Home for the Holidays: Hockey Breaks and Christmas Memories

For hockey players, the season’s rhythm often means sacrificing a lot of the everyday joys other kids take for granted. But when Christmas rolled around, it was our time. A magical week away from the rink to reconnect, recharge, and soak up the warmth of home. For me, those holiday breaks were about more than just time off—they were about everything that made life full: family, friends, and the simple joys of the season.

Coming back to Kamloops during the holidays always felt like stepping into a snow globe. The streets would be blanketed in fresh snow, with Christmas lights twinkling in the frosty air. The trip home was an exercise in patience, knowing that just beyond the front door was a house that smelled like heaven. Mom had been hard at work baking all the Christmas classics: Nanaimo bars, butter tarts, almond roca. You’d try sneaking a bite before dinner, only to hear her yell, “That’s for Christmas Eve! Not now!”

The break was one of the rare times I got to see the whole family. Whether it was sitting around Uncle Gerry’s table, where the volume and the laughter were always turned up to eleven, or heading to Grandma Hay’s house in North Kamloops, family gatherings were the heartbeat of the season. There was nothing quite like sitting in a room filled with relatives, plates of food precariously balanced on our laps, as someone told a story that made you laugh so hard, you almost spilled gravy on the carpet.

And then there were the friends. Coming home meant reuniting with high school buddies and old teammates. It didn’t matter how long we’d been apart; we’d pick up like no time had passed. We’d swap stories, reminisce about past memories, and inevitably get into a little trouble—like doing donuts in snow-covered parking lots. The sound of tires spinning and our laughter echoing into the cold night was a soundtrack all its own.

Hockey wasn’t completely off the radar, though. Watching Team Canada in the World Juniors tournament was a holiday ritual. We’d gather in the living room, decked out in pajamas and clutching mugs of hot chocolate, yelling at the TV as if the players could hear us. There was something special about watching the red and white battle it out on the ice during Christmas week—it was pure Canadian pride wrapped up in a bow. Then being part of it live when Dad coached and won the gold was one of the fondest Christmas memories I hold onto today.

Of course, the holidays weren’t just about hockey; they were also about the movies. Every year, without fail, we’d watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. It didn’t matter that we’d seen it a hundred times already—Clark Griswold’s struggles with his Christmas lights, Cousin Eddie showing up in the RV, and that squirrel in the tree always had us in stitches. By the end of the movie, someone would inevitably start quoting lines, like, “You serious, Clark?” and we’d be rolling on the floor laughing all over again.

And then there was Christmas morning. The presents under the tree had been taunting me for days—wrapped up so perfectly, just begging to be shaken and guessed at. I’d been eyeing them since the moment I walked through the door. When the big day finally arrived, it was pure magic: tearing into the paper, seeing the gifts you’d been hoping for, and laughing at the random socks or ugly sweaters your relatives thought were a good idea.

But as with anything good, the time always went by too fast. One moment, you were stepping off the plane, hauling your luggage through the snow, and the next, you were packing up again, saying goodbye to family and friends, and heading back to the grind. Those breaks felt fleeting, like holding snow in your hands and watching it melt. But maybe that’s why they’re so special—because they’re rare, precious, and perfect in their simplicity.

Now, as an adult, I find myself trying to recreate that same magic for my own kids. I want them to feel the excitement of waking up on Christmas morning, the comfort of sitting in their pajamas watching Home Alone for the umpteenth time, and the joy of being surrounded by family and friends. I want them to know the wonder of this season, to carry these memories with them the way I do.

And I think about the players I coach. As they head home for their own holiday breaks, I hope they find the same kind of joy I did. I hope they laugh with their siblings, watch old movies, and eat way too many Christmas cookies. I hope they step away from the rink and come back with full hearts and recharged spirits. Hockey is important, but these moments are what truly ground us—they remind us why we love the game and who we play it for.

Coming home for Christmas was never just about taking a break from hockey. It was about reconnecting—with family, with friends, and with yourself. It was about sitting at Grandma’s kitchen table, watching Canada play their hearts out, and laughing until your sides hurt at Chevy Chase getting whacked in the face with a ladder. It was about the things that made life feel big and beautiful, the moments that remind you of who you are.

Now, as we settle into the new year and the tree and ornaments get packed away, I find myself looking back on those times with a deep sense of gratitude. They helped shape me—not just as a hockey player, but as a person. I carry those memories with me, hoping to create more, both on and off the ice.

The holidays are more than just a pause in the season. They’re a reminder of what really matters: the people you love, the memories you cherish, and the traditions you pass down. They’re a time to come home, wherever that may be.🏒

About the Author: Darrell embraces the holiday spirit with the enthusiasm of Clark Griswold stringing up 25,000 twinkle lights. A die-hard fan of Christmas Vacation, he’s still waiting for the day someone gifts him a Jelly of the Month Club membership. If you need him during the holidays, you’ll find him coaching hockey or checking under carpets to see if anyone's stapled their head down. For Coach Hay, much like the Griswolds, family, laughter, and a touch of chaos make the season bright. 🎄