Maybe you saw this letter from a concerned hockey mom in this week's Dear Prudence advice column on Slate:
Q. My Son Can't Keep His Hands Off Himself: I am a single mother with a 14-year-old son. I knew this time was coming but now I fear I am close to my wit's end. I have seen evidence in his bedroom, the laundry room, and the kitchen. I know this is normal, but how much is too much? Things escalated last week when his hockey coach called me in for a conference. I have noticed my son has been taking a lot of penalties this season. It turns out he has been intentionally going to the penalty box to pleasure himself. I lashed out at him when about this and things have been awkward around the house this weekend. Am I overreacting? I know I have to talk about this with him in a calm setting, but I always find the thought of this type of discussion horrifying. I am losing sleep and I don't want to succumb to letting his father deal with this, but what should I do?
I pray that this letter is, like probably a good solid third of Prudie's letters, entirely fake, and just a Slap Shot reference. Because the alternative is that somewhere out there is a kid running another kid into the boards just so he can go jack it.
I was a 14-year-old boy. By definition that means I masturbated in some pretty foul places. Public library bathrooms, taxicab backseats, the woods, you name it. But never once did it cross my boner-haunted brain to touch my dick in or near hockey gear.
Hockey gear is gross. It smells like old sweat. (And teenage boy sweat, which teenage boys smell like all the time, is the worst-smelling sweat.) Hockey gear is ponderous. The sheer amount of unlacing and shifting-aside to get to even a single layer of fabric between you and that penis requires a monomania unachievable by even the most powerful boy hormones.
And what if your team concedes a goal and you have to get back on the ice before your two minutes is up?
In conclusion, no one is jerking it in the sin bins of North America. But, ew, gross, imagine if.