raw emotion and yet be very humorous along the way is a rare gift. Her honesty and writing from the heart sometimes gets her in trouble with hockey fans and others but the openness to tell her truth is what I admire about her writing.
Scott, Shanna and the boys are leaving Rapid City today for the trek home to Ontario so in her honor I want to repost a couple of my favorite stories about being a hockey wife. I am sure all hockey wives (especially those with children) can identify with these "times are tough on the bus and bonding with the boys" stories. Check out her blog as in addition to the humorous examples below she writes many serious pieces about life and kids and most recently about how difficult it is to leave Rapid City. You can see all of Shanna's work at http://wraysingboys.com and if you are on Twitter you can follow her at @shannaleighwray.
I recently sent Shanna a note wishing the family well on their move home and encouraged her to continue writing her blog and received a typical Shanna like response, "The shit show that is going to be the rest of the summer will prove to be great material."
From her many fans in Allen and around the CHL best of luck to Scott, Shanna, Owen & Masen as they head back to North Bay, Ontario this morning to start a new chapter in their lives.
Hey, you! On the bus… this one’s for you.
So, you’re leaving your wife (or girlfriend, or whatever) to go on the road. As much as you might try to convince her that this is a torturous time for you, hours on the bus (sleeping and watching movies), sore aching bodies (relieved by a stint in the hotel’s pool/hot tub) and the football/hockey game that you want isn’t on the bus (SERIOUSLY? this is a complaint?), it’s awfully hard for her to feel sorry for you. And by “feel sorry for you” I really mean, it’s awfully hard for her not to junk punch you when you complain about having to go on the road at all. Especially for those of us who are at left behind, working, raising kids and basically, running a country.
After recent shenanigans on the road involving some ‘clouded judgement’ (his words, not mine) on Mr. Sometime’s part, I’ve got a little advice for you. Take it or leave it (I urge you to take it, if you value your life at all), it’s up to you.
When you’re on the road, you aren’t expected to just sit in your hotel room all day watching tv (most-likely porn, and IF it’s porn, just keep that info to yourself), playing hermit, no matter how much she might love the idea (seriously, don’t mention the porn). Seeing as you are a grown man-child, you should be able to control your inner frat boy when you have a day off, keeping his presence pretty low-key. If you can’t, and you chose to indulge in a bender of sorts, you need to know that there’s a really good chance (like, 120% chance) that she won’t be happy about it but she probably won’t say much (strong and silent and cursing you up and down on the inside) other than a few clipped “uh-huh’s” and “fine’s” (honestly, she’s really just giving you the rope, waiting for you to hang yourself with it). Should you be able to secure a day of (olympic) drinking without catastrophic repercussions from the War Department, you should make a concerted effort to maintain contact with the world around you (HER). In laymen terms , answer your cell phone when she calls. The FIRST time. EVEN if you’ve got a pair of (much nicer than hers) boobies in your face because your buddies bought you a lap dance. Answer your phone. It is mobile, after all, and considering all the porn that you are NOT watching on your phone, it should have a decent battery charge. And there are cell phone towers EVERYWHERE so don’t even think about trying to convince her that you’re in the middle of nowhere, standing outside of some kind of shanty, drinking moonshine. If you try this, she will get quiet. Really quiet. This means she is plotting to kill you.
And, hey, while you’re all just sitting around getting shmeegled, doing your man-bonding thing and pretending that the world doesn’t exist outside of your frosty tall glass, get with your boys and have a powwow. Make sure your stories all match up because *NEWSFLASH!* your ladies actually talk to each other and will root out story discrepancies without even trying. You’d be surprised at what a woman can find out in a unblieveable amount of time. (Of course, our ways are completely classified, so if I told you how we do this, I’d have to kill you ’cause, you know, that whole vaginas before manginas thing) What I can say though, is that you never, ever want her to be the girl with the story that doesn’t match up. Nor do you want to be the guy who sewers your buddies. If you’re not one for powwows, switch out the (titty) bar for drinking in the hotel lobby/lounge/creep’s paradise. That’s (almost) always a safe place to be. Until one of you ends up drunk and naked in the hotel lobby/lounge/creep’s paradise, with nothing on but flip-flops, brushing your teeth (admit it, you ALL know someone who’s done this).
While we’re at this, you’ll also want to make sure that if you’ve ignored her phone calls for the better part of the sausage fest, don’t decide get a conscience in the middle of the night as you stumble back to your hotel. This means that you will call her and wake her up only to carry on a conversation with the people around you, instead of her (a crime punishable by castration in that country that she’s running). She will spend the rest of the night pissed off and wide awake. That is a combination that does not bode well for you in the morning.
Should all of this fall through and you’re an idiot and she tears a strip off of you at 8:50am and you’re imminent death upon your return is certain, my advice is this. Agree with everything she says. Apologize profusely. Admit defeat on all social media platforms and tag her in them. And do it again and again. Eventually, she’ll acknowledge the white flag.
And she’ll use that white flag to wrap your balls in for safe keeping when you get home.
* Mr. Sometimes is still alive and well (for the time being) and all of his man-parts are still firmly attached to his body (for now…)
** this is not a sign of impending doom for our marriage and Mr. Sometimes is NOT the sole inspiration for this post so lets not go assuming horrible things
Dear Mr. Sometimes…
It has come to my attention that your wife (being the amazing spouse that she is) granted you a “day pass” from the insane asylum that is your house (you lucky dog, you). This Is huge. Like big, huge. And you earned it after a season of bus trips and hotel rooms and king size beds to yourself and hot meals served to you by giggling waitresses and more bus trips and mid-day naps! Seriously, you earned it, Captain!
But here’s the thing, Mr. Sometimes. I’m doubtful that said day pass included dropping off the face of the earth. Ya know? Golf and beer with your buds? Awesome sauce, dude. Good on ya! But throwing the ninja dust and becoming more unavailable than a soldier in hostile territory? Not so much.
Now don’t get your boxer-briefs in a bunch. We all know that the boys like to breathe and no one needs sweaty, just played 18 holes of golf in 75° weather, gonads stuck to their thigh or, even worse, stuck up so high that one might assume at some point, castration occurred during an unfortunate accident involving a rusty bicycle crossbar, 21 beers and an unruly curb (or even worse, a pissed off wife) And anyways, no one likes a pouter, so no complaining that you didn’t notice that there was a fine print on the contract that you signed for your Day Pass. Always assume that one should be overly suspicious of a wife who agrees to a “Boy’s Day”. Always.
Now, considering the fact that the golf course you’re frolicking on at this very moment is l-i-t-e-r-a-l-l-y in your back yard, there really shouldn’t be too much cause for concern if you do, in fact, go awol for an afternoon. I mean, barring a wiz-on-a-tree gone wrong or you’re schmeigled enough to mistake the bunker on hole 11 for a swimming pool and you drowned in it, what’s the big friggin’ deal, amiright?
Unless, of course, your alter-ego “Frank the Tank” decides in a moment of reckless abandon that a house party is in order. I mean, that sounds super fun and I’m assuming your wife would be ALL OVER that shiznick. Beers? Friends? In her house where she can be shoe – less and sock-less and in her sweats?? (I’m tempted to say bra-less but let’s be real, no one attending the house party needs to have an eye taken out) Best. Time. Ever. (And it’d probably get you laid). Unless.
Unless you decided, in all your Frank-mid-streaking-through-downtown glory, to suggest a house part while your ever faithful wife is schlepping your offspring to the ball fields for the second time that day after only being home for about an hour and a half to fold and put away YOUR underwear. I know, I know! Day Pass and all that, but suggesting your disgustingly messy house be the landing strip for all sorts of awesomeness when your wife isn’t home, and won’t be for a long while, when she hasn’t showered yet that day and she’s pretty certain she looks like something that she scraped out of the gunk trap in the dishwasher, well, that just wouldn’t be smart, man.
We all know you mean well. You’re a people person, Frank and that’s, like, the awesomest. But in all your “busy being uuber social and chattiest of cathys”, your phone is gonna die. Yes, your Lil dude was with you for the better part of your escapades on the course so he, no doubt, played a round (or 50) of Minion Rush and I’m sure that didn’t help with the battery consumption. But lemme just say, the panic that might ensue in your house when your wife sees that kid waltz through the door with your phone in hand and casually offer a simple, “Needs to be Charged”, might be tantamount to that which would occur when the busiest rest stop on Route 66 has plumbing issues and no toilet paper- simultaneously. When she finds out of your plans but she’s not home and she can’t get a hold of you? Bad news bears, Frank. The odds are most definitely not “Evah in your favah”.
No wife ever wants to not be able to contact her husband, Day Pass or not. The Day Pass was a pass out of the crazy house for a brief, find your masculinity in the bottom of the 18th hole, reprieve. The Day Pass was NOT a pass out of life indefinitely.
Let me finish this little Diddy off by recommending you read the fine print next time you get the Day Pass. And maybe consider flowers. Or a sleep in day for her, for once. And maybe don’t let the 7yr old take the blame for running your battery down. Or maybe don’t stage an uprising of drunk teammates in your house without her knowing.
Let’s not forget NOT going AWOL on the golf course and then disappearing to some unknown safehouse afterwards.
Without your phone.
You’re pretty lucky she loves you.
Frank, on the other hand?
Yeah. Not so much.