The hockey locker room is an incredible source of unscripted dialogue. As a guy who likes language, there are times I wish I had a microphone to document the rediculous banter. Tom and I exchanged several knowing smiles when the veterans kept reminiscing about their horseplay at hotels from last year's road trips. "Remember Delaware and the Coke machine?...playing tag in the Lake Placid stairwells?" This got both of us thinking about upcomiong road trips.
On the drive over I steered the conversation to what a luxury this organized hockey is: all that equipment and coaches and ice time in September. Like a Disney all-everything pass. I also mentioned the value of skating (nothing new there), how it often determines ice time, and the Malcom Gladwell 10,000 hour formula. None of it too overbearing, at least from my point of view.
So we stepped onto the ice and followed coach Steve's plans from his little rink-shaped white board along with our mirrow team, the black jersey'd Devils B travel. Lots of kids, lots of revenue, lots of coaches. Still fun, for now.
First official drill I swooped down toward one of the lines in a corner, and there was Tom, wearing a white #22 (just like all-time sniper Mike Bossy, or Tiger Williams if you're into grit) standing in line. The very end of the line. I hate that. For all the obvious reasons. and I chided him, not hiding any of my disdain. I'm convinced that hockey success is all about skating your bloddy head off. Getting used to executing at full speed, it forces you to get in shape and process faster and put all sorts of pressure on your opponent. Don't get me started.
I had no real role in the planning or executing of this mixed team practice, so I followed Coach Steve's instructions and spent time exhorting the kids with indidual instructions layered in intensity. some responded, though a couple of freckle-faced redheads shared secret smiles together under their helmets. Do I detect a hint of DEFIANCE? I mellowed out a touch after a while, but still told them how vital it is to proactice hard. They were from the mirrow team and knew I had little of no impact on their lives, so didn't mind ignoring me. I'd laugh at myself later, but not on the ice.
I noticed Tom and his buddy not responding to a whistle to gather everyone at center ice, the only two, with their heads down dangling in a corner when 40 fellow-players had gathered for a meeting. So I yelled. Knowing them both made me yell a little louder and point out that they were holding up everyone. As my brother has pointed out, sometimes being right makes people think you're more of a jerk.
A little more than halfway through the practice were were doing full length 3 on 1's and 3 on 2's, a chance to really fly out there. Tom was having a mediocre practice from what I could tell at a distance; I was not monitoring his drills closely as I spent most of my time with the defensemen. Hey, it's better for him to have some independence. On this drill his group of three was repeatedly sluggish, this time losing a puck at neutral ice because they were bunched together, and weren't hustling to retrieve it. I implored Tom to go get the lost puck, it remained lost, and I felt the body-poison of frustration. It's kind of a mini-implosion, wishing you could use your energy to solve someone else's problem, which you know you can't (Dad, you're a coach not a player). Tom could obviously sense my vibe because I was urged him loudly. Rather than lose my lungs, I skated over to the boards and threw a butt end, releasing some energy. "Dad!" Tom got the point and pushed back. Nothing else was exchanged, but I had become an adult-sized dose of negative enrgy.
With a little over 15 minutes left of practice, Coach Steve thought he would finish with a "really fun" mini game. something from USA Hockey's list of latest/greatest drills designed to enlist independent thinking and creativity. It was a disaster from several vantage points. First, it took a long time to explain to kids that there would be four vertical zones and two nets within the attack zone. How you could share a puck with teammates shooting at one goal even though you were playing a small game in front of another. Also there were four colored jerseys and one was your team and the other two were opponents. Tom, like me, is a slow processer of hockey drills. I was still trying to figure it out when it commenced. My first objection was that tom, late to the drill, was stuck on defense, a disturbing trend for a guy who lives to snipe. Most people violated their boundaries, and I felt for all the kids who were lost, because I was lost too.
Tom was rotated to the waiting area in neutral ice, and partnered up with him, and said "Let's do our best to figure this out." Tom convinced me that he knew the territorial restrictions, that he knew that he could pass and interact with the other mini game going on next to him. I praised him for learning it faster than me. So he steps out for his next shift and immediately crosses way over in the next zone and the whole drill shuts down to reposition him and then practice was over. Man, this team could have done SO MUCH SKATING in those last 15 minutes, and it was essentially an exercies in standing around in confusion. Bad ratios of standing to skating drives me a little mad (a lot mad?)
We got off the ice, and I found a parent/former house league organizer to talk to and vented. I realize that I'm supposed to be taking a greater and greater role in running this team, so Ispoke to Coach Steve and asked him if it was OK that I call him prior to next practice and get my two cents in and he was all for it, saying that it should be collective. I mellowed out in the locker room. I might let Tom get dressed by himself and hang with the official coaches in their room. I'll let Tom battle his own skates so he doesn't have my frustration vibe in the room, criticizing his inability to properly yank his laces into their supporting position.
We drove home with his hilarious buddy, who is still in elementary school, while Tom is grinding through the much tougher academic rigors of middle school. As we passed the old elementary school on the final pass for his home, he wistfully commented. "If only I were still at Wildwood". It was all about the homework regimine of Middle School cutting into his time, building pressure, stealing his childhood. I tried to offer tips about organizing more efficiently, but it didn't help much. I offered my genuine sympathies and then he unloaded two sports worth of gear out of the car as 10 pm came and went. He still had two more HW problems left to do, and a shower to take. There was a trace of melancholy in this Indian summer night. Sports is supposed to be an antidote to the grind, not a contributor. Ah...life on the affluent suburbs is not about liesure after all.
Tonight I am giving a private skating lesson at 8pm, a chance for Tom to free skate and progress to that critical next level. More work now will make hockey so much more fun. But it's a rare night with no baseball, no hockey, no flute lesson, no mandatory Dad visitation. It will be entirely his call. I suspect he'll opt out, but we'll see, my client is aspring league teammate that's his age. How hard should I push? Proabably shouldn't push at all.
To be continued...
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