travel team pathos

Coach Nick is a crusty, middle aged guy, head filled with wavy silver hair, framed by glasses, crazy like a fox. Has a grin that resembles a grimace; says gruff stuff that's usually followed by a smile, but only after a pregnant pause. He played football and hockey, went to two colleges, Vermont and Rutgers, to chase an unfulfilled sports dream. Now he chases success in youth sports, as a taskmaster who blows a wooden whistle that resembles a hunter's duck call.

To understand Nick's motivation, you must know the history of his son Steve. A center who appears lanky on the ice, Steve is a player that you might call gifted if you watch him enough. He is not flashy, but he lights up scoresheets. He impresses hockey insiders with his economy of motion, his confident use of edges, and a strong wrist shot that has a knack of slipping through goalies at ice level. He, too, wears glasses, and if you study their faces, you can see that he will inevitably look like his dad. But Nick has the outgoing personality and voice that fills any space they share; Steve lets his hockey sense speak for him.
Steve has limitations. A congenital heart condition forced him to miss all of last season. Doctors grudgingly allowed him to return for his last year of pee-wee hockey as a 12 year old, but worry about his well-being. Based on the outcome of some upcoming tests, this could very well be Steven's last year of contact sports.

That fact has shaped Nick's outlook on the season, and coupled with his own athletic shortcomings, he craves a title to answer two sets of dreams. It's made the coach a little prickly at times this season, players sense this burning need to win, it's more than just desire. After falling to a slightly better Junior Flyers club in Voorhees, it was hard to miss Nick kicking the boards. The loss seriously jeopardized the Colts playoff chances and the dread spilled into his post game speech. It was long, emotional and negatively charged. Assistant coach Jack had to interrupt and compliment the boys on their 2nd half comeback.

A week later, the playoff dream was over, and Nick embodied frustration. The following game was against the first place team that had already clinched a berth. Steve was magnificent, notching 3 goals in a 4-2 upset victory; the old man was appeased.

Much of the season has become this father-son passion play, with Steve playing on borrowed time, and in Nick's mind, time that has run out too fast.

Philly Road trip...

Communal Hotel filled with pee-wee families from Maryland to New Jersey. Pool is being assaulted by dozens of 12 year olds. A rival coach was asked to the leave rink because he was laughing/ridiculing the referees. He left the bench but not the rink, refs spotted him and insisted that he leave, reaching out to local cops to finish the job. Emotional parents getting extra-charged over the fiasco. Games getting chippy as the goal differential widens. 12 year old "tweeners" on the ice, some voices have changed and others wait for their growth spurt. Checking is in the game (for now), larger players taking liberties with children a foot smaller.

Last week most of our players went down to Princeton on a team building activity. The organizer parent of the trip, John, ended up on the ice in the second intermission as a score-o contestant. He won handily firing the most pucks into an empty net from center ice. He won $100. gift certificate for a local Hyatt and center ice tickets to the NCAA regionals in Bridgeport, CT. I offered to buy John's tix; he told me would let me know.

My neighbor Nancy drove back to Morristown on a dreary evening. In between dozing, less than fully conscious, I heard her tell me that most of the parents now knew that Gary has inoperable melanoma, a cancer that has spread to his lymph nodes. I knew mothing of his medical history; being an out-of-towner on the mostly local team, John is an acquaintance, not a friend. His son Michael is a beautiful boy, armed with polite intelligence and charm. He has a loping stride that resembles what Larry Robinson must have looked like at that age.

I observe John and his wife more carefully now: How she rubs his shoulders and looks at him with moist eyes; how he takes rests during games, finding places to sit while sacrificing sightlines. He has not mellowed--John complains about the boys when they aren't playing well. I saw his wife prepping a funny looking liquid that she poured onto his cereal this breakfast. On a sun-drenched Saturday noon, filled with the promise of spring, with a group of 12 year olds playing an evenly matched game, the harsh bite of life's nasty underside was impossible to ignore.

I speak of this subject with extreme caution within the community; I fear if it becomes a frequent topic it will color this rite of childhood--the hockey road trip--with a pall of mortality, something that benefits no one. So I detach and observe, watching a proud man watching what should be his final season, loved by a community that gives him space and comfort. I pay attention to the mood of his son; Michael is either a briliant actor or he is blind to the terrible fate of his father. Michael smiles and is never at a loss for a quick, smart reply (a fledgling wit) to all comments toward him, whether they originate from a peer or an adult. His life appears untouched by the awful consequences of cancer. Yet his father's physical form is not long for this world. Each unpoiled moment is precious, priceless, and for his observing parents, little slices of eternity.

Thinking I was the last to know, I mentioned Gary's condition to a parent I thought was an insider. Bob had no idea. I will not bring it up again for fear of soiling another's experience. They say youth hockey is not life and death. It is both.

On the travel tourney to Philadelphia, I noticed a quiet boy hanging out with the 12 year olds. He loyally hung around, but did not get involved in their horseplay. His coloring was off, and his face looked aged, but his body had not. I asked him outside the restaurant if was related to one of our players and he said he was.

A week later my friend Bob mentioned that he had a son who had contracted leukemia, but had survived the prolonged chemo treatments. Bob mentioned what a special athlete his son Kyle was, and how he remains a superior student but is now a bit handicapped because of his response to the new T-cells in his body. His muscles can no longer fully extend themselves, preventing Kyle from doing simple tasks like tying his shoes, or putting on a jacket. Bob is incredibly proud of Kyle's attitude, and love pours through him as he speaks about his oldest son. The three years of sharing in Kyle's recovery has taken a toll on him as well. It's brutal duty for the whole family. In his case, younger brother had to donate bone marrow to help Kyle get through it all.

Standing in the balcony of what is probably our last home game, I noticed that slightly off child standing next to Bob. I hear him say "Dad" while speaking to him. The light went on. I asked Bob if that was Kyle and if he could introduce us. I shook his hand and complimented him on making that selfless road trip to Philly. And then he transformed both of us with a broad smile. I felt life's magic and was incredibly touched. I spend 6 weeks tutoring a Leukemia survivor a few years younger than Kyle, and have gained some knowledge about the frailty of life from hearing their stories of harsh radiation and chemo treatments. Seeing and feeling life through Kyle's smile and handshake was an unexpected gift, a blessed one.

Three stories of life and the will to live, some successful, others not. Since writing, John has mellowed now. I see him smiling after working the penalty box, he's lost whatever angry edge he may have held. I suspect painkillers are in play now. This season has brought life and the struggle to survive into clear focus. It's like the song I heard at a service last Sunday, about the dance of life. How we must dance on until the music stops.