Sometimes you just have to realize that you aren’t in control, and to just try your best and see how it all turns out. This is a hockey story of two Tom’s, my son and me. I played at a high level in the 70’s, got to an NCAA title game before getting pasted, and Tom is less a pee-wee player who is much more interested in dangling than mashing people, the opposite of his dad.
Tom’s dream is to wear the official logo of a club, spend a night in a hotel with a bunch of buddies and get warned for making too much noise too late at night while ordering room service and playing video games on the in-room console the night of a big game.
Personally, I side philosophically with Cup Winning coach Dan Bylsma, who wrote a book specifically opposing travel hockey, but Tom really wanted travel as opposed to house league, and that will was no small factor. Despite being the least-experienced skater at the massive NJ Junior Devils tryout, he ended up on a travel B team, which would play a travel A schedule, once they found a coach. It just so happened that one of the decision-makers remembered playing with me two decades earlier on the St. Nick’s senior team, a couple of words were exchanged, and I was their solution. It was kind of a magic night for the two Tom’s in northern New Jersey, we both made the cut. The inside story is that there was so much turnout that the Junior Devils created a B Team so everyone made the travel team probably because they didn’t want to pass up the revenue, which created the need for a coach, even if he didn’t have any of the USA Hockey coaching certification. Hey, like I said, some things are beyond your control and you deal. I suspect the hockey gods were looking to have some fun this season, and I might as well document it.
There was a major obstacle in addition to the void in my coaching certification: I have to miss most of the month of February in Vancouver covering hockey at the Winter Olympics on a free-lance TV gig, but nothing seemed to bother the powers that be of the Junior Devils organization. It was kind of like a hockey black hole, I was being sucked in by young Tom and the Devils, and it was no use fighting it.
Prior to this, I’ve been a bit of a hockey valet, carrying Tom’s stuff a little too often, building up my calluses wrenching his skate laces tight, and driving him door-to-door for his one season of house-league squirt hockey. I helped picking up cones, and coaching roller hockey in the spring, but no formal training. I know how to play, and have taught public schools for a couple of years, so logic says the ingredients are probably in there.
But there’s a huge red flag sitting there, that will probably come out sooner rather than later--A father is coaching a son. This a relationship that is fraught with peril. I had just been chastised by my immediate family for yelling my bloody head off at a Little League championship game in which Tom and I both melted down. He came into pitch with the bases loaded and couldn’t execute, and wasn’t getting warmed up, it’s a long story, the good news was they eventually won and I did not have to get physically removed from the field.
So, that’s the setting for day one, a rainy September Friday after Labor Day, we navigate the reverse rush hour traffic with extra time to get settled. I’ve got a cheat sheet of 4 drills gleaned from USA Hockey’s web site in my pocket, a rink-shaped white board and marker, and hint of trepidation. I’m hoping the players won’t smell a fraud in the first practice. After looking in the hatchback trunk, all of it was irrelevant. Freaking Tom remembered his stick, but forgot his hockey bag. Decision time, do I coach and let him rot in the stands, help him learn a much-needed lesson about remembering his stuff? Or do I hustle back and get his bag, guaranteeing we will both be late on the ice. Barnacles! He needed that skating too much to justify the tough-love lesson. So I sent big brother in with instructions to find an assistant coach to tell that we were late and dashed back into rainy Friday commuter hell with bummed out progeny in the back seat. A good challenge for the anger management techniques I’ve learned over the years.
Fortunately, Newark and NYC have two splendid jazz stations on the bottom of the FM dial, and I kept a soothing flow going the entire 20-minute trip back to the house. Rather than yelling at Tom, I was going to torture him with silence, and keep my mood from imploding. When we got to the driveway and I waited for him to dash out in the rain to fetch the forgotten bag. Not a twitch. I turned around and found him snoozing peacefully. ARGHH! “Dude!” I yelled, get your stinking bag. (Yes, I lost my moral authority by raising my voice).
He changed into all his gear on the way back and walked into the rink on his skates (blades covered with guards) while I parked. I still had to finish his lacing, muttering and sputtering in front of the parents before we stepped on the ice 20 minutes late. There were lots of coaches in the official red and black Devils colors, so the kids didn’t miss a thing. Season was underway. We ended the night playing bubble hockey, and tom beat me in a spirited game for the first time in recent memory. I shook his hand and we all went back out into the dreary northeaster looking for pizza. We had survived day one.
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Saturday, Little League game is rained out. Though it’s not my visitation weekend, I asked Tom if he wanted to public skate. Not interested. Not at all. There is no hockey without skating. Game isn’t fun without skating. Tom probably is aware of that, but it doesn’t appeal to him. It’s a sad future. Oh well, see how it plays out. The more pressure I apply, the less likely he is to opt in. It’s still September. But oh…there’s no substitute for ice time. Opting out is dead end. Game tomorrow, not sure what to think. See how it unfolds.
See, I told you it was lengthy. Well, if you've read this far, you've gotten most of the necessary story lines. One other item, young Tom is a bit of a Manchurian Candidate. While married to his Mom living in Fairfield County, I got Tom on the ice as a two year old and in a kids program at age 3. He retired as a burned out 5 year old, and then moved to Jersey with his Mom. Today he recalls nothing about his days as the best 4 and 5 year old in Beverly Hills of the East coast. I nearly wept when I dropped off his equipment at the Stamford recylcling center.
But the PArsippany New Jersey twin roller rinks recusitated his career, and that hockey imprint remains, and it shows itself with big performances in big games. The four years of missed skating needs to be compensated for. that will have to come from him, though I'm ready to facilitate. This season is a second chance for me, too. A chance not to get too pumped up for his development. dont want him to retire twice before reaching puberty.
So we had our first game. tom forgot his mouthguard, but fortunately the pro shop was open, and he got his 5th mouthguard in the last half year. That's $100. Criminy!
He had a great first half, got a breakaway on his first or second shift, and was awarded a penalty shot in the second period. As coach I had the option to take a penalty or give the kid a free shot. It was a no-brainer, the kid loves to snipe. New Stick
($150 smackers!) was too long, and he couldn't finish. He played like a maniac the rest of the shift and comes back to the bench all sore at Dad, "Why did you let me take a penalty shot?" Are you kidding me I thought? "what self-respecting goal loving kid doesn't want a penalty shot," I answered rhetorically. I mean I've been around rinks for 47 years and I've never seen that one.
Tom tuckered out in the third period, his buddy helped erase a two-goal deficit, and we left the rink with a 3-3 tie. The undefeated season is underway! Some very special kids out there, including a Polish swerving dervish that questions coaches tactics, takes way too many chances and thinks he'll play in the NHL (this is "B" travel dont forget). Hey, it's good to have dreams.
Practice on tuesday. What will Tom forget this time?
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