Long overdue...having taken a Summer break from the game as have the Boy and the Devil....sort of.
I've still maintained my Thursday night 3 on 3 men's league ritual, while each of the kids have taken to the ice for at least an hour once a week. Coaches for both want to keep the players' "feet wet" and/or "skates sharp" as the case may be and build some team chemistry for the season to come.
Both teams are in need of the latter as they are both comprised of new groups of kids and varied personalities. In one case we're talking about a collection of testosterone driven fifteen and soon-to-be sixteen year old boys. In the other, an equally potentially volatile mix of thirteen and fourteen year old girls. Each group and individual player for that matter presents its own unique set of challenges. This is why volunteer coaches are certainly to be commended in taking on their chosen roles.
Summer is also a time for fundraising, which has certainly become a major part of belonging to and successfully running a minor hockey team. Many minor hockey teams have major budgets; in some cases upwards of $25,000, which includes the cost of ice, tournaments (5+ per year depending on the team), referees, warm up suits, team bags, training equipment, etc. Minor sports as big business is not news. And so, we participate in beer bottle drives, frozen meat sales, euchre tournaments, golf days and silent auctions in an effort to bring the individual budget burden to a minimum. Those who wish to participate certainly can and are encouraged to do so as these events take on their own team building focus. Others, and it seems this number is growing due, at least in part, to fundraising fatigue, can choose to simply pay out their financial responsibility in lieu of participation.
Fundraising is not without its incidents and this Summer's activities were no exception. The Boy's team decided to run a bottle drive a couple of days after the Canada Day long weekend, fully expecting a boon following a weekend of festivities in many Canadian households. They all ventured out in groups of four with a couple of parents following in trucks and vans to collect the proceeds of the boys' door-to-door ventures. The Boy's group had been out canvassing a couple of neighborhoods for nearly two hours and were dismayed by a relatively low bottle tally. They decided to change locations for a final run before darkness fell. That's when it happened. They hit the Mother Lode. The gentleman who answered the door immediately said "I've been waiting for a team to show up." And he wasn't kidding. In fact, it appeared he had been waiting a few years. Upon opening one of the doors to his two-car garage, the boys discovered upwards of 300 six packs of empty bottles. So many cases, it became necessary to call in reinforcements to transport the haul to the Beer Store for redemption. Based on the size of the generous donation, it was decided that the boys would reimburse the owners of the Mother Lode with a replacement case of beer. A bargain relative to the windfall they provided. And so, some hard-earned and much appreciated funds were added to the team coffers with a few more events to follow throughout the year.
The end of the Summer also marks one other occurrence. The realization that the kids have grown (again) and a good portion of their equipment no longer fits. In the case of the Boy this includes shoulder pads, helmet, neck guard and (uggh) skates. The Devil, who thankfully (but sometime begrudgingly gets the Boy's hand-me-downs), appears to only need pants this year...so far. Guess we can't begrudge them growing and we must do our utmost to keep them safe; bigger kids = bigger collisions.
And so this week marks the start of the new season as the Boy "officially" hits the ice for practice tomorrow night and the Devil will not be far behind. Stories and memories of wins, losses, accomplishments, failures, smiles, tears and the occasional cuss word are no doubt set to abound. I can't wait and if you need me, just call the rink.
#imahockeydad
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Dad's still got it....sort of
Last Sunday, Father's Day, the Boy's hockey coach decided to devote the majority of the team's once-a-week, keep the lads' feet wet for the Summer, ice time to a Father-Son game.
The prospect of a Father-Son game when the Boys were Peewee or Bantam age was fine as we fathers could confidently say we were bigger, stronger and for the most part faster than our still-growing offspring. But this year was different and you could sense a bit of trepidation on the side of the fathers from the moment the game was announced a couple of weeks earlier. In speaking with a few fathers, we all sort of wondered if we were indeed still stronger and particularly faster. Some among us, and I include myself in these ranks, are no longer able to say we are bigger. As age takes its course some of us are highly cognizant of the fact that we are headed in the opposite direction, if only because knee, back or other joint pains cause us to gravitate downward.
To add to the concern of the competing fathers, we had only one day prior also attended a full team bbq/swim party graciously hosted by one set of parents. There was plenty of food, drink and a previously scheduled Father/Son baseball game. Obviously the organizers of these back-to-back events had lofty misconceptions about the fitness and stamina of the older participants. For the record, the fathers won the baseball game 16-15. But the win could be attributed as much to a lack of interest on the part of the Boys as it could to the skill level of their wily old counterparts. The Boys had stated a preference for a football game. Luckily saner heads did prevail at least once last weekend as football would have no doubt spelled injury for some unlucky father.
Sunday arrived and we all made our way to the hockey rink where the Boys would first be put through a brisk half hour skate/warm (a tactic no doubt intended to wear them down just a little), while we fathers dressed and did as much stretching as our bodies would allow. One father wondered if he would even be able to skate on a bum knee and questionable ankle.
As we took to the ice, there were of course, some pre-game antics from the team of dads including taunting, cajoling and an appearance by Slapshot's infamous Hanson brothers (aka fathers in goofy wigs and dorky glasses complete with white hockey tape across the bridge). Some fathers wondered if all the Boys even got the reference. I'm somewhat proud and maybe a little embarrassed to say that the Boy watched Slapshot, a classic in the eyes of most true hockey fans, a couple of years ago. The language and mature themes in the movie may have some questioning my parenting skills, but it really is a classic. I mean "Geezus Reg, what did you say to him?" Yes, I can recite a fair bit of the dialogue, which may also be a bit concerning, but it really is a classic.
Back to the game and following the opening face-off the Boys came out quickly. They immediately took it to us fathers with their quick feet and fancy toe drags. They went up two goals to none and had us looking at each other, wondering if we were in trouble. But then the fathers roared back with a pretty passing play and goal of their own, followed by another and another to take a 3-2 lead. I may have been on the ice against the Boy himself, I may have even scored the third goal and then I just might have thrown a taunt or two in his direction because I'm nothing if not competitive; a trait the Boy likewise comes by honestly. Having taken the lead, the fathers got a boost of confidence and started moving the puck around a little more effectively. We also started using a variety of admittedly questionable tactics (did I mention here were no refs in this game) to keep the boys off stride. There may have been a little clutching, grabbing, smothering and sitting upon.
As we went ahead by two and then three goals the Boys decided to press in the offensive zone, but that only served to leave a father or two open down the ice as many didn't have the strength or stamina to come back to help defend in any case. Agile of mind if not of body. The game ended 10-7 in favour of the fathers. This father, for his part, ended up scoring three and assisting on two others, facts not lost on the Boy for several hours after the game was over (I told everyone I saw that day including my own Father and Father-in-Law). Again, nothing if not competitive.
A traditional post-game ceremony, complete with the presentation of a large borrowed trophy, was carried out. Said trophy was paraded around the ice and passed from father to father who in turn took his opportunity to raise it above his head and kiss it fondly, mimicking Stanley Cup victors. However, we all realize that this pomp, circumstance and general tomfoolery was only conducted because we realize this is likely the last time we'll be able to celebrate a victory over our Boys. We already had a sense that the Boys took it easy on us and were not quite as competitive as we fathers trying to maintain some of our youthful pride.
All in all the game was a blast and I do look forward to an opportunity to play against, if not more sensibly with, the Boy or the Devil again. In each case I can only hope I'm given a bit of a head start and the compassion of children who realize Dad still likes to think he's still got it.
#imahockeydad
The prospect of a Father-Son game when the Boys were Peewee or Bantam age was fine as we fathers could confidently say we were bigger, stronger and for the most part faster than our still-growing offspring. But this year was different and you could sense a bit of trepidation on the side of the fathers from the moment the game was announced a couple of weeks earlier. In speaking with a few fathers, we all sort of wondered if we were indeed still stronger and particularly faster. Some among us, and I include myself in these ranks, are no longer able to say we are bigger. As age takes its course some of us are highly cognizant of the fact that we are headed in the opposite direction, if only because knee, back or other joint pains cause us to gravitate downward.
To add to the concern of the competing fathers, we had only one day prior also attended a full team bbq/swim party graciously hosted by one set of parents. There was plenty of food, drink and a previously scheduled Father/Son baseball game. Obviously the organizers of these back-to-back events had lofty misconceptions about the fitness and stamina of the older participants. For the record, the fathers won the baseball game 16-15. But the win could be attributed as much to a lack of interest on the part of the Boys as it could to the skill level of their wily old counterparts. The Boys had stated a preference for a football game. Luckily saner heads did prevail at least once last weekend as football would have no doubt spelled injury for some unlucky father.
Sunday arrived and we all made our way to the hockey rink where the Boys would first be put through a brisk half hour skate/warm (a tactic no doubt intended to wear them down just a little), while we fathers dressed and did as much stretching as our bodies would allow. One father wondered if he would even be able to skate on a bum knee and questionable ankle.
As we took to the ice, there were of course, some pre-game antics from the team of dads including taunting, cajoling and an appearance by Slapshot's infamous Hanson brothers (aka fathers in goofy wigs and dorky glasses complete with white hockey tape across the bridge). Some fathers wondered if all the Boys even got the reference. I'm somewhat proud and maybe a little embarrassed to say that the Boy watched Slapshot, a classic in the eyes of most true hockey fans, a couple of years ago. The language and mature themes in the movie may have some questioning my parenting skills, but it really is a classic. I mean "Geezus Reg, what did you say to him?" Yes, I can recite a fair bit of the dialogue, which may also be a bit concerning, but it really is a classic.
Back to the game and following the opening face-off the Boys came out quickly. They immediately took it to us fathers with their quick feet and fancy toe drags. They went up two goals to none and had us looking at each other, wondering if we were in trouble. But then the fathers roared back with a pretty passing play and goal of their own, followed by another and another to take a 3-2 lead. I may have been on the ice against the Boy himself, I may have even scored the third goal and then I just might have thrown a taunt or two in his direction because I'm nothing if not competitive; a trait the Boy likewise comes by honestly. Having taken the lead, the fathers got a boost of confidence and started moving the puck around a little more effectively. We also started using a variety of admittedly questionable tactics (did I mention here were no refs in this game) to keep the boys off stride. There may have been a little clutching, grabbing, smothering and sitting upon.
As we went ahead by two and then three goals the Boys decided to press in the offensive zone, but that only served to leave a father or two open down the ice as many didn't have the strength or stamina to come back to help defend in any case. Agile of mind if not of body. The game ended 10-7 in favour of the fathers. This father, for his part, ended up scoring three and assisting on two others, facts not lost on the Boy for several hours after the game was over (I told everyone I saw that day including my own Father and Father-in-Law). Again, nothing if not competitive.
A traditional post-game ceremony, complete with the presentation of a large borrowed trophy, was carried out. Said trophy was paraded around the ice and passed from father to father who in turn took his opportunity to raise it above his head and kiss it fondly, mimicking Stanley Cup victors. However, we all realize that this pomp, circumstance and general tomfoolery was only conducted because we realize this is likely the last time we'll be able to celebrate a victory over our Boys. We already had a sense that the Boys took it easy on us and were not quite as competitive as we fathers trying to maintain some of our youthful pride.
All in all the game was a blast and I do look forward to an opportunity to play against, if not more sensibly with, the Boy or the Devil again. In each case I can only hope I'm given a bit of a head start and the compassion of children who realize Dad still likes to think he's still got it.
#imahockeydad
Monday, June 14, 2010
No thing gets left behind
After you've actually forgotten to bring your child to a their own hockey game, there's really not much else you can do wrong that's worthy of repeating. But I'm an equal opportunity screwer-upper so there's a recent incident involving the Boy.
First off, I and most every other parent has been overheard in a malodorous dressing room preaching emphatically to their child, "It's YOUR hockey bag and YOUR equipment, so it is YOUR responsibility to make sure everything is in it." This line is generally uttered after it's realized, often too late, that some piece of equipment is missing. For instance, these very words were no doubt uttered when one of the Boy's teammates forgot his pants for a game more than an hour from home. Dad, in this case, resorted to seeking out the closest Walmart and purchasing the cheapest pair of pants he could find. Post-game, the same pants, all pricetags and stickers still intact were returned to said Walmart, having served their purpose. I bet you didn't know Walmart rented hockey pants? Well now you do.
This past season the Boy's team was entered into a tournament at Niagara University, Home of the Purple Eagles. Cross-border tournaments are different and fun. You get to travel to a different place and generally play a bunch of different teams. But out of town tournaments are always also a little hectic with having to pack clothes, snacks, beer, equipment, the dog who will be dropped off at friends or the kennel, beer, passports, directions, etc., etc., etc.
I took the Friday off work to give us plenty of time to drop off the pooch and take our time getting to the first game on Friday night. Before we left the house I asked the standard question "Did you double check your bag to make sure you have everything?"
"No, but mom just washed a bunch of my stuff and threw it all back in. I haven't touched it since my last practice," was the response.
We did arrive early, checked into our hotel and proceeded to the rink, which was a little off the beaten path. Niagara University isn't really close to anything - save for a couple of outlet malls. At the rink, as usual, Dad, Mom and Sis headed up into the stands to watch the game that preceded the Boy's, while he went down for the pre-game warm up with his teammates.
About 30 minutes later and 30 minutes prior to the first game of the tournament, the Boy came trudging, ashen-faced up into the stands.
"What did you forget?" I asked almost immediately.
"Actually, what did YOU forget?" he half-sarcastically replied.
My mind almost immediately doubled back to a mere 24 hours before when I obediently dropped off and then picked up the Boy's skates from the regular sharpening place. I went from the sharpening place to another rink in town where I had an errand to run and I didn't want to leave the seriously over-priced footwear out in the open in the backseat of the car. I prudently placed the skates in the safe recesses of trunk. Safe and sound. Out of sight and now quite unfortunately out of mind.
I don't need to tell you that, of all the pieces of equipment you can forget, skates are a pretty high on the list of necessity. And skates are not nearly as easy to replace with a quick trip to the local Walmart or Canadian Tire. Skates don't grow on trees south of the 49th parallel like they do up here in the frozen northern homeland. Skates generally need to be worked in. Today's skates, with their near NASA-approved technology, are typically "baked" and molded to fit the foot for maximum comfort and effectiveness. A wide range of options and scenarios were quickly tabled and just as quickly untabled.
1) The Boy would simply miss game one, Dad would endure immense shame and ridicule and we'd find somewhere to buy a cheap pair of replacements for game two.
2) The Boy would simply miss game one (still not Dad's preference) and then Dad would drive back two and a half hours across the border to retrieve the skates from the trunk and return in time for game two the next morning.
3) The Boy would simply miss game one (an increasingly likely but unceasingly unpopular scenario) and then Dad would meet Mom's father (who would need to be cajoled into the role of skate courier) at some agreed upon halfway point.
Only one other option remained. How about checking to see if the rink's pro-shop happened to have a pair of skates they could loan the Boy? As luck would have it, the local Rink Rat (as they are affectionately known) did think he had a pair of skates he could lend the Boy, but he would have to find them and they would need to be sharpened. In fact, what the Rink Rat found was a vintage pair of skates which were at least a size too small and seriously lacking in ankle support.
We nervously watched the pre-game skate at the Boy tried his damnedest to make the instruments play the tune. These skates simply weren't up to the challenge and the Boy sat dejectedly on the end of the bench as the Rink Rat set off to see if he could locate another pair. To his credit, he returned with an only slightly larger, but somewhat sturdier pair for the Boy to try. Far from ideal, the Boy got through the game on these newly borrowed wheels. We were indeed indebted to the Rink Rat who went out of his way to help. Maybe he had a kid whose skates he had somehow unwittingly and unintentionally forgotten in another country?
The game itself was not pretty as our boys fell to the competition 4-1. To add insult to injury, there was a melee at the end of the game which saw three players from our team incur game misconducts. Suddenly opportunity presented itself as at least one of the three ejected boys happened to have nearly the same sized feet as the Boy. "Sorry about the game misconduct, but I guess you won't be needing those skates then?"
As luck or unluck would have it, depending on your perspective, another game led to another player's ejection and another prime opportunity to borrow some steel. Another pair of slightly smallish skates were loaned and the Boy was able to play, albeit with increasingly sore feet.
The crisis was somewhat averted and the Boy was able to play in all three games. The team did not advance beyond the round robin and that was probably for the best as far as at least one family was concerned.
The moral, of course, to this particular story is....Always check YOUR own equipment bag and NEVER rely on YOUR increasingly old man to have the presence of mind or basic ability to transport any of YOUR equipment or YOUR SISTER for that matter to its required destination.
#imahockeydad
First off, I and most every other parent has been overheard in a malodorous dressing room preaching emphatically to their child, "It's YOUR hockey bag and YOUR equipment, so it is YOUR responsibility to make sure everything is in it." This line is generally uttered after it's realized, often too late, that some piece of equipment is missing. For instance, these very words were no doubt uttered when one of the Boy's teammates forgot his pants for a game more than an hour from home. Dad, in this case, resorted to seeking out the closest Walmart and purchasing the cheapest pair of pants he could find. Post-game, the same pants, all pricetags and stickers still intact were returned to said Walmart, having served their purpose. I bet you didn't know Walmart rented hockey pants? Well now you do.
This past season the Boy's team was entered into a tournament at Niagara University, Home of the Purple Eagles. Cross-border tournaments are different and fun. You get to travel to a different place and generally play a bunch of different teams. But out of town tournaments are always also a little hectic with having to pack clothes, snacks, beer, equipment, the dog who will be dropped off at friends or the kennel, beer, passports, directions, etc., etc., etc.
I took the Friday off work to give us plenty of time to drop off the pooch and take our time getting to the first game on Friday night. Before we left the house I asked the standard question "Did you double check your bag to make sure you have everything?"
"No, but mom just washed a bunch of my stuff and threw it all back in. I haven't touched it since my last practice," was the response.
We did arrive early, checked into our hotel and proceeded to the rink, which was a little off the beaten path. Niagara University isn't really close to anything - save for a couple of outlet malls. At the rink, as usual, Dad, Mom and Sis headed up into the stands to watch the game that preceded the Boy's, while he went down for the pre-game warm up with his teammates.
About 30 minutes later and 30 minutes prior to the first game of the tournament, the Boy came trudging, ashen-faced up into the stands.
"What did you forget?" I asked almost immediately.
"Actually, what did YOU forget?" he half-sarcastically replied.
My mind almost immediately doubled back to a mere 24 hours before when I obediently dropped off and then picked up the Boy's skates from the regular sharpening place. I went from the sharpening place to another rink in town where I had an errand to run and I didn't want to leave the seriously over-priced footwear out in the open in the backseat of the car. I prudently placed the skates in the safe recesses of trunk. Safe and sound. Out of sight and now quite unfortunately out of mind.
I don't need to tell you that, of all the pieces of equipment you can forget, skates are a pretty high on the list of necessity. And skates are not nearly as easy to replace with a quick trip to the local Walmart or Canadian Tire. Skates don't grow on trees south of the 49th parallel like they do up here in the frozen northern homeland. Skates generally need to be worked in. Today's skates, with their near NASA-approved technology, are typically "baked" and molded to fit the foot for maximum comfort and effectiveness. A wide range of options and scenarios were quickly tabled and just as quickly untabled.
1) The Boy would simply miss game one, Dad would endure immense shame and ridicule and we'd find somewhere to buy a cheap pair of replacements for game two.
2) The Boy would simply miss game one (still not Dad's preference) and then Dad would drive back two and a half hours across the border to retrieve the skates from the trunk and return in time for game two the next morning.
3) The Boy would simply miss game one (an increasingly likely but unceasingly unpopular scenario) and then Dad would meet Mom's father (who would need to be cajoled into the role of skate courier) at some agreed upon halfway point.
Only one other option remained. How about checking to see if the rink's pro-shop happened to have a pair of skates they could loan the Boy? As luck would have it, the local Rink Rat (as they are affectionately known) did think he had a pair of skates he could lend the Boy, but he would have to find them and they would need to be sharpened. In fact, what the Rink Rat found was a vintage pair of skates which were at least a size too small and seriously lacking in ankle support.
We nervously watched the pre-game skate at the Boy tried his damnedest to make the instruments play the tune. These skates simply weren't up to the challenge and the Boy sat dejectedly on the end of the bench as the Rink Rat set off to see if he could locate another pair. To his credit, he returned with an only slightly larger, but somewhat sturdier pair for the Boy to try. Far from ideal, the Boy got through the game on these newly borrowed wheels. We were indeed indebted to the Rink Rat who went out of his way to help. Maybe he had a kid whose skates he had somehow unwittingly and unintentionally forgotten in another country?
The game itself was not pretty as our boys fell to the competition 4-1. To add insult to injury, there was a melee at the end of the game which saw three players from our team incur game misconducts. Suddenly opportunity presented itself as at least one of the three ejected boys happened to have nearly the same sized feet as the Boy. "Sorry about the game misconduct, but I guess you won't be needing those skates then?"
As luck or unluck would have it, depending on your perspective, another game led to another player's ejection and another prime opportunity to borrow some steel. Another pair of slightly smallish skates were loaned and the Boy was able to play, albeit with increasingly sore feet.
The crisis was somewhat averted and the Boy was able to play in all three games. The team did not advance beyond the round robin and that was probably for the best as far as at least one family was concerned.
The moral, of course, to this particular story is....Always check YOUR own equipment bag and NEVER rely on YOUR increasingly old man to have the presence of mind or basic ability to transport any of YOUR equipment or YOUR SISTER for that matter to its required destination.
#imahockeydad
Sunday, May 23, 2010
No one gets left behind
We all have an embarrassing story that sticks with us. We've all made little mistakes, errors in judgment or oversights that have a way of haunting us for days, months or years thereafter. Ok, some of us make a couple or even a few of them over the course of our lives. I happen to be one of those rare but not so unique multiple offenders. Cuz ya see, I'm part of a not so rare breed "homo hominis". I'm a man with all the natural faults that title bequeaths.
Some of my finest and admittedly infamous moments have occurred at the multitude of hockey tournaments we've attended over the last ten years.
The first unflattering tale that I really shouldn't, but will share at my own peril, occurred at one of the Devil's tournaments in Aylmer, Ontario. Tournaments mean hotel stays, which more often than not are the actual highlights of the tournaments. The choice of hotel is based on a combination of its amenities (i.e. does it have a pool or better yet a water slide?) and its proximity to the rinks the team will be competing at. Now for this particular tournament in rural southwestern Ontario, the rinks were quite spread out and this will become an important part of this story. This tournament was scheduled for at least two and possibly three days beginning on a wintery Friday in January. This translates to a guaranteed three and possibly four or five games depending on results. The Devil's team played well enough in its first three games, two wins and a loss if memory serves, to advance to the semi-finals, which were to be played at 7:00am on Sunday morning. On a side note, the team was struck by a virus that had the team possibly playing its fourth game in three days with only 11 or 12 of its original seventeen players. Now here's where the story goes a little sideways for me so be sure to pay attention.
The rink for the already early game on Sunday morning was a full half hour drive from our hotel. The girls needed to be woken at 5:30am and ushered out into the sub-zero temperatures for the trip to the rink. This after having played on Saturday night and not getting back to the hotel and into bed until close to 10pm. We parents may have stayed up an hour or two later chatting and consuming the odd alcoholic beverage in the hotel hallway (another fine hockey tournament tradition). My wife and the Boy would be staying behind in the hotel so they need not suffer the lack of sleep or warmth. Having never really been to that part of the province, I would need to make sure I followed someone out to this foreign hockey rink.
5:30am may as well have been 2:00am as the Devil and I wearily made our way out to our frozen, but warming mini-van waiting out in the parking lot behind the two-storey hotel. I tossed the Devil's hockey bag into the back of the van and tucked her carefully into the back seat wrapped in a couple of blankets to buffer Jack Frost's icy grip.
The van was understandably encrusted in frost so I set to work with a scraper. I wanted to have at least half a chance of seeing where I was going. I kept a close eye on the father and daughter I would be following over to the rink in order to make sure I didn't lose them and myself in the process. I hopped in the van and away we went. There was one necessary, traditional stop to make on our way to the rink. I pulled up to the Tim Horton's drive-thru and barked my order for a large black through the frozen air to the obliging attendant. I didn't even bother asking the Devil if she wanted anything as she lay soundly asleep behind me and generally wasn't one for pre-game meals; particularly not at 5:45am. She needed every bit of rest she could get if she was going to help her team move on to the tournament finals.
My first sip of coffee did provide some degree of the much needed thawing and awakening effect. I followed my guide closely for the next 25 minutes through winding roads and a succession of left and right back-roads turns. I was pretty sure I never would have found the rink on my own in the dark of the early morning.
Arriving at the rink I jumped out and summoned the Devil. She didn't rise from her slumber immediately so I beckoned again, this time with a little more force. Still no movement in the rear of the vehicle. What I experienced next can only properly be described as a combination of shock and abject fear. I opened the side door of the van and suddenly realized the Devil's lack of movement was due to her lack of....presence. I now shouted her name a couple of times. There was a blanket, but no child. Had she been somehow abducted right beneath my nose? Had she vanished into thin air like some sick magician's twisted illusion? Where the hell was she?
I raced over to my guide's car and quickly reported that my daughter was missing. He naturally asked, "What do you mean?"
"I mean she's not in the back of the goddamned van!" I was more than a bit frantic and I'm not sure of the exact chain of events that followed, but I believe I turned on my cell phone to call back to the hotel to let my wife know that I had lost our daughter; but not quite sure how to deliver that scary message. I hadn't turned on my mobile phone prior to that point because who would need to call me at 6:00am in the morning as I was driving out in the middle of nowhere. And now here, the middle of nowhere brought with it a total lack of cellular signal. At this point, I pondered jumping back in my van and racing back to the hotel and perhaps stopping at a local police station to file a missing person's alert. My mind was racing.
However, before I had a chance to do that the team manager pulled into the rink parking lot with his child in tow. He called me over to his vehicle and with a smirk that grew into what felt like derisive laughter asked me if I was "missing" something? As it turns out, he had turned on his cell phones, had received a signal as well as a call from my understandably upset spouse who quickly reported that I had left without our daughter.
"I WHAT? I DID NOT!" was all I could muster. The manager assured me that I had indeed left without my daughter, but that she was still on her way to the rink courtesy of another family. And so, I hung my head, grabbed her gear and headed into the rink to wait with and be ridiculed vociferously by the other parents as the story spread like wildfire. Each set of parents seemed to arrive with a new stinging barb for me. I tried to jab back with quips like, "At least I got her gear here safely!", but I knew all too well there was no way I would ever live this down. Eventually, the Devil, in her own bewildered sense of disbelief arrived with the other family and told the her side of the story.
It seems that the chilly morning air got the best of the Devil. She decided while I was scraping the front window of the van to saunter back across the hotel parking lot, up the stairs and into the warm embrace of her blissfully sleeping mother. After five or ten minutes, and yes the timeline is a little sketchy here, mommy convinced the Devil to head back downstairs where I was no doubt anxiously awaiting her return. But the Devil would be back rapping on the hotel room door a minute or so later with her own somber report, "Daddy forgot me!"
"HE DID WHAT? HE DID NOT! DON'T BE RIDICULOUS!"
Mommy threw on a robe and ran down the stairs to verify the Devil's unwitting discovery. Luckily, I and my guide had been among the first to leave the hotel. One family of five was still in the parking lot and my wife was quick to flag them down to beg for a ride. This would have been fine save for the fact that they only had a five seat van and now they needed to accommodate a sixth passenger. They decided the best course of action would be to strap the Devil safely into one of their five seats the mother in the group would ride with the gear in the back. Yet another dagger in my already severely embarrassed heart.
The game that fateful, freezing Sunday morning would be the Devil's team's last that weekend as their depleted squad put up a good fight, but succumbed to a fuller local team. We were all pretty sure the other team had more healthy players, more sleep in their own beds and none of the self-afflicted drama I had unintentionally introduced. But hey, I already explained the whole male human thing and every couple of weeks and/or months since someone has a chuckle at my expense. And, as mentioned, this is not the only one.
#imahockeydad
Some of my finest and admittedly infamous moments have occurred at the multitude of hockey tournaments we've attended over the last ten years.
The first unflattering tale that I really shouldn't, but will share at my own peril, occurred at one of the Devil's tournaments in Aylmer, Ontario. Tournaments mean hotel stays, which more often than not are the actual highlights of the tournaments. The choice of hotel is based on a combination of its amenities (i.e. does it have a pool or better yet a water slide?) and its proximity to the rinks the team will be competing at. Now for this particular tournament in rural southwestern Ontario, the rinks were quite spread out and this will become an important part of this story. This tournament was scheduled for at least two and possibly three days beginning on a wintery Friday in January. This translates to a guaranteed three and possibly four or five games depending on results. The Devil's team played well enough in its first three games, two wins and a loss if memory serves, to advance to the semi-finals, which were to be played at 7:00am on Sunday morning. On a side note, the team was struck by a virus that had the team possibly playing its fourth game in three days with only 11 or 12 of its original seventeen players. Now here's where the story goes a little sideways for me so be sure to pay attention.
The rink for the already early game on Sunday morning was a full half hour drive from our hotel. The girls needed to be woken at 5:30am and ushered out into the sub-zero temperatures for the trip to the rink. This after having played on Saturday night and not getting back to the hotel and into bed until close to 10pm. We parents may have stayed up an hour or two later chatting and consuming the odd alcoholic beverage in the hotel hallway (another fine hockey tournament tradition). My wife and the Boy would be staying behind in the hotel so they need not suffer the lack of sleep or warmth. Having never really been to that part of the province, I would need to make sure I followed someone out to this foreign hockey rink.
5:30am may as well have been 2:00am as the Devil and I wearily made our way out to our frozen, but warming mini-van waiting out in the parking lot behind the two-storey hotel. I tossed the Devil's hockey bag into the back of the van and tucked her carefully into the back seat wrapped in a couple of blankets to buffer Jack Frost's icy grip.
The van was understandably encrusted in frost so I set to work with a scraper. I wanted to have at least half a chance of seeing where I was going. I kept a close eye on the father and daughter I would be following over to the rink in order to make sure I didn't lose them and myself in the process. I hopped in the van and away we went. There was one necessary, traditional stop to make on our way to the rink. I pulled up to the Tim Horton's drive-thru and barked my order for a large black through the frozen air to the obliging attendant. I didn't even bother asking the Devil if she wanted anything as she lay soundly asleep behind me and generally wasn't one for pre-game meals; particularly not at 5:45am. She needed every bit of rest she could get if she was going to help her team move on to the tournament finals.
My first sip of coffee did provide some degree of the much needed thawing and awakening effect. I followed my guide closely for the next 25 minutes through winding roads and a succession of left and right back-roads turns. I was pretty sure I never would have found the rink on my own in the dark of the early morning.
Arriving at the rink I jumped out and summoned the Devil. She didn't rise from her slumber immediately so I beckoned again, this time with a little more force. Still no movement in the rear of the vehicle. What I experienced next can only properly be described as a combination of shock and abject fear. I opened the side door of the van and suddenly realized the Devil's lack of movement was due to her lack of....presence. I now shouted her name a couple of times. There was a blanket, but no child. Had she been somehow abducted right beneath my nose? Had she vanished into thin air like some sick magician's twisted illusion? Where the hell was she?
I raced over to my guide's car and quickly reported that my daughter was missing. He naturally asked, "What do you mean?"
"I mean she's not in the back of the goddamned van!" I was more than a bit frantic and I'm not sure of the exact chain of events that followed, but I believe I turned on my cell phone to call back to the hotel to let my wife know that I had lost our daughter; but not quite sure how to deliver that scary message. I hadn't turned on my mobile phone prior to that point because who would need to call me at 6:00am in the morning as I was driving out in the middle of nowhere. And now here, the middle of nowhere brought with it a total lack of cellular signal. At this point, I pondered jumping back in my van and racing back to the hotel and perhaps stopping at a local police station to file a missing person's alert. My mind was racing.
However, before I had a chance to do that the team manager pulled into the rink parking lot with his child in tow. He called me over to his vehicle and with a smirk that grew into what felt like derisive laughter asked me if I was "missing" something? As it turns out, he had turned on his cell phones, had received a signal as well as a call from my understandably upset spouse who quickly reported that I had left without our daughter.
"I WHAT? I DID NOT!" was all I could muster. The manager assured me that I had indeed left without my daughter, but that she was still on her way to the rink courtesy of another family. And so, I hung my head, grabbed her gear and headed into the rink to wait with and be ridiculed vociferously by the other parents as the story spread like wildfire. Each set of parents seemed to arrive with a new stinging barb for me. I tried to jab back with quips like, "At least I got her gear here safely!", but I knew all too well there was no way I would ever live this down. Eventually, the Devil, in her own bewildered sense of disbelief arrived with the other family and told the her side of the story.
It seems that the chilly morning air got the best of the Devil. She decided while I was scraping the front window of the van to saunter back across the hotel parking lot, up the stairs and into the warm embrace of her blissfully sleeping mother. After five or ten minutes, and yes the timeline is a little sketchy here, mommy convinced the Devil to head back downstairs where I was no doubt anxiously awaiting her return. But the Devil would be back rapping on the hotel room door a minute or so later with her own somber report, "Daddy forgot me!"
"HE DID WHAT? HE DID NOT! DON'T BE RIDICULOUS!"
Mommy threw on a robe and ran down the stairs to verify the Devil's unwitting discovery. Luckily, I and my guide had been among the first to leave the hotel. One family of five was still in the parking lot and my wife was quick to flag them down to beg for a ride. This would have been fine save for the fact that they only had a five seat van and now they needed to accommodate a sixth passenger. They decided the best course of action would be to strap the Devil safely into one of their five seats the mother in the group would ride with the gear in the back. Yet another dagger in my already severely embarrassed heart.
The game that fateful, freezing Sunday morning would be the Devil's team's last that weekend as their depleted squad put up a good fight, but succumbed to a fuller local team. We were all pretty sure the other team had more healthy players, more sleep in their own beds and none of the self-afflicted drama I had unintentionally introduced. But hey, I already explained the whole male human thing and every couple of weeks and/or months since someone has a chuckle at my expense. And, as mentioned, this is not the only one.
#imahockeydad
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
One day left...sort of
Tomorrow is officially the last day of my involvement with organized minor hockey for at least a few weeks. Both the Boy and the Devil have been selected to teams for the 2010-2011 season and my duties as a convenor end with the final set of tryouts for the lowest division coming to an end.
In driving to a recent convening engagement, I realized over the last six weeks I have been associated in one way or another with the tryout processes of 11 teams (2 Minor Midget boys teams via the Boy, 3 Bantam girls teams via the Devil, 3 Minor Bantam boys teams as a convenor, 1 Midget girls team as an evaluator, 1 Minor Midget boys team as an evaluator/on-ice helper and 1 Bantam girls team as an on-ice helper.) I'm not even quite sure how I managed to be cajoled into all of these; but apparently my inability to utter the word "NO" has something to do with it. I will say that each has had its share of stories, challenges and interesting outcomes. Tryout time is undoubtedly the worst and most stressful time of the year for players, parents and coaches alike. Over the last few weeks I've seen a pretty stark contrast of jubilation and disappointment; joy at being selected and anger at being rejected.
I think the most interesting story/situation to date has involved a coach and team on its final set of releases (cuts). Generally speaking, every effort is made to make sure released player's feelings are protected. The typical process has all players placed in one room in the arena and then called out randomly one-by-one to learn their fate from the head coach in another room. Those players who are selected to the team are asked to seclude themselves (along with their parents) from the rest of the players so it is not readily obvious to all in a public setting who has been selected and who has been released. With the particular team in question, as a soon-to-be released player was being ushered to the "chopping block" his parent commented to him that he already knew who had been selected for the position he was competing for. When the player asked his parent how he knew already the father quipped "It's called text messaging." In other words, even though we had sent a selected player (who coincidentally was for a time on the bubble himself) and his parent to seclusion to protect those still awaiting the final decision, they found it necessary to work around the process and subsequently put the feelings of at least a couple of other players at risk. Ahhh, technology has even found its way into the sacred hockey dressing room for better or, in this case, worse.
Back to those from my brood who both now officially have a place to play having gone through the aforementioned processes in full.
The Boy begins a fifth consecutive tour of duty with an A team; this year at the Minor Midget level. In keeping with the trends of the last several years, he will go into next season with only a handful of the same teammates from this past season. A couple moved up, a bunch moved down and another much larger bunch moved up. All of this due, in large part to the introduction of new coaches with player preferences, biases, opinions and existing relationships. At one point during the tryout process, the Boy was approached via text message from a teammate to "move down" and to remain on a team with his most recent teammates. But he decided with our support that he would let the process follow its "natural" course as he and we have always done. And so, the A team it is with some new teammates, coaches and parents to get to know.
The Devil, as previously reported, is now happily part of a Bantam BB team...for now. Girls hockey works a little differently in that there is actually an opportunity for a team to request classification after they play a few pre-season games intended to determine what level is most appropriate for them. I believe its a good system as ultimately the goal should be to have similarly skilled players and teams playing
against each other to ensure optimal challenge and development.
Now when I say no involvement in organized hockey, I should qualify that as there are already new team things happening; new team meetings, team building activities and plans for optional summer practices.
The Devil was unable to make her first team meeting as she had a previous commitment to her chosen Summer sport - soccer. We've never believed in 12 months of hockey so each gets to choose some other activity (other than TV or Xbox) to keep their minds and bodies active through the Summer. So mom went to the intro meeting to get the lowdown on team planning around the coaching staff, tournaments, volunteer opportunities and the assignment of numbers.
The assignment of numbers, while seemingly a simple notion, is invariably a process unto itself. Superstition and tradition no doubt have a part to play in this. The Boy, for instance, has been fortunate enough to be number 3 for as long as he's been playing the game (the same number his dear old dad donned as a youngster and ever since for that matter.) The Devil has not been as lucky and in fact has had a different number each of the last four years. She began her career with the number 6, which she was able to hold on to for a couple of years, but has since gone through 8, 18, 8, 6 and now this year way off track with the number 4. To her credit she has deferred to others in the past where there was a conflict. This year it was her mother's inability to win a coin flip that left her with a defenceman's number; albeit the number worn by arguably the best defenceman ever. And so for the first few games next year I will have to pay special attention and remember the players wearing number 6, 18 and 8 are not mine.
The other major order of business for any new team is fundraising. Fundraising is an integral part of the whole hockey experience as it helps offset some of the financial burden that the game puts on all of us. In girls hockey we have an opportunity to fundraise as much of our rep fees (approx $1,000) as we can. This past season we did a pretty good job selling frozen meat, collecting beer bottles & selling tickets to Junior hockey games and were pleasantly surprised with a sizable refund at the end of the year. The boys' association caps how much you can fundraise in an effort to ensure no one tries to buy their way on to a team. Like that would ever happen he says with tongue planted firmly in cheek. The rule is there because someone tried or did it.
As luck would have it, both of our kids teams this year are getting out of the chute early with a frozen meat fundraiser, the same meat fundraiser, to be run at precisely the same time. So I guess we'll apply as much of the sales as we can to the Devil's team...sorry Boy's team. To be fair, selling frozen meat just before bbq season, or any time of the year really, is relatively easy and guilt-free. There is significant value for the buyers who have the undeniable need to eat. The product is solid and we have several regular buyers who actually contact us if they haven't heard from us in a while.
And so we get a few weeks reprieve as we've already been told the Minor Midget A coach has plans for once-a-week summer practices. We go into the coming season with a coach we know is committed to hard work and dedication. We go forward with both teams with all the guarded optimism for all that is new.
And yet, I'm sure with one day left there will most certainly be at least one more story to tell.
#imahockeydad
In driving to a recent convening engagement, I realized over the last six weeks I have been associated in one way or another with the tryout processes of 11 teams (2 Minor Midget boys teams via the Boy, 3 Bantam girls teams via the Devil, 3 Minor Bantam boys teams as a convenor, 1 Midget girls team as an evaluator, 1 Minor Midget boys team as an evaluator/on-ice helper and 1 Bantam girls team as an on-ice helper.) I'm not even quite sure how I managed to be cajoled into all of these; but apparently my inability to utter the word "NO" has something to do with it. I will say that each has had its share of stories, challenges and interesting outcomes. Tryout time is undoubtedly the worst and most stressful time of the year for players, parents and coaches alike. Over the last few weeks I've seen a pretty stark contrast of jubilation and disappointment; joy at being selected and anger at being rejected.
I think the most interesting story/situation to date has involved a coach and team on its final set of releases (cuts). Generally speaking, every effort is made to make sure released player's feelings are protected. The typical process has all players placed in one room in the arena and then called out randomly one-by-one to learn their fate from the head coach in another room. Those players who are selected to the team are asked to seclude themselves (along with their parents) from the rest of the players so it is not readily obvious to all in a public setting who has been selected and who has been released. With the particular team in question, as a soon-to-be released player was being ushered to the "chopping block" his parent commented to him that he already knew who had been selected for the position he was competing for. When the player asked his parent how he knew already the father quipped "It's called text messaging." In other words, even though we had sent a selected player (who coincidentally was for a time on the bubble himself) and his parent to seclusion to protect those still awaiting the final decision, they found it necessary to work around the process and subsequently put the feelings of at least a couple of other players at risk. Ahhh, technology has even found its way into the sacred hockey dressing room for better or, in this case, worse.
Back to those from my brood who both now officially have a place to play having gone through the aforementioned processes in full.
The Boy begins a fifth consecutive tour of duty with an A team; this year at the Minor Midget level. In keeping with the trends of the last several years, he will go into next season with only a handful of the same teammates from this past season. A couple moved up, a bunch moved down and another much larger bunch moved up. All of this due, in large part to the introduction of new coaches with player preferences, biases, opinions and existing relationships. At one point during the tryout process, the Boy was approached via text message from a teammate to "move down" and to remain on a team with his most recent teammates. But he decided with our support that he would let the process follow its "natural" course as he and we have always done. And so, the A team it is with some new teammates, coaches and parents to get to know.
The Devil, as previously reported, is now happily part of a Bantam BB team...for now. Girls hockey works a little differently in that there is actually an opportunity for a team to request classification after they play a few pre-season games intended to determine what level is most appropriate for them. I believe its a good system as ultimately the goal should be to have similarly skilled players and teams playing
against each other to ensure optimal challenge and development.
Now when I say no involvement in organized hockey, I should qualify that as there are already new team things happening; new team meetings, team building activities and plans for optional summer practices.
The Devil was unable to make her first team meeting as she had a previous commitment to her chosen Summer sport - soccer. We've never believed in 12 months of hockey so each gets to choose some other activity (other than TV or Xbox) to keep their minds and bodies active through the Summer. So mom went to the intro meeting to get the lowdown on team planning around the coaching staff, tournaments, volunteer opportunities and the assignment of numbers.
The assignment of numbers, while seemingly a simple notion, is invariably a process unto itself. Superstition and tradition no doubt have a part to play in this. The Boy, for instance, has been fortunate enough to be number 3 for as long as he's been playing the game (the same number his dear old dad donned as a youngster and ever since for that matter.) The Devil has not been as lucky and in fact has had a different number each of the last four years. She began her career with the number 6, which she was able to hold on to for a couple of years, but has since gone through 8, 18, 8, 6 and now this year way off track with the number 4. To her credit she has deferred to others in the past where there was a conflict. This year it was her mother's inability to win a coin flip that left her with a defenceman's number; albeit the number worn by arguably the best defenceman ever. And so for the first few games next year I will have to pay special attention and remember the players wearing number 6, 18 and 8 are not mine.
The other major order of business for any new team is fundraising. Fundraising is an integral part of the whole hockey experience as it helps offset some of the financial burden that the game puts on all of us. In girls hockey we have an opportunity to fundraise as much of our rep fees (approx $1,000) as we can. This past season we did a pretty good job selling frozen meat, collecting beer bottles & selling tickets to Junior hockey games and were pleasantly surprised with a sizable refund at the end of the year. The boys' association caps how much you can fundraise in an effort to ensure no one tries to buy their way on to a team. Like that would ever happen he says with tongue planted firmly in cheek. The rule is there because someone tried or did it.
As luck would have it, both of our kids teams this year are getting out of the chute early with a frozen meat fundraiser, the same meat fundraiser, to be run at precisely the same time. So I guess we'll apply as much of the sales as we can to the Devil's team...sorry Boy's team. To be fair, selling frozen meat just before bbq season, or any time of the year really, is relatively easy and guilt-free. There is significant value for the buyers who have the undeniable need to eat. The product is solid and we have several regular buyers who actually contact us if they haven't heard from us in a while.
And so we get a few weeks reprieve as we've already been told the Minor Midget A coach has plans for once-a-week summer practices. We go into the coming season with a coach we know is committed to hard work and dedication. We go forward with both teams with all the guarded optimism for all that is new.
And yet, I'm sure with one day left there will most certainly be at least one more story to tell.
#imahockeydad
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Older They Get
Had to take a bit of break from this chronicling business and just concentrate on BEING a hockey dad for a bit; not so much for the kids sake as for my own state of mind. Really just trying to sort stuff out in my own head so I could maybe regurgitate it back should the the Boy or the Devil come seeking explanations and solace. In retrospect, I am again seeing and realizing what I do pretty much every year around this time -- tryout time. The first thing I realize is that I manage to forget what these convoluted tryouts are like until they come up again a year later.
To start, I was standing in an arena this past week, quite apart from all the other expectant parents, because I was seething on behalf of the Devil, who was in the process of trying out for the third team. It was bad enough that we had to lean on the teachings of Jung and Freud just to get her to take the ice for tryouts with the top team. Now we were simply providing our most reassuring shoulders to get her to compete to make the third team..the second team skates still a stinging three-night blur that saw her relegated with little to no explanation.
She did, in fact, make the third team, though I would readily admit the player I watched and urged on betwixt the fingers shielding my eyes, was but a shadow of the enthusiastic young girl we've been used to watching. Two, or more specifically the last rejection, had most certainly taken its toll on her somewhat delicate psyche. Add to this the fact that she was taken hostage by some virus (flu-like symptoms that knocked her on her ass) just after the first of three skates that caused her to miss the second skate altogether. Fortunately, the coach of this third team had done his homework and gave her more than the benefit of the doubt as she battled through the last tryout. Post tryout he acknowledged her efforts to date, which he had recorded, as we all thanked him for looking beyond an admittedly weaker effort than what she was capable of delivering. Having made the cut, we optimistically look forward to a new season with a new coach and a mostly new set of teammates and parents.
The Boy on the other hand is another year older and another year wiser where hockey tryouts are concerned. So he wasn't as heart-broken, or at least he didn't show it, as he had been in years past when he experienced his release from a team he feels he should have made and belongs on. A team he knows he can compete on. The only part that likely stung a little was the fact that he didn't even make it past two of five scheduled skates.
Having been through several evaluations over the years, we both questioned the validity and efficacy of the drills this particular coach decided to employ. A lot of shooting which is great if you are evaluating goalies. Quite a bit of skating, which is typical and obviously demonstrates who can keep up. But little in the way of real-game situations. We suppose it is not really ours to say, but this is a brand new coach who has no experience with this particular group of players and you would assume that above all else he would want to figure out who could compete for the puck...on the boards, in the corners; where games at this age are won and lost. After getting the proverbial hook after skate two, the Boy reasoned that he didn't really want to play for a coach who was not able to effectively evaluate his skills or those of others he felt should likewise not have been cut.
In a similarly reasoned move, one of the Boy's teammates from the past few seasons actually pulled his helmet out of the ring of prospective selections for the top team when he looked around and realized the coach had cut a bunch of guys he wanted to play with.
And so, these young lads are all coming to realize that they are not going to the NHL. The most important thing in that case is that they have fun in the couple of years they have left playing minor hockey. Some, and I hope the Boy is among them, will continue to play midget, some level of junior hockey and then maybe in College or University.
Selfishly I'm just waiting to play in some rec league with the Boy. Based on his current post-game tardiness I am quite certain he is gearing up for the same. I can quite easily envision the two of us sitting side by each in tattered t-shirts, drenched in sweat (one of us much more so than the other), skates untied, hockey socks curled down around our ankles and frosty Coors lights in our hands. We'll recall the highlights and lowlights of the game just past, sling a few off colour jokes and look forward to next week. It won't be particularly good or fast hockey; but it won't need to be.
I caught a glimpse of this potential future earlier this year when me and my closest circle of friends entered our rag tag, once-a-year ball hockey, slo-pitch, drinking team, aptly named Stick U, in an annual charity ball hockey tournament down in Toronto. With a couple of regulars out due to injury or some unfathomable and unappreciated marital commitment, the Boy was called upon to fill in. Initially, at least one of my buddies wasn't too sure about how the Boy would fare in a rec "Mens" division. My pals and I of course still view our children as just that...children. But I was fairly confident the Boy would do ok. Of course, I had the foresight of having watched him grow on the ice over the last couple of years. Matching up on a line together in the first game, I proudly watched the Boy more than hold his own as he would continue to do through the rest of the tournament. The formerly ineffective Stick U squad posted its best record to date. Regardless the goals, scores and results, I had a blast playing with and watching my kid interact with some of my best friends.
I hope there will be many more such opportunities to share a rink, a bench, a dressing room and a beer or two with the Boy, the Devil or both. I'm sure it won't be long before both are out-skating, out-passing and out-shooting the Old Man. I'm also sure playing alongside either or both them will keep this old man from getting too old too quick.
#imahockeydad
To start, I was standing in an arena this past week, quite apart from all the other expectant parents, because I was seething on behalf of the Devil, who was in the process of trying out for the third team. It was bad enough that we had to lean on the teachings of Jung and Freud just to get her to take the ice for tryouts with the top team. Now we were simply providing our most reassuring shoulders to get her to compete to make the third team..the second team skates still a stinging three-night blur that saw her relegated with little to no explanation.
She did, in fact, make the third team, though I would readily admit the player I watched and urged on betwixt the fingers shielding my eyes, was but a shadow of the enthusiastic young girl we've been used to watching. Two, or more specifically the last rejection, had most certainly taken its toll on her somewhat delicate psyche. Add to this the fact that she was taken hostage by some virus (flu-like symptoms that knocked her on her ass) just after the first of three skates that caused her to miss the second skate altogether. Fortunately, the coach of this third team had done his homework and gave her more than the benefit of the doubt as she battled through the last tryout. Post tryout he acknowledged her efforts to date, which he had recorded, as we all thanked him for looking beyond an admittedly weaker effort than what she was capable of delivering. Having made the cut, we optimistically look forward to a new season with a new coach and a mostly new set of teammates and parents.
The Boy on the other hand is another year older and another year wiser where hockey tryouts are concerned. So he wasn't as heart-broken, or at least he didn't show it, as he had been in years past when he experienced his release from a team he feels he should have made and belongs on. A team he knows he can compete on. The only part that likely stung a little was the fact that he didn't even make it past two of five scheduled skates.
Having been through several evaluations over the years, we both questioned the validity and efficacy of the drills this particular coach decided to employ. A lot of shooting which is great if you are evaluating goalies. Quite a bit of skating, which is typical and obviously demonstrates who can keep up. But little in the way of real-game situations. We suppose it is not really ours to say, but this is a brand new coach who has no experience with this particular group of players and you would assume that above all else he would want to figure out who could compete for the puck...on the boards, in the corners; where games at this age are won and lost. After getting the proverbial hook after skate two, the Boy reasoned that he didn't really want to play for a coach who was not able to effectively evaluate his skills or those of others he felt should likewise not have been cut.
In a similarly reasoned move, one of the Boy's teammates from the past few seasons actually pulled his helmet out of the ring of prospective selections for the top team when he looked around and realized the coach had cut a bunch of guys he wanted to play with.
And so, these young lads are all coming to realize that they are not going to the NHL. The most important thing in that case is that they have fun in the couple of years they have left playing minor hockey. Some, and I hope the Boy is among them, will continue to play midget, some level of junior hockey and then maybe in College or University.
Selfishly I'm just waiting to play in some rec league with the Boy. Based on his current post-game tardiness I am quite certain he is gearing up for the same. I can quite easily envision the two of us sitting side by each in tattered t-shirts, drenched in sweat (one of us much more so than the other), skates untied, hockey socks curled down around our ankles and frosty Coors lights in our hands. We'll recall the highlights and lowlights of the game just past, sling a few off colour jokes and look forward to next week. It won't be particularly good or fast hockey; but it won't need to be.
I caught a glimpse of this potential future earlier this year when me and my closest circle of friends entered our rag tag, once-a-year ball hockey, slo-pitch, drinking team, aptly named Stick U, in an annual charity ball hockey tournament down in Toronto. With a couple of regulars out due to injury or some unfathomable and unappreciated marital commitment, the Boy was called upon to fill in. Initially, at least one of my buddies wasn't too sure about how the Boy would fare in a rec "Mens" division. My pals and I of course still view our children as just that...children. But I was fairly confident the Boy would do ok. Of course, I had the foresight of having watched him grow on the ice over the last couple of years. Matching up on a line together in the first game, I proudly watched the Boy more than hold his own as he would continue to do through the rest of the tournament. The formerly ineffective Stick U squad posted its best record to date. Regardless the goals, scores and results, I had a blast playing with and watching my kid interact with some of my best friends.
I hope there will be many more such opportunities to share a rink, a bench, a dressing room and a beer or two with the Boy, the Devil or both. I'm sure it won't be long before both are out-skating, out-passing and out-shooting the Old Man. I'm also sure playing alongside either or both them will keep this old man from getting too old too quick.
#imahockeydad
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Logic be damned...
A couple of hours after the Devil got cut from the second team she tried out for and I'm doing my damnedest to remain objective and unbiased; but I for the life of me cannot apply logic to this one. Admittedly this is not the first time either of my kids has been in this position and I know it's easy to assume I am not looking past the aforementioned bias. I myself have witnessed parents who wear obviously high prescription rose-coloured glasses when it comes to their children's abilities. I can confidently say I hold no illusions of grandeur However, in this case I have a few undeniable facts in hand that make this cut confound me. One primary fact being that she made it all the way to the last set of cuts on the higher team and here she was not able to reach at least a comparable level. It confounds the Devil too and I have no ready answer for her other than she did not meet whatever criteria was being used to rate the players and make the selections. I realize this is a new set of tryouts, drills and evaluators, but I would also hope that previous and relatively recent history would also have some bearing if not hold significant weight in the total analysis.
Confoundation aside (assuming confoundation is even a word as the spell check herein will dispute), the Devil seems somewhat ok with her fate; a sign that she, like the Boy has come to realize team selections are ultimately they have little to no control over. Back to minor hockey being a microcosm of life where there are a whole range of intangibles (like personalities, politics and human nature in general) that factor into decisions made and unmade.
As doting parents with a suddenly fragile psyche in tow, we and the Devil ploddingly made our way to the mall and local Costco to shop the disappointment away. A pair of shorts, a pair of jeans, a three selection plate Chinese fast food, a gecko shaped kite and a 12 pack of stubby Pop Shoppe soda pops later and she was well on the road to recovery.
This one has certainly been tougher on my logical mind. However, I have often found myself saying "it is what it is" and here I do again.
In another couple of hours the Boy will start his AA tryouts where I'll sit, watch and cross my fingers for him and his quest. Because I too, clearly recognize that finger crossing has as much bearing on the whole process as anything else he, she, I or anyone else can do.
#imahockeydad
Confoundation aside (assuming confoundation is even a word as the spell check herein will dispute), the Devil seems somewhat ok with her fate; a sign that she, like the Boy has come to realize team selections are ultimately they have little to no control over. Back to minor hockey being a microcosm of life where there are a whole range of intangibles (like personalities, politics and human nature in general) that factor into decisions made and unmade.
As doting parents with a suddenly fragile psyche in tow, we and the Devil ploddingly made our way to the mall and local Costco to shop the disappointment away. A pair of shorts, a pair of jeans, a three selection plate Chinese fast food, a gecko shaped kite and a 12 pack of stubby Pop Shoppe soda pops later and she was well on the road to recovery.
This one has certainly been tougher on my logical mind. However, I have often found myself saying "it is what it is" and here I do again.
In another couple of hours the Boy will start his AA tryouts where I'll sit, watch and cross my fingers for him and his quest. Because I too, clearly recognize that finger crossing has as much bearing on the whole process as anything else he, she, I or anyone else can do.
#imahockeydad
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
On to the next...with momentum
Getting to this pretty late tonight (11:30 to be exact) because we didn't arrive back from the Devil's Bantam AA tryout until 10:45. Kinda late for a 12 year old. Hell, kinda late for her 40+ parents and I'm pretty sure all the other parents at the rink this evening nodded their silent agreement. The young girls on the ice tonight certainly didn't appear to have the same jump in their step on crispness on their passes at they laboured through the last of four sessions. They were most certainly feeling physical and mental fatigue.
Despite a valiant effort and a pretty relentless effort, the Devil was not selected to be part of the AA team. However, before the final news was delivered the coach did an excellent job letting all those who remained until the last tryout know that they should be proud of their efforts. He encouraged them all as they move into tryouts for the next team and hope towards having a shot at making the top team next season.
Shortly after the girls left the ice and dragged their tired bodies out to the lobby. The news was delivered to each player individually in a sealed envelope that each was instructed to open after leaving the premises, so as not to have to announce the result in public, for better or worse. I believe this is a good method that avoids a lot of potential and unnecessary embarrassment. The Devil, for her part, hustled out to our van clutching her envelope in anticipation. I'm pretty sure she/we had a sense this team would be very tough to crack, but we were also all willing to suspend disbelief until the final verdict was rendered. Inside the envelope was a handwritten note from the coach (nice touch I thought) and a form letter, which both indicated what we had suspected. The note reiterated that the Devil should be proud of her accomplishment in having reached the final cut and wished her luck in the next round.
And so the next round of tryouts start tomorrow night and continue for four straight days after that. Very little time for the Devil to stop and reflect on what just happened. Rather, she will need to dig a little deeper, recharge, refocus and show the same effort she just displayed over four AA tryouts to a brand new set of A team evaluators. In what has become a recurring theme, all of this trial, tribulation, physical and mental stress is simply part of another wonderful learning experience.
As for me, I'm here writing and, as will be no surprise, watching an NHL playoff game between Vancouver and Los Angeles. Just now I'm wondering how many different variations each one of the NHL players I'm watching have of the tryout story I've just described. Perhaps their presence at this level means they've had fewer failures, but I'm also sure some of them have had their fair share of disappointment. Indeed their presence at this level is an indication of their ability to persist despite of and in the face of failure.
You would think I'd have had my fill of the game for the day, week, month, year, but my fine Canadian nature seemingly can't get enough. As it's currently 3-3 in the third period I may be watching this game through an overtime or two - which in turn means into the wee hours. I take solace in the fact that I'm fairly confident I'm not the only one.
Did I mention that the Devil's next tryouts begin tomorrow night and the Boy starts his journey into the next season three days from now? Wish them/us luck.
#imahockeydad
Despite a valiant effort and a pretty relentless effort, the Devil was not selected to be part of the AA team. However, before the final news was delivered the coach did an excellent job letting all those who remained until the last tryout know that they should be proud of their efforts. He encouraged them all as they move into tryouts for the next team and hope towards having a shot at making the top team next season.
Shortly after the girls left the ice and dragged their tired bodies out to the lobby. The news was delivered to each player individually in a sealed envelope that each was instructed to open after leaving the premises, so as not to have to announce the result in public, for better or worse. I believe this is a good method that avoids a lot of potential and unnecessary embarrassment. The Devil, for her part, hustled out to our van clutching her envelope in anticipation. I'm pretty sure she/we had a sense this team would be very tough to crack, but we were also all willing to suspend disbelief until the final verdict was rendered. Inside the envelope was a handwritten note from the coach (nice touch I thought) and a form letter, which both indicated what we had suspected. The note reiterated that the Devil should be proud of her accomplishment in having reached the final cut and wished her luck in the next round.
And so the next round of tryouts start tomorrow night and continue for four straight days after that. Very little time for the Devil to stop and reflect on what just happened. Rather, she will need to dig a little deeper, recharge, refocus and show the same effort she just displayed over four AA tryouts to a brand new set of A team evaluators. In what has become a recurring theme, all of this trial, tribulation, physical and mental stress is simply part of another wonderful learning experience.
As for me, I'm here writing and, as will be no surprise, watching an NHL playoff game between Vancouver and Los Angeles. Just now I'm wondering how many different variations each one of the NHL players I'm watching have of the tryout story I've just described. Perhaps their presence at this level means they've had fewer failures, but I'm also sure some of them have had their fair share of disappointment. Indeed their presence at this level is an indication of their ability to persist despite of and in the face of failure.
You would think I'd have had my fill of the game for the day, week, month, year, but my fine Canadian nature seemingly can't get enough. As it's currently 3-3 in the third period I may be watching this game through an overtime or two - which in turn means into the wee hours. I take solace in the fact that I'm fairly confident I'm not the only one.
Did I mention that the Devil's next tryouts begin tomorrow night and the Boy starts his journey into the next season three days from now? Wish them/us luck.
#imahockeydad
Monday, April 19, 2010
The Devil gets serious
Just a short post to note that the Devil, previously reported to be freaking out at the prospect of going through AA Bantam tryouts and almost not making it through the front door at tryout #1, has done very well so far. She has progressed through three sessions and all the way to the last round of cuts.
It should be noted that she has done a particularly good job of holding her ground in one-on-one battles against the boards, quite often coming out with the puck on her stick. An occurrence obviously not lost on the evaluators. Tenacity and desire to win battles is not something you can teach; particularly to 12 and 13 year old girls. This I know from experience and not from some backwards chauvinist perspective.
The Devil is succeeding thus far despite that fact that she has inherited her size, or more accurately her lack thereof, from her father. Yeah, seems I acquired and have passed on mom's and not dad's genes where height is concerned. I guess I can be partially blamed for the Devil getting the short end of the stick. Being a minor in a minor/major division can see her going up against girls who are a full year older and in some cases a full foot taller. But this, along with some other unseen force, seems to be motivating her to try a little harder.
There's no telling what may happen two nights from now at the final cuts, but the Devil seems to have turned an initially perceived negative into a resounding positive. This is something she can carry forward whether she makes this particular team or not. She was reportedly even found out on the driveway tonight after school practicing her shot against the garage door (thankfully with a tennis ball rather than a puck). I think I feel a Tim Horton's or Canadian Tire commercial bubbling to the surface. Daddy's quite proud of her. Someone cue the motivational background music.
#imahockeydad
It should be noted that she has done a particularly good job of holding her ground in one-on-one battles against the boards, quite often coming out with the puck on her stick. An occurrence obviously not lost on the evaluators. Tenacity and desire to win battles is not something you can teach; particularly to 12 and 13 year old girls. This I know from experience and not from some backwards chauvinist perspective.
The Devil is succeeding thus far despite that fact that she has inherited her size, or more accurately her lack thereof, from her father. Yeah, seems I acquired and have passed on mom's and not dad's genes where height is concerned. I guess I can be partially blamed for the Devil getting the short end of the stick. Being a minor in a minor/major division can see her going up against girls who are a full year older and in some cases a full foot taller. But this, along with some other unseen force, seems to be motivating her to try a little harder.
There's no telling what may happen two nights from now at the final cuts, but the Devil seems to have turned an initially perceived negative into a resounding positive. This is something she can carry forward whether she makes this particular team or not. She was reportedly even found out on the driveway tonight after school practicing her shot against the garage door (thankfully with a tennis ball rather than a puck). I think I feel a Tim Horton's or Canadian Tire commercial bubbling to the surface. Daddy's quite proud of her. Someone cue the motivational background music.
#imahockeydad
Friday, April 16, 2010
What doesn't kill you....
We returned to the rink with the Devil tonight after a solid week off following the end of the 2009-2010 season. We are out of the pan and back into the fire of tryouts for next season. I say we returned to the rink, but it was touch and go for a while there as the Devil had a pretty good case of the of nerves that brought with it a fair display of waterworks. Last night she in no uncertain terms proclaimed "I hate tryouts. We knew she was nervous, but never expected this. She was pretty stressed out and we gave her the option of just turning around and going home. Hockey after all is supposed to be fun. Fun was quite obviously the last thing on her mind.
Tryouts are about as stressful a time as there is in minor hockey. And stressful for everyone from the kids trying out, to the anxious parents in the stands, to the coaches who have the unenviable task of dashing the hopes, dreams and expectations of a few young athletes.
Being cut from a hockey team is rejection and it sucks plain and simple. But then again, we could only hope that this is the worst thing that will ever happen to our kids. Rather, this is part of the growing experience and I'm pretty sure it prepares and strengthens kids for other rejections and disappointments they will undoubtedly have in life. Hockey again forms a microcosm of life.
I can still vividly recall the first time the Boy was cut from a team. He was 10 years old and it was a cut he didn't see coming. He sat still and quiet doing all he could to hold back tears. The look of bewilderment and disappointment in his face had me reaching down around my ankles to find my heart. But he held it together and went on to have a great hockey season on the next team he was chosen for. There have since been more tryouts through five years and more cuts. As he's gotten older, the Boy has naturally come to realize this is all just part of the game and sometimes there are factors you can control and sometime there are not. The much heralded politics of hockey is a topic for another time.
Our "situation" tonight we believe stems from one of the Devil's earlier less than and all too memorable tryout experiences. Two years ago, when she was 10 (seems like 10 wasn't the best of tryout years for either of my children) the Devil made it all the way down to the last set of cuts for a team she hoped, nay expected, to play on. In defense of the coach picking the team at the time, the Devil did not have a stellar performance and was somewhat under-sized relative to the rest of the players trying out. She was on the bubble. So it came down to the last set of cuts after the final tryout. The girls were asked to form a line and file in one by one for an interview with the coach. Logistics for the process were not good. Those who were cut would have to walk out of the interview and back past all of those waiting to be interviewed. For those who were cut, this would equivocally be a "walk of shame". I'm sure you can tell where I'm going with this.
The Devil was first up and as we entered the room for the interview I'm pretty sure her 10 year-old grip drained the blood from my hand. She sat quivering across from the coach as the verdict was read, "I'm sorry, but we don't have a spot for you on this team." I reached back down to my ankles as my heart found its way back down to that familiar place. The Devil politely said thank you. We proceeded briskly down the walk of shame feeling the stares of everyone as we passed, but not daring to make eye contact with any of them. I remember the Devil seemed to be a virtual rock at the time, but here we are two years later and the sting of that cut apparently remains just below the psychological surface.
And yet, she did manage to make her way out onto the ice with 40+ other girls, many of whom likely had a similar set of nerves welled up in the pits of their stomachs. And, possibly with some bias on my part, she performed well and did not look out of place; though perhaps still relatively undersized as she is a full year younger on a team to be comprised of two age groups. There were cuts tonight, but the Devil was not among them and perhaps this will provide some strength to bolster her for the next couple of weeks.
Did I mention that the Boy's tryouts start next week.
I'm just hoping I can keep my ticker above my waist this year and that my kids get by with their psyches somewhat in tact. Surely, all of this can't help but make them stronger.
#imahockeydad
Tryouts are about as stressful a time as there is in minor hockey. And stressful for everyone from the kids trying out, to the anxious parents in the stands, to the coaches who have the unenviable task of dashing the hopes, dreams and expectations of a few young athletes.
Being cut from a hockey team is rejection and it sucks plain and simple. But then again, we could only hope that this is the worst thing that will ever happen to our kids. Rather, this is part of the growing experience and I'm pretty sure it prepares and strengthens kids for other rejections and disappointments they will undoubtedly have in life. Hockey again forms a microcosm of life.
I can still vividly recall the first time the Boy was cut from a team. He was 10 years old and it was a cut he didn't see coming. He sat still and quiet doing all he could to hold back tears. The look of bewilderment and disappointment in his face had me reaching down around my ankles to find my heart. But he held it together and went on to have a great hockey season on the next team he was chosen for. There have since been more tryouts through five years and more cuts. As he's gotten older, the Boy has naturally come to realize this is all just part of the game and sometimes there are factors you can control and sometime there are not. The much heralded politics of hockey is a topic for another time.
Our "situation" tonight we believe stems from one of the Devil's earlier less than and all too memorable tryout experiences. Two years ago, when she was 10 (seems like 10 wasn't the best of tryout years for either of my children) the Devil made it all the way down to the last set of cuts for a team she hoped, nay expected, to play on. In defense of the coach picking the team at the time, the Devil did not have a stellar performance and was somewhat under-sized relative to the rest of the players trying out. She was on the bubble. So it came down to the last set of cuts after the final tryout. The girls were asked to form a line and file in one by one for an interview with the coach. Logistics for the process were not good. Those who were cut would have to walk out of the interview and back past all of those waiting to be interviewed. For those who were cut, this would equivocally be a "walk of shame". I'm sure you can tell where I'm going with this.
The Devil was first up and as we entered the room for the interview I'm pretty sure her 10 year-old grip drained the blood from my hand. She sat quivering across from the coach as the verdict was read, "I'm sorry, but we don't have a spot for you on this team." I reached back down to my ankles as my heart found its way back down to that familiar place. The Devil politely said thank you. We proceeded briskly down the walk of shame feeling the stares of everyone as we passed, but not daring to make eye contact with any of them. I remember the Devil seemed to be a virtual rock at the time, but here we are two years later and the sting of that cut apparently remains just below the psychological surface.
And yet, she did manage to make her way out onto the ice with 40+ other girls, many of whom likely had a similar set of nerves welled up in the pits of their stomachs. And, possibly with some bias on my part, she performed well and did not look out of place; though perhaps still relatively undersized as she is a full year younger on a team to be comprised of two age groups. There were cuts tonight, but the Devil was not among them and perhaps this will provide some strength to bolster her for the next couple of weeks.
Did I mention that the Boy's tryouts start next week.
I'm just hoping I can keep my ticker above my waist this year and that my kids get by with their psyches somewhat in tact. Surely, all of this can't help but make them stronger.
#imahockeydad
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