This is not unusual for a child. They always beg for money, usually from their parents. They see something on TV that they want; something outrageous, gross, or better yet both, like the Dr. Dreadful Food Lab. This masterpiece of mayhem creates neat stuff like edible monster warts, to which a parent customarily responds with a grunt, �Over my dead, wart�infected body.�

My son Paul has become quite adept at begging, but before it was only on a family scale. Now he�s gone big time. He�s in youth hockey�begging with a uniform. He�s a hockey player in the mite division of the Taunton (MA) Brewins organization, an outstanding group that instructs youngsters on the skills of hockey. More importantly, they teach the art of sportsmanship, fair play and falling like a wriggling mass on a loose puck in the corner.

They also teach fundraising, as it is politely known�or begging, as hard�core cynics such as myself call it. Although, it has become necessary.

Expensive endeavor

Youth hockey is incredibly expensive and ice time doesn�t come cheap. It costs a bundle to keep the ice frozen and involves scientific mechanics so complex that technological morons like myself prefer to think of it as magic. Somehow you just pour Zambonis full of money and voila, you have ice.

Therefore, the kids beg, or fundraise, by clutching little containers and plunking themselves in front of every available Dunkin� Donuts in Southeastern Massachusetts. My son�s turn came last season when he and a teammate, Nick, teamed up in front of their doughnut shop. Nick�s father, Gary, and I stressed to the boys the importance of politeness and saying �please� and �thank you� even if nobody were to give them money. I was thinking most folks would be like I am when a little uniformed beggar approaches me in front of a store. I usually grunt on my way out, which means �Over my dead, wart�infected body.�

Turns out I�m cheap, which is no surprise to anyone who knows me. But what did come as a surprise is that most everybody graciously gave the kids some change or stuffed whole dollar bills into their little containers. Of course, Nick and Paul are pretty smooth salesmen/hockey players, not only saying �please� and �thank you,� but holding the door open for people and tossing off a casual �Have a nice day� when the spirit moved them. Together, they raised enough money to keep the Zamboni full for a long time. Of course, raising money is only a small part of being in youth hockey.

One continuous road trip

As a hockey parent a bigger part is being able to drive to rinks in an area roughly twice the size of Texas with your eyes closed. By some cruel twist of fate, many of the kids� games are played at rinks in towns that I�ve never heard of, despite my being a Massachusetts resident my whole life. Places like Pembroke, Hingham, Rockland and the Third Ring of Saturn, caused us to come home at wee hours of the morning many years ago, before we had miniature hockey players.

So, there are hordes of us hockey parents out there, crisscrossing the roads of Southeastern Massachusetts, desperately looking for a burning glow in the dawn�s early light, with hopes of a coffee shop where we can stop for a jolt of caffeine. A quick fix before driving to a rink where the temperature is always 20� below glacial to watch our kids fall like a wriggling mass on a loose puck in the corner.

And this is all wonderful, it really is. There are people in the league, from top officials who organize the entire madness, to the coaches who come out with parents in the gloom of sunrise. Most do it all for absolutely no money, but merely the satisfaction of getting the kids into a fine sport such as hockey. They ask little from parents, except to shuttle their kids around from rink to rink and maybe have them stand outside a doughnut shop every so often and beg, or fundraise, for the league. I don�t think that�s too much to ask.

But on behalf of bleary�eyed, shivering parents, if the Zamboni ever drools out a little excess cash, do you think we might have some for gas? It�s a heck of a long ride to the Third Ring of Saturn, especially at 5 o�clock on a Saturday morning.