Let Us Pray… for That Power Play
People assume certain things about religious figures: they are stern, unwavering, and far too busy contemplating the universe to bother with frivolities like, IDK, professional hockey…
They are wrong. My granddad is a mullah. Has been for twenty five years. He’s made hajj to Mecca five times. He reads the Quran at funerals, wakes, weddings. Ppl book him WEEKS in advance. Granddad is respected. Granddad is revered. Yet when the hockey season rolls around – he is on his prayer rug asking Allah to help local “Salavat Yulaev” beat rival “Metallurg”. Imagine an 85-year-old ex-union leader, head bowed, prayer beats clicking as he whispers, “I ask for world peace, for an end to suffering, and, Allah, if it’s not too much trouble, make sure that fourth-line winger doesn’t miss the net.”
I feel kinda bad for the other team. Those poor saps don’t even know why they keep losing. I imagine in the locker room, one guy turns to another, “It’s like we’re cursed.” And somewhere, far away, my 85-year-old grandfather counts his tasbih, whispering, “Amen.”
Recently, though, Salavat has not been doing so hot… I like to think the other teams caught on and recruited their own mullahs… a couple of priests and a rabi. Or maybe somewhere in a smoky backroom, a hockey manager is handing rookie a rosarie, “You’ve got one job, kid. Make sure Metallurg wins.”
My mom actually inherited grandpa’s religious passion for hockey. She’s no casual fan. She knows the injuries, the players’ stats, the schedule of the rivals. One time, she looked at me and said, “We have a tough week coming up.” I said, “You mean at work?” She said, “No. The team is playing back-to-back. They will be tired”.
During the play-offs mom’s entire social life works around the hockey schedule. If the game starts at 2 PM, “Sure, we can meet for lunch – at 11. But I need to be home by 1:45 – to watch the pregame”. If the game’s at 7, forget dinner — she’s staying home and not answering, “Sorry I couldn’t take your call; Salavat was fighting off a penalty.”
Once, after Salavat Yulayev won a big game, she got up from the couch and started signing. She twirled like Julie Andrews and chirped a made-up song. That’s amore.
And my family’s love for Salavat Yulaev isn’t just about hockey – it’s how they say what they can’t put into words. My granddad comes from the generation of men who bury their feelings. He doesn’t tell mom, “I love you,” their love language is sitting together on the couch and yelling at the referees. They don’t hug or say, “I missed you.” But Salavat Yulayev scores, and they both yell, “YES!”.
Growing up, I never quite understood the appeal of hockey. But recently, I decided to give the game a watch, as an adult. I admit, I understand the hype now. Hockey is like American football, except it’s faster, it’s on ice, and they have knives. They have knives on their shoes! And the best part? At any moment, they can stop skating and just start punching each other. There have players specifically hired for their ability to fight. A hockey player can whip off his gloves, punch someone in the face, and stay in the game. It’s encouraged. Fans love it! My mom will get up and scream, “Yeah! Hit him!”. And my granddad will nod from the couch, like a judge overlooking a fair trial “Good. He deserved that.”
Can you imagine that in basketball? LeBron just taking off his jersey and punching someone? The crowd is cheering and the the ref is like, “Let them fight it out…”
Hockey works mysterious works ways. Like Allah. Or like my mom’s schedule during the hockey season. But, truly, who can say what unseen forces guide the puck? What’s behind the wind that turns a loss into a victory? Maybe it’s a perfect storm of momentum, friction, and the Magnus effect. And maybe it’s a light whisper of an old Muslim man repeating, “Amen. Amen. Amen. YES!!!”