OK... I will admit it. I'm a Winter Olympic junkie. Not so much the Summer Olympics... only the Winter ones. This dates back to my childhood before coverage was quite so ubiquitous and overwhelming. Back when I was young and formational... not jaded and cynical. "Miracle" is required annual watching in our house. And I'm not beyond explaining the tactics of curling to my less than curious son.
I was watching with my daughter the other night and NBC cut away for one of their story pieces that inevitably involved some disabled sibling of one of the stars and how they pushed them to do better.
My daughter turned to me and said... "This is like a soap opera."
I responded, "Yes!!! But with sports!!!"
She rolled her eyes as she is wont to do. But she understood. And in fact, I understood for the first time. That little interchange was an epiphany of sorts for me. I love sports. I love competition. But I realize that one can spend too much time agonizing about them... cheering victory or rueing defeat. They are a waste of time. An escape. They do not profit my life. Nor do they add to the world.
And yet... they do. They are microcosms of life, cut and dried into one 60 minute game, or one 2 minute downhill run, or one toss of the stone. And NBC has gotten this for a long time. That the competition in a vacuum isn't worth much. But the competition with the background allows us all to grab on and empathize. To grab on to the epic battles that are life. They teach us to appreciate our own battles more fully.
On Sunday, I watched my son in an epic battle of his own. It was our own little Miracle on Ice... albeit on roller blades instead of skates. Our team fought and skated and played better than they have ever played in their life against the perennial champion team that is captained by one of the best young players in the country. My son in goal to challenge this Goliath. Our team got down. They fought back. They got ahead. My son making save after save, and the team entered the third period with a three goal lead. And then Goliath turned it on, picking top shelf shots that my son simply couldn't reach, and slamming slapshots as hard as he could. The defense was exhausted and my son was the last line of defense. And he began to crack. One goal. Then another... and a then a third to tie it. And then the unthinkable and this giant scored a fourth to take the lead. With a minute to go, my son was pulled to add an extra player in a desperate attempt to tie the game. And they somehow did. Sneaking a goal past their goalie. 10-10... and the game was going to overtime. The boys on my son's team were exhausted, having played so hard. And the other team attacked... the Goliath shooting from all sides... blocker save, pad save, stick save...
I watched it in slow motion, my heart hurting for what I knew would come. A pass from our defenseman that was a little too slow. Goliath jumped it... and then it was just he and my son. He faked forehand, and my son laid out trying to poke check it away... but Goliath calmly moved to his backhand and pushed the puck slowly into the goal in the six inch gap that my son left because he is just that much too short. Game over.
It was truly epic. But there are winners and losers. In the locker room he cried and in anguish looked at me and said "I don't want to do this anymore..." I knew the feeling... and I knew he didn't mean it. Because it is life. And more than anything in life sports teaches you that when the puck gets behind you and into the goal... it is truly behind you... and there is nothing you can do to change it. The only thing to do is get up and focus on the next puck coming at you.
And he did... in another hour he played his second game of the day against a different team, and made some of the greatest saves I've ever seen him make.
It is a soap opera... this life... but with sports.
OK.. off to watch me some curling.
Showing posts with label hockey goalies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hockey goalies. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Those Moments
I was sitting with my father watching my son play goalie over the weekend when my father compared the goalie position to that of a pilot using the old joke... "hours and hours of sheer boredom interrupted by moments of sheer terror." It is true in many ways... since a great deal of the time the puck is on the opposite end of the rink and there is absolutely nothing to do. But just when the boredom sets in, the puck changes hands and suddenly, as was the case in this game, here come three opposing players with not a defensemen in sight. My stomach drops every time this happens as I watch from the stands. I can only imagine what it must be like to be in the line of fire.
These moments happen not just in hockey games... or in the cockpit... but every day and all around us. And these "moments of terror" aren't always terrifying. The analogy also works for the special moments in life. Those moments when we are, as Joseph Campbell would call it... "fully engaged". Moments when things fly at you from all angles and your body and mind react instinctively. Moments of joy. Moments of terror. Moments when the story lines that we are writing for ourselves come to climax. It is the continuous perfection of that moment that Buddha sought... the name Buddha itself meaning "awakened". In the Hindu and Christian cultures the concept of god becoming part of the world underlies the idea that our incarnation here is merely a forgetting of the spirit life so that we can experience these moments in this existence. There is something reassuring in this idea... that a supreme being would seek to be a part of this world simply to experience that which we take for granted daily.
This concept has been much on my mind of late. The concept of "moments" of life. My life is indeed vast stretches of boredom... of sameness... punctuated by moments of sheer terror... or joy... moments of sheer emotion. Those moments form together like touchstones of my past, forming a life lived. I remember not the filler moments... those moments... like now... that simply lead to the climax. But I remember the births... the deaths... the coming togethers... the breaking aparts... the moments where mind and body are in perfect accord. Those moments when time slows to a crawl and all of my senses are alive.
The Buddha's search for a place where all moments where "those moments" is noble and telling... for truly every moment CAN be one of those moments if we let ourselves experience it that way. But then again, I wonder if we are capable of appreciating the moments if they are ALL special. And perhaps the ebbs and flows of life have a purpose... to lull us into a place where sheer terror... or sheer joy... are possible. And perhaps my challenge is to except the "in between moments" as necessary parts of the whole. We are impatient these days for things to happen NOW, instead of enjoying the times of quiet for what they are... prelude.
After the game, I asked my son what he does to stay focused when the puck was on the other end of the rink. "I hum." And I nodded... and I smiled.
These moments happen not just in hockey games... or in the cockpit... but every day and all around us. And these "moments of terror" aren't always terrifying. The analogy also works for the special moments in life. Those moments when we are, as Joseph Campbell would call it... "fully engaged". Moments when things fly at you from all angles and your body and mind react instinctively. Moments of joy. Moments of terror. Moments when the story lines that we are writing for ourselves come to climax. It is the continuous perfection of that moment that Buddha sought... the name Buddha itself meaning "awakened". In the Hindu and Christian cultures the concept of god becoming part of the world underlies the idea that our incarnation here is merely a forgetting of the spirit life so that we can experience these moments in this existence. There is something reassuring in this idea... that a supreme being would seek to be a part of this world simply to experience that which we take for granted daily.
This concept has been much on my mind of late. The concept of "moments" of life. My life is indeed vast stretches of boredom... of sameness... punctuated by moments of sheer terror... or joy... moments of sheer emotion. Those moments form together like touchstones of my past, forming a life lived. I remember not the filler moments... those moments... like now... that simply lead to the climax. But I remember the births... the deaths... the coming togethers... the breaking aparts... the moments where mind and body are in perfect accord. Those moments when time slows to a crawl and all of my senses are alive.
The Buddha's search for a place where all moments where "those moments" is noble and telling... for truly every moment CAN be one of those moments if we let ourselves experience it that way. But then again, I wonder if we are capable of appreciating the moments if they are ALL special. And perhaps the ebbs and flows of life have a purpose... to lull us into a place where sheer terror... or sheer joy... are possible. And perhaps my challenge is to except the "in between moments" as necessary parts of the whole. We are impatient these days for things to happen NOW, instead of enjoying the times of quiet for what they are... prelude.
After the game, I asked my son what he does to stay focused when the puck was on the other end of the rink. "I hum." And I nodded... and I smiled.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Playing the Line
I've watched my son play sports for five or six years. Soccer... baseball... basketball... football. Whatever sport was seasonal. He is sinewy as a whip, fast in short bursts... but he is twitchy. I don't mean he has a twitch. I mean that the energy bursts from him like a hummingbird which doesn't serve you well in sports where long graceful motions are often necessary. Where the other boys were out gracefully scooping grounders and dancing toward first base, throwing in one smooth flow... my son was bouncing around like he had to pee... diving on balls and whipping them around with questionable accuracy. He hated soccer because it was all running all the time. He can only run in short bursts. We didn't make it past the second practice for basketball because jerky motions don't fit with the smooth jump shots. In football, his jerky motions helped him elude some tackles... but his heart wasn't really in it.
Don't get me wrong... he was never the worst at anything he did. In fact, he had natural ability in nearly everything he tried. Just not enough to make him excel. He was a "second group" kid. You can categorize the kids in three groups... the kids who are naturals... the big, kids, with the right genes whose parents were the stars of their respective sports and push their kids from birth to be good at what the parents think they should be good at, until such time as the kids come to their senses and go off to find there own way in the world. Group two... are the kids that aren't terrible... but aren't great either. These "B" players will luck into making the star play from time to time... but as time and talent separates the level A from the B... the gap becomes apparent to everyone... the kid included, and so they hang up their cleats. Group three... are the kids the have no ability at all. Every team has at least two. The crowds roar for them if they happen to stop the ball with their stomach... or in sheer blind luck the ball finds their bat once during the season. At the beginning they think the cheers are cool, but after a few years, even THEY roll their eyes at themselves and hope that their parents will give up the whole ruse.
For years, my son lobbied us to let him play hockey. My wife and I were both firm with our negative answer. "Too rough... too costly... too much travel..." We had heard it all before. Rolling our eyes at those parents that spent time and money driving hither and yon at all hours of the morning to get their kids to practice. But my resolve weakened one day and we signed him up for a no-checking in-line hockey league. For several practices and several games, I watched him... as I have for all the other sports...twitching away with nervous energy. Except that this twitchyness was on wheels. Unless he was on his back, which he frequently was. He scored a goal or two mostly on lucky rebounds. His twitchy, jerky legs standing in contrast to the better skaters and their long fluid glides. I was ready for the inevitable "group two" status.
Then before game three the coach asked if anyone wanted to play goalie. And my son's little hand shot up like a rocket.
Hockey goalies are a different breed of person, I have found out. They are loners in a team sport. They are a little "off" as one of the coaches said. You have to be, I suppose, to subject yourself to hard pucks coming at your head at speeds up to a hundred miles an hour. They are the last line of defense... the ones that lose the game, not the ones that win them. And never in his short life have I ever seen my son embrace something so whole-heartedly. His quirky little movements and hummingbird motions suddenly gelled... like a fuzzy picture that suddenly snaps into crystal clear focus. When he strapped the pads on and went to "play the line" as they call it... he was at home. He knew the angles, and the motions, and the strategy even though he hadn't had a teacher. They were hard wired into this skeleton. And all I could do was stand behind the boards and hold my breath.
He embraced the "offness" that was expected of him. He began wearing mismatched socks... red and yellow... garrulously contrasting with his blue uniform. His games consisted of long periods of boredom punctuated by moment of flurrying terror. To overcome the boredom, he sings to himself. And his jerky movements have fine tuned themselves into catlike reflexes... with the vision to track and follow a three inch puck in the middle of eight crashing bodies.
In his first game... his team won... in overtime. In his first season... his team made the league finals... only to lose by a goal. In his second season... his team returned to the championship... and this time won by a goal... in overtime. In the stands... we would hear once a game..."Who is that goalie?" When I started coaching, the opposing coaches would seek me out to talk about what I had done to create this prodigy. And I laughed and admitted that I had done absolutely nothing. What else can you do?
The lesson is there. Loud and clear. There are things that all of us are wired for. You are. I am. Often times we get lost in the shuffle of life doing what others expect of us, rather than doing what we are good at. And when you find those things, they pull you in unforeseen directions. It is best to follow that path... for however long it lasts. "Follow your bliss," as the great Joseph Campbell would say.
He might quit next week for all I care. It will take care of itself. And there are many other discoveries ahead of him, I hope. Things that he falls into that are as natural as putting on a glove... a hockey glove. Parenting isn't about working them in to something that you want them to do. It is getting up and driving them places to try new things until something clicks... and then holding your breath while you watch them do it. And maybe... just maybe... learning from them, and taking the risk again to play your own line.
It is never too late.
Don't get me wrong... he was never the worst at anything he did. In fact, he had natural ability in nearly everything he tried. Just not enough to make him excel. He was a "second group" kid. You can categorize the kids in three groups... the kids who are naturals... the big, kids, with the right genes whose parents were the stars of their respective sports and push their kids from birth to be good at what the parents think they should be good at, until such time as the kids come to their senses and go off to find there own way in the world. Group two... are the kids that aren't terrible... but aren't great either. These "B" players will luck into making the star play from time to time... but as time and talent separates the level A from the B... the gap becomes apparent to everyone... the kid included, and so they hang up their cleats. Group three... are the kids the have no ability at all. Every team has at least two. The crowds roar for them if they happen to stop the ball with their stomach... or in sheer blind luck the ball finds their bat once during the season. At the beginning they think the cheers are cool, but after a few years, even THEY roll their eyes at themselves and hope that their parents will give up the whole ruse.
For years, my son lobbied us to let him play hockey. My wife and I were both firm with our negative answer. "Too rough... too costly... too much travel..." We had heard it all before. Rolling our eyes at those parents that spent time and money driving hither and yon at all hours of the morning to get their kids to practice. But my resolve weakened one day and we signed him up for a no-checking in-line hockey league. For several practices and several games, I watched him... as I have for all the other sports...twitching away with nervous energy. Except that this twitchyness was on wheels. Unless he was on his back, which he frequently was. He scored a goal or two mostly on lucky rebounds. His twitchy, jerky legs standing in contrast to the better skaters and their long fluid glides. I was ready for the inevitable "group two" status.
Then before game three the coach asked if anyone wanted to play goalie. And my son's little hand shot up like a rocket.
Hockey goalies are a different breed of person, I have found out. They are loners in a team sport. They are a little "off" as one of the coaches said. You have to be, I suppose, to subject yourself to hard pucks coming at your head at speeds up to a hundred miles an hour. They are the last line of defense... the ones that lose the game, not the ones that win them. And never in his short life have I ever seen my son embrace something so whole-heartedly. His quirky little movements and hummingbird motions suddenly gelled... like a fuzzy picture that suddenly snaps into crystal clear focus. When he strapped the pads on and went to "play the line" as they call it... he was at home. He knew the angles, and the motions, and the strategy even though he hadn't had a teacher. They were hard wired into this skeleton. And all I could do was stand behind the boards and hold my breath.
He embraced the "offness" that was expected of him. He began wearing mismatched socks... red and yellow... garrulously contrasting with his blue uniform. His games consisted of long periods of boredom punctuated by moment of flurrying terror. To overcome the boredom, he sings to himself. And his jerky movements have fine tuned themselves into catlike reflexes... with the vision to track and follow a three inch puck in the middle of eight crashing bodies.
In his first game... his team won... in overtime. In his first season... his team made the league finals... only to lose by a goal. In his second season... his team returned to the championship... and this time won by a goal... in overtime. In the stands... we would hear once a game..."Who is that goalie?" When I started coaching, the opposing coaches would seek me out to talk about what I had done to create this prodigy. And I laughed and admitted that I had done absolutely nothing. What else can you do?
The lesson is there. Loud and clear. There are things that all of us are wired for. You are. I am. Often times we get lost in the shuffle of life doing what others expect of us, rather than doing what we are good at. And when you find those things, they pull you in unforeseen directions. It is best to follow that path... for however long it lasts. "Follow your bliss," as the great Joseph Campbell would say.
He might quit next week for all I care. It will take care of itself. And there are many other discoveries ahead of him, I hope. Things that he falls into that are as natural as putting on a glove... a hockey glove. Parenting isn't about working them in to something that you want them to do. It is getting up and driving them places to try new things until something clicks... and then holding your breath while you watch them do it. And maybe... just maybe... learning from them, and taking the risk again to play your own line.
It is never too late.
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