Practices. Hockey camps. Games in chilly arenas. Concession stands. The whiff of a sweaty dressing room. The dampness of gear set out to dry.

I grew up in a hockey family.

My brother played, my dad coached, and the rest of us went to countless games.

When I was 10 we boarded a hockey player who played for the local WHL team and I spent a lot of time running up and down bleachers and buying orange pop at hockey rinks.

But hockey to me is mostly about my dad.

He has played for longer than I can remember – longer than I’ve been alive. It’s something I always remember him doing, and so much a part of who he is.

Growing up, I looked forward to his annual trip to a hockey tournament because he always brought t-shirts back for us. They were huge, and we wore them as nightgowns for years, not caring that they bore logos of teams and sponsors we knew nothing about.

When he got injured I was old enough to know it was worrisome even if I didn’t really understand what had happened.

As an adult, I understand more just how much hockey is in him.

I’ve heard his broken nose anecdote countless times. I’ve listened to stories of teams and players long retired who defined the game before it became about money. I’ve smiled at his reflections of playing before helmets were the norm.

Combine Ron MacLean with Don Cherry and you’d get my dad – knowledgeable and well-spoken about hockey, but passionate and not afraid to say what he thinks. The game is such a part of him – his opinions and priorities – that I’ve learned when not to comment, even when he delayed surgery for prostate cancer so it didn’t interfere with his hockey season.

Because of my dad’s love of hockey I grew up with it as part of my life. Now I have a little boy who’s growing up in that same hockey family.

When Connor was younger, we timed visits around Grandpa’s hockey practices and family dinners around Flames games. When we watched games on TV, Grandpa made sure Connor knew who to cheer for. (If you’re part of this family you’re a Flames fan, and that’s that.)

My dad got older, as dads do, but he didn’t give up the game. A few years ago my mom got him a new hockey bag as a gift – a fancy one, with wheels and lots of space for gear. He got good use out of it, carting it over and over from the house to his car and to the rink and back again, complaining, at times, about “old guys” who were a little too slow for a guy who just wanted to get out there and chase the puck.

But no longer. After almost 70 years my dad has hung up his skates. Admitting to the emotion of it, he posted on Facebook: “I just cleaned out my wheeled hockey equipment bag for the last time… It’s been a great sport.”

The bag has now gone to my brother, who carries his own flame of passion for the game.

He might not play anymore, but my dad’s involvement with hockey isn’t over. There’s a new generation coming along – someone who has the right jersey and just needs to learn how to skate. Luckily we have someone who would love to teach him.