Barriers

“Stop fidgeting,” says my mother from beside me. In her hands is the hem of my dress, the only one I own and purchased only for this occasion, as she smooths out a wrinkle. The dress was immaculately ironed last week and again this morning, so she and I both know that the wrinkle was my doing from not being careful in the fragile fabric. I don't really care if my dress is wrinkled, but she does so I don't say anything. “You make your father nervous.”

I look to my left at my father, who doesn't really look that nervous. If anyone is nervous, it's her, but I don't say anything. Moms are supposed to freak out at important occasions. It's their job.

It's the NHL Draft, the first one that I'm eligible for. It's the first draft that any girl, ever, has been eligible for. After months of interviews (“Have you always played hockey with men?” “No, but I've always played with boys!”), surveys ('Attention: Members of NHLPA. Does the prospect of a female in the NHL piss you off? Check one: Yes, No'), and being watched by scouts (“She's good.” “Good doesn't mean much when she gets broken in half from a check.”), the board of directors decided that for the first time in history, a girl could be drafted into the NHL. Now it was just a matter of would I be drafted? Central Scouting didn't even have me ranked on the list, claiming that I was a risk that no team would use a draft pick on. Even being drafted in the last round was a long shot.

I've played on boys teams since I started to play, for the sole reason that the town I lived in only had a boys recreation team. My parents, both seasoned professional athletes that competed for Russia, decided to bunker down in the southern United States to raise a family. The south is not typically well known for being a haven of ice hockey, but I wanted to play. I wanted to advance, and without any girls teams within a hundred miles, my only choice if I wanted to play was to stay with the boys. Not that I minded. I wanted to be like my dad, himself a well-known hockey player that represented Russia in a slew of World Championships. My mother was a figure skater, a very good one, and I skated for several years to please her. But when hockey got too demanding, that just was no longer plausible. It had upset her at first, but my younger sister still continued to figure skate, so she was able to cling onto that.

“Are you nervous?” I ask my dad pointedly. He looks down at me and meets my eyes which are his eyes, expression blank.

“No. But I think your mother is,” he replies. He still has an accent, though his English has improved greatly since when I was a kid. He repositions himself in his seat so that his right arm is around my shoulders and his palm rests on my mom's left shoulder, holding us together. It was a stupid thing to notice but I did anyway.

The draft is about to begin and the seats are almost completely filled. Draft hopefuls are all around, some looking sick from nerves or completely cool. Most of us are just in awe, though. We can't believe we're here, about to make futures for ourselves. We thought that the day would never come.

Gary Bettman comes on stage and is ferociously booed. My family and I stay quiet, although my sister Tatiana won't stop crossing and uncrossing her legs and it's the only thing I can focus on. It's driving me nuts.

“Tell Tati to stop doing that,” I say rapidly to my dad in Russian. Tatiana is to his left so this is up to him. He nudges my sister and I can't hear what he says, exactly, but she's stopped and I can finally focus on the stage.

There's a big show of thanking the hometown crowd for being gracious, but they're busy booing the man and so he gives up and moves on.

“Without any further ado, we welcome the team with this year's overall first pick, the Edmonton Oilers...”

Hours have passed and my family and I are still sitting in the stands. It's round six and my chances are getting slimmer and slimmer.

“Maybe we should just go,” I tell them. It was pointless to come. I should be at home, watching this unfold on TV and never having my name announced. “Come on.”

“We come here and we stay here,” my mom says firmly, her hand on my right knee. I glance to my left and see that Tatiana has dozed off. “Don't worry about her. All the trouble of having you enter the draft, being able to play. We stay here.”

I glance up at my dad and he nods, and I'm not really sure what that signifies but his attention is back on the stage, where the Carolina Hurricanes have drafted a goalie from the QMJHL. We've entered round seven and my chances are dwindling. The Tampa Bay Lightning have the majority of the picks in this round due to a bunch of trades from last season. They pick up two defencemen back to back.

“You might like Florida,” my dad jokes. I smile though I know that I'm going home undrafted. At this point, it's silly to be optimistic.

Two picks left. Pittsburgh grabs a massive defencemen from the WHL. Ray Shero shakes the hand of the monstrous player on stage and the kid grins like a fool, because it's the best day of his life, and I wonder quickly if I'll be up there like that kid or if I'll just have to try again next year. All that trouble that the league went through with watching me play, interviewing me, conducting surveys with the NHLPA, for nothing. Fruitless. Pointless.

Peter Chiarelli and the rest of the Boston Bruins front office heads to the stage. This is it. Last pick of the draft, do or die. I clamp my hand on top of my mom's which is still on my knee. My dad's eyes haven't looked away from the stage since round six. He's so sure that I'll be picked. I know he thinks I'm going home with a Bruins jersey on my back and a matching hat on my head. My mom is also hopeful, not because she wants me to play, but because she wants me to do what makes me happy. And while those two things are synonymous, she puts aside her own thoughts and feelings on the matter and lets my dreams take the forefront. I try to siphon some of that optimism and for a second, I let myself become hopeful. Peter Chiarelli takes the microphone with a jersey and hat on his arm and the whole world, at least to me, stops.

“The Boston Bruins are proud to select, with the last pick of the NHL Entry Draft, from the Lexington Sonics of the United States Hockey League... Anastasia Pankratova.”