Loud and Clear

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My body trembles. I can’t tell if it’s because the arena is cold or if it’s just my nerves. A microphone sits two inches away from my face. This is my first time calling a hockey game live at the rink.

I’m used to the comfort of my basement, calling NHL games with the TV muted and no one to judge me but my dad and maybe my brother Kaden. But today, I‘m calling a live game for the U18AAA Interlake Lightning boys’ team from the stands. The uncertainty is eating away at me. I’m the most nervous I’ve ever been.

For the Interlake boys who are warming up, it’s a normal Friday night. Play some hockey, maybe score a couple goals, and go home. For me, it’s different, I’m shaking and overthinking every possible comment I could make, although the feeling of anxiety is familiar. I should be used to it by now, but here in this freezing cold metal barn, it feels more intense, and I can’t find comfort, no matter how many times I remind myself the stakes are low.

“We’ve got Alex Myers starting in net for your Interlake Lightning this evening,” I try to say confidently, but the lump in my throat barely lets the words pass. I choke on my breath as I realize my familiarity with the roster is still not 100 per cent. I pull up the roster sheet and scan the names for number one. I feel my face becoming red thinking Dylan McFadyen is the starting goaltender for this evening’s match. I find Alex’s name and run my finger carefully along the sheet.

“Number one,” I whisper to myself.

I feel my body break into a cold sweat of relief and look at my Uncle Doug across the ice. He’s the defensive coach and is talking to a few of his boys on the bench before the referee drops the puck. He pauses for a moment and looks up at me before shooting me a smile and throwing a thumbs up.

I take a deep breath as both teams meet at centre ice.

“Blake Farthing heading in for the draw,” I say. As the referee drops the puck, I exhale my fears into a cloud of breath.

The game has started and although the boys are the main focus, I can’t help but feel like everyone watching the broadcast is tuned into my voice, critiquing every word I say.

“Number 12,” I begin, before looking at the roster and correcting myself, “Morgan Waddell feeds the puck to Brandon Burak off of a pass from number seven. Brandon Burak takes the shot, and the goaltender holds on.”

I feel the sweat pouring from my forehead.

At this point, I’ve only been calling hockey for two months and I’m obsessed with how people perceive me. Are that player’s parents going to be mad that I didn’t get their kid’s name right? Are the fans going to be mad that I said “goaltender holds on” instead of something cool like “swallowed up by the goaltender”?

No one had ever complained about me, but it didn’t matter. I somehow still felt my skills weren’t enough and that everyone secretly hated my commentating. I was so focused on what everyone thought of me and the way I called hockey, I hadn’t realized no one was able to hear me anyway.

I’d spent this game, and every game before it, choking on my words, trying to find the right thing to say, only to find out that I was too quiet for the broadcast to pick-up.

I probably wouldn’t have found out if my Uncle Doug hadn’t texted me.

“Hey Tav, really good calling tonight, you were just a little bit too muffled for people to hear, if you speak louder, you’ll be great.”

Every message I received from him like this left a pit in my stomach. I tried to speak louder, but every time I thought I was doing well, he sent another text with the same message. It was only my first season with the team, but I couldn’t help being hard on myself.

I thought I was done for — I’d spent all this time studying the roster and learning the team, only for it to go to waste. No matter how much I enjoyed the mechanics of calling hockey games, I started to worry it wasn’t for me.

I had so much fun watching these boys play and getting to know the way they skate, but I knew they deserved a commentator who had the confidence to highlight their skills. I grew discouraged, and was ready to give up as the season was coming to an end. Then the boys made playoffs for the first time in ten years.

It was my chance to prove to everyone I’d been able to call all along.

The team had worked so hard to get to where they were, and I knew I wasn’t too far behind them. Many of them were almost 18, and their minor hockey years were coming to an end. I was a first-year college student, sitting behind a yellow bar in the bleachers of the Teulon Rockwood Arena, trying not to let my social anxiety swallow me whole. Calling hockey was my way of confronting my anxiety and learning to work with it, rather than against it.

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I first started to show symptoms of anxiety in high school. I was sitting in grade 12 chemistry class, unaware that my life would soon become a constant battle of fearing my own voice.

I sat in the back row with tears rushing down my face. I wasn’t sure what was happening in that moment, but I knew it was out of my control. My teacher cleared his throat and asked if I was okay. I had nothing to say as my classmates turned to look back at me. I felt helpless and lost — almost like there was no redemption for me after embarrassing myself.

I reached for my phone on the desk, pulling it behind my binder — my teacher was strict about no phones. With sweat dripping down my forehead, I searched for my brother’s contact. It felt like hours before I found Kaden’s name, but when I looked at the clock, only a minute had gone by. I tried to move my fingers to send an “SOS,” but I couldn’t. I was frozen. Swallowing my tears felt impossible, as a lump formed in my throat. Every part of my body screamed to be let free, but it was no use. I eventually realized I was having a panic attack, and there was nothing I could do but ride it out.

I feared I would be like this for the rest of my life; that every day would be panic attack after panic attack with no chance for recovery. I worried for my future, but some part of me knew there was nothing in my way but myself. I was the one who was letting my fears control me, but I was also the one who could change that.

After having that panic attack in chemistry class, I took time to think about what I could do to help myself, and my recently diagnosed anxiety. From there, I spent the rest of my senior year working toward giving a “Toast to the Parents.” Talking in front of others was what I feared the most, but I knew this was something I needed to do for my own well being. I was not ready to let a diagnosis of Social Anxiety Disorder decide my future

On June 29, 2022, I stood in front of over 200 people and used my voice to express thanks to our graduating class’s parents, guardians, and family members. It was terrifying. I don’t think I stopped shaking until the next day. I had used my voice, and I was on the path to reclaim my life from the social anxiety that was trying to control me.

A few months after graduating high school, I stood before the doors of a tattoo shop. I held the stencil of my mom’s writing tightly against my chest on a crumpled paper. It read “day by day.”

After my first anxiety attack, my mom would tell me, “Deep breath in and out, take it day by day.” I knew carrying her words on my skin would help me.

After getting the tattoo (a step toward accepting my social anxiety diagnosis), I saw doctors and experimented with medication. At this point, I was looking for any way to combat my social struggles. As much as I told myself I would persevere, deep down there was always the worry that I would never be comfortable in social settings.

I had been told several times to talk to a therapist about my experience, but I thought that was crazy. Why would someone who has social anxiety ever talk to a stranger about it? I could barely even talk to my family and friends.

I later learned that talking to someone would be a form exposure therapy, one of many treatments for anxiety disorders. I’m still working towards this.

While I wasn’t willing to talk to a therapist, I was open to the idea of putting myself in uncomfortable situations. Without pushing my limits, I would never have found my voice through my love of hockey commentating. Over the last two seasons, I’ve developed my confidence — and I’m applying in other areas of my life too.

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The siren blares through the arena and I clear my throat and wait for my cue.

Taking a long deep breath, I grip my roster sheet tightly between two of my frozen fingers and hold it out in front of my mic. This thin piece of paper will never dampen the sounds of sticks banging against the boards and skates shredding up the ice.

Now in my second season, I’ve gained confidence and learned to project my voice, but there is no way my voice will ever fully compete with the echoes of this metal barn.

“Welcome back hockey fans, to the Teulon Rockwood Arena,” I began, “where we have your Interlake Lightning facing off against the Winnipeg Bruins.”

I pull my mic down to take a breath and observe the boys on the ice. I look over to the net and see the back of number 35 as he gets himself ready in his crease.

“Dylan McFadyen is your starting goaltender this evening, as we get ready to start this game.”

The cool air pierces my skin. My teeth chatter with every play that goes by. I keep looking at the clock.

“15:54 left to go in the first.”

I play around with different words and comments.

“11:39 left to go in the first.”

It’s a bit uncomfortable, but I’m managing to get by.

“Just over six minutes left to go.”

“Time is winding down as this period slowly closes out.”

As the boys skate to the dressing room, I head inside to warm up and lean against the old bleachers pretending to check my phone – there isn’t a lick of service inside the metal walls. Right now nothing feels better than avoiding social interactions.

I take a moment to debrief and think about what worked and what didn’t in the last twenty minutes. Taking time to reflect has allowed me to grow. Calling the game in real time has solidified the concept of continuously moving forward. I can’t go back and change what I said on a live broadcast, but I can learn from my mistakes and alter my future word choices to find more flow in the next period or game.

I like to bring my dad to the games, so I can have comfortable conversation between periods instead of just awkwardly standing alone. But tonight I had challenged myself to do it on my own. After only twenty minutes it was too early to tell if it was a good idea or not.

The bleachers were full, so I stood in the corner where the service is even worse, hoping and praying that the ice surface was almost clean. I thought about the last period. I was already having a pretty bad day managing my anxiety, and my poor commentating last period fueled the fire. I was repetitive and lacked enthusiasm. Sometimes I blame the way I call on the spirit of the boys, but this was all me.

While I scrolled through Instagram, which never loads, and tried to check my rank in fantasy hockey, I felt a hand on my shoulder. My heart dropped, and I began to feel lightheaded. I knew that this game wasn’t one of my best, but I wasn’t prepared for someone to tell me that to my face.

I looked up to see number 17, Cole Swanson’s mom, the one who is always taking pictures at the games with her fancy camera.

“I just needed to tell you, my parents watch every game out in California,” she smiled at me. “They told me that if I ever got the chance to talk to you to tell you that they think you are fantastic at what you do and to keep up the great work!”

Relief washed over me, and my heartbeat began to regulate. I had never received such a compliment while calling hockey and little did I know the positive feedback would only continue from there.

I’d spent so much time worrying, that I’d never realized some people actually enjoyed my commentating. I have mispronounced many names, said “left” when I meant “right,” and called out the wrong name of a player who was involved in a scoring play. But those mistakes do not define me. I am not written by the mishaps I have had while calling hockey. It’s not easy for me to accept my mistakes on a live broadcast, and it never will be, but managing errors and swallowing them instead of letting them sit and bother me has shaped me — and I learned to do it while stepping out of my comfort zone.

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Calling hockey is a forward-facing game. If Blake Farthing passes the puck to Morgan Waddell, and I say Brandon Burak received the puck, I correct myself and move on. If the Lightning are called on a penalty and I say that they’re the ones who have the man advantage before seeing they’re one man short, I correct myself and move on.

For many years I have tried to put on a perfect persona, to show everyone that I only do things the “right way,” that I don’t make mistakes. It took me a while to realize that really hurt me. Focusing my attention on something so unachievable damaged my perspective of making mistakes and moving forward.

I used to avoid crowds because I was nervous that my eyebrows weren’t combed evenly. I used to avoid social settings because I feared that I might say something stupid. I’ve spent most of my life worrying about what I’m going to do, or what I’ve already done. I’ve ignored the present. But calling hockey taught me that it’s okay to be scared, but it’s not okay to let my fears control me.

Because of calling hockey I’m learning to accept my mistakes, sit through discomfort, and move forward. I’m learning to take a deep breath before exposing myself to things I’d normally avoid. From time to time, I still get anxious and cower away. I doubt that anxiety is something I will ever fully be rid of, but I am learning how to manage it. Like a game of hockey, I must move on from the plays that have been made and focus on the ones coming up.