Youth Hockey: The Parental Contact Sport

It’s a little known fact that while in my Early-80’s high school heyday in the Northern Suburbs of Chicago, I started the trend to make the mullet haircut and cargo pants the fashion bonanzas that they were (Yep, me.). I never got the credit that I deserved. But, I was fortunate to live in a great place and time to be in high school. I played football. The female persuasion was the motivation for my choice of sports. Every catch, run and tackle might be rewarded by the praise and worship of the girls. That was the jock-mindset. But, there was a stranger group of athletes at our school, whose behavior and motivation was something I could neither explain nor understand: the Hockey Players.

I didn’t understand them then. I don’t understand them now. Words like ‘crease’ and ‘icing’ don’t mean the same thing to hockey-people as they do to me. But, I did see enough of our Glenbrook South High school team to know that they were relentless about winning and passionate about their sport. Being a parent of an accomplished ballplayer, I have seen it all when it comes to the special community of Tournament Baseball Parents. There’s an ongoing soap opera among parents on most teams. The dramas that play outside the lines can be more ridiculous than any error-filled game within. But, I’m finding out that hockey parents take the games of guile and hostility, as well as commitment and time-investment to another level.

Down here in Texas, it would be hard to become a hockey player, much less learn to skate. In the Lone Star State, anything holding ice that is larger than a tea glass gets filled with bottles of beer. But, in the Mid-West, the Parks and Recreation departments cover the city parks with water from a fire hose, when the temperatures drop. The result is an ice rink in just about every neighborhood. Of course, one has to be a good ice skater. I was always very stable on the ice because my ankles and the blades would actually touch ice simultaneously, giving me a training-wheel effect. Yet, despite the best efforts of the Parks and Rec. Dept., it was never really my thing.

Back in the ‘80’s, there was a group of three brothers that seemed to form the nucleus of our hockey program. Though they were related, to my recollection, these Jones Boys were two murderous thugs and one silky ice-humming-bird, name Jeff. I don’t remember the older two Jones’ first names. But, it wouldn’t matter because the government has either assigned these two a number or a new name via the Witness Protection Program. Imagine two silver back gorillas patrolling the rink, using their front knuckles for balance. The vision of their sinister advance prompted entire school administrations to bolt simultaneously into the concession stand just to be out of their line of sight. Younger brother Jeff was different from the older versions. He was all speed and finesse. Not to say he couldn’t take the contact. But, no one could catch him. Along with his ethereal skill in his chosen sport, in school he was as quiet and kind as the librarian.

It has always been my theory that most hockey players are people who are deeply, sadly pained. They play their sport because they want to trade pain they can neither see nor salve for pain that they can explain. The older two Jones fellows said nothing to discourage my theory. But, to my knowledge, they never spoke. I’m fairly certain they used their mouths only for ripping and tearing.

All three Jones Boys gave our program respectability in the early 1980’s.

Now, in the year 2006, the family’s little sister is the mother of the three new players who carry the family mantle. Mom’s name is Erin, an Irish name. Her oldest is 14. He is a freshman and already carries 190 lbs. of burgeoning brawn onto the ice. Erin also has a 13 year old and a 5 year old, both future superstars. A hockey puck is the coin of the realm in her family. She sent me an email on February 15th, 2006: the day Latvia (2 million people) tied the American Hockey Team in the Turino Winter Olympics.

I am housing two fourteen year old boys from Latvia this week. They came here to play Joe's hockey team. They want me to take them to "the shopping" so that they can buy "the hip hop clothes" and ”the bling". Unfortunately, Northbrook Court (an upscale mall in the well-heeled suburbs of Chicago) is not filling the retail inventory with ghetto clothing. They are downstairs in my family room bellowing the Latvian National anthem right now. I assume that the Latvian hockey team must be beating the good ol' USA. The game is on now. I am sure that I will have to go down there and break up a fight soon as my Joe will risk bloodshed defending his country and his sport. This might get ugly. To make matters worse they have trained my five year old to cheer "LATVIA! LATVIA!". I'll have to tell him that Latvia is a bad word. He even has the little accent down. Joe will probably put him through the wall….

Well I have to drive the Latvians to their game. They smell very badly. They refuse to let me wash their clothes. I keep saying give me " the pants", and "take the shower" I think they must think I am putting the moves on them.

And relating to Hockey-Parents (Oh, the profundity!):

There used to be hockey web site for parents in the Chicago area to post information regarding hockey scores and the best places to skate. It ended up turning into this big platform of negativity, degrading people and their children. I thought it was fun to go after a glass (or two) of wine, and use my clever wit to vent my anger in a clandestine fashion. Sometimes, just reading all the misspelled words was more interesting than the actual posts. On occasion, I would begin a thread, just for giggles, that would talk about which rink has the best concession stand, or which concession stand employees are the rudest.

I did generate an interesting thread about the correlation between the type of car that pulls up in front of the rink to drop off players and what type of equipment they wear as well as what type of player they are. For instance, the kid in the Range Rover will have the most expensive, shiny, "must-have" equipment. He is usually a decent player because he takes a lot of private lessons. His parents are usually on the board of directors, thereby secretly controlling every aspect of the team. They take the coaches out to fancy restaurants after games to secure more ice time for their son.

The kid that arrives in the Volvo has the safest equipment. His helmet is hand-made by a neurosurgeon to prevent concussions. He is a cautious player, shying away from any physical contact, even during practice with his own teammates. His parents are the ones in the stand calling anyone that touches their child a goon, and screaming out things like "Hey, this isn't Wrestlmania!"

Then, there’s the boy that arrives in the pickup truck, with the name of a construction company on the door. This boy will usually arrive in full gear because he's had to dress in the car, because his Dad has two jobs and is scrambling to get him there. His helmet, gloves or pants do not match. Every item he owns is second-hand, including his skates. This boy is the hardest-working, most committed player on the team.. Nobody is buying him a Power Aid for $2.75 after he skates. He brings a water bottle from home with tap water. His parents sit quietly in the stands and watch him play. Secretly, they are happy just to be able to sit down for an hour.

Erin, on hockey-parent conduct:

I could tell you stories that would make those crazy baseball Dads look like kittens. I've seen Mothers climbing over the glass, trying to hit the referees with their Gucci purses. I've accidentally been hit by a roll of tape thrown by enraged parent from Green Bay who was really aiming at the 85 year old Grandpa, sitting behind me. Gramps was screaming something about one of the boys on the Green Bay team being a cheap-shot, or that he should be thrown out of the game. I don't really remember, I just remember thanking the gentleman who threw that tape for saving me the $4.00 for the new roll of tape. I've seen full-out brawls in the stands. I've been told to shut up, even though I never actually spoke a word. The only saving grace about the low-class, irresponsible behavior from the stands is that the kids can't hear too much of it. The helmets block a lot of the noise.

The thing that I can't get over is when you go to an ice rink, and they have a bar. So now you have, this group of really competitive parents, their kids playing at the highest competitive level. And, Mom and Dad get intoxicated. Then the rink administration has the audacity (two days later) to wonder why a fight broke out. That is really bad right? It gets better. Mom and Dad actually put their kids in the car after 7 beers and drive then home. Good times!

Oh, the Outrage!

My son was on a team a few years ago and I actually heard a Dad in the stands telling his wife, that their little superstar would get $75 dollars after the game, Yep, $25 bucks per goal. My eyes lit up and I couldn’t resist, so I casually announced that we only pay our son if he gets a penalty, (preferably for slashing, or charging the goalie)! Can you imagine paying for a goal?

Of course, she's absolutely right. That is simply scandalous. $25 is pretty high. I keep a payment scale in range of $15 - $20 in the first round of a tournament, unless its a national qualifier. Naturally, it is a graduating scale. So, in the Championship Game, I have been known to part with between $50 - $100 (just to make sure my son is focused and his priorities are in order.)

I’m glad the 1980’s are over. I did my bit for fashion and athletics. But, it’s over now. I’m glad I was able to trade that place with its strange sport of hockey for an area and a sport that I can understand. Hockey, snow and ice: it’s so foreign to me. But, team-politics, conflict and soap-operas as well as commitment, practice and parental sacrifice; that stuff I’m very familiar with. It’s funny how much all of us sports-parents have in common.

Playing in the Baseball Time/Space Continuum

We spent the weekend in a place outside of the confines of time. If you can believe this: We were in League City, Texas, watching my son play at Wrigley Field. The new facility is called Big League Dreams. Completed last Summer, it reportedly cost $30 Million to build.

Every field is a replica of a professional park, either current or historical. As a matter of fact, my son's Texas Sundevils won two in a row on Sunday, February 12th, on the old Polo Grounds of New York.

The restaurant behind homeplate allows sports-dads to eat a great burger and drink a beer while watching their kids and ESPN simultaneously. It was everything I ever dreamed of in a ballpark. When I ventured into the eating establishment's welcoming confines (upon my arrival Saturday), I was so overcome that my arms went limp, my chin dropped to my chest and I spontaneously wept. The matronly beer lady brought me a frosty $4.00 Domestic Brand, and then held me until I could gather myself. She understood. I was not the first father who had lived to see his ideal of the perfect baseball tournament materialize at this, the Copa Cabana of youth baseball. As I sucked my thumb, she gently pulled my head to her comforting, copious bosom and hummed the melody to "Say Hey, Willie". Then, she released me to sit by all the other red-eyed, quivering First-Time-At-The-Big-League-Dreams dads.

My son and his team did their parts. By winning 4 out of 5 and coming away with a 1st Place Tourney Trophy, they did nothing to defile the synthetic turf upon which they played. Papa John delivered, getting 6 hits and 8 RBI's for the weekend. He pitched like a bulldog, sometimes having to scramble and battle for the bone that he would eventually take. In his seven innings against the eventual second place Houston Toros, he allowed four runs. The picture attached is another of our great pitchers, Ryan St. Clair. Behind him, one can see the sprigs of ivy that will cover Wrigley's walls in May.

At Big League Dreams, they thought of absolutely everything.

Of Dickens, Baylor And Swaziland

Aren’t we often like Ebenezer Scrooge at our desk or computer, burying our nose in pointless minutiae and trivia, while the import of our very lives is floating just over our heads? Another commonality between us and Scrooge: our times are both Dickensian. And today, mine is the voice of a writer you used to know, telling you that we should change. I'm all about sports. Yet, the box scores of our lives are as quickly forgotten as Weber State v. Cal. Poly. Still, there’s still time to put up a difference-making shot. But, the shot clock is running down.

_________________________

The couple was so young and beautiful. Lisa was the result of tough, committed and loving parenting. I met her on the day before her wedding. She was the consummate FSU co-ed, as sweet and gorgeous as the oranges that dot the state of Florida. The grateful recipient of all the things we parents want our kids to have, she was the shining jewel in her Italian-American family’s crown. Her husband and I ran together in college. We remained very tight; partly because I kept his bawdy secrets, and he mine. After college, he became a Marine Chopper Pilot. He saw duty in places like Kuwait, Oman, and the mean streets of Oceanside, CA.. Later he joined an organization called the Diplomatic Security Service. He’s done “church work” in every unpalatable cesspool nation in the world. He’s guarded Maddie Albright, Colin Powell, Former Israeli PM Ehud Barak and the late Chairman Yasser Arafat, to name a few. Lisa couldn’t have known it at the time. But, on the day of their wedding, she stood on the altar with the Marine version of Pirate Jack Sparrow. His is a rare amalgamation of whimsy, lunacy and courage that has allowed each day’s evening cocktail to remain just as pleasant despite any particular day’s inordinant carnage. Marines refer to his ability as “compartmentalization”. It is his ability to drown out bad sights and sounds by turning up the volume on the looping Door’s soundtrack that plays in his head. She couldn’t have possibly known what was in store. And, he cut a fine figure of a Marine in St. Petersburg, Florida on his wedding day.

Last year, J. Scott was stationed at our American Embassy in France. We visited in the Spring of ’05. We took Paris by storm. We even got to hob-knob with Ambassador Leach at the annual embassy Easter egg hunt. Lisa and J. Scott were conversant in French. They ate baguettes, fromage and drank café’ du lait. Their little daughter was speaking the language and wearing stockings and a French beret’. Their toddler son had adapted to small dogs and dark chocolate, too. During our visit however, they received news that J. Scott would be assigned to manage security at the American Embassy in Swaziland (tiny country bordering South Africa). To put it in terms that we can appreciate, that is like being taken FIRST in the draft…. by the league doormat.

Prior to moving to any new assignment, the State Department educates my friends, so that they are best prepared. Here is some of the information they received:

• Swaziland is among the world's countries with the greatest prevalence of HIV and the greatest need for treatment, training and education.

• In 2002, 39% of pregnant mothers were HIV positive. The survey from 2005 listed this rate at 56%.

• In southern Africa, 50% of all deaths of children under the age of five are caused by HIV/Aids.

• By 2010, 10% to 15% of the population of Swaziland will be orphans.
(http://bayloraids.org/newsreleases/release23.pdf)

Life is almost hopeless in Swaziland. Almost. Although we Americans only concern ourselves with Baylor’s recruiting class and win-loss record, it should also be noted that Baylor School of Medicine teamed with Bristol Meyers Squibb to turn ground last year on a new hospital, which was scheduled to open this winter: The Pediatric HIV/AIDS Center of Swaziland. So, there is a glimmer of consciousness being dedicated to the pandemic that kills the children of Swaziland. But, it’s only a glimmer mind you, because the children have to compete for our attention with the Super Bowl, the upcoming World Baseball Classic, as well as Spring Training. And, for goodness' sake, let’s not forget Tiger Woods or the almighty Professional Bowler’s Tour.

Lisa sent me an email at the beginning of the week. After all the righteous indignation I could muster to qualify and quantify the Super Bowl officiating, I decided to give her email a quick look:

I have to tell you the story of this day. We brought the shoes and some clothes to a woman named Sylvia. She is HIV positive. Her husband already passed away, she has a daughter Fifi pictured with the group of girls (Fifi's eyes are an unusual almond shape.) Sylvia's house is typical Swazi, no electricity, no running water. She has an outhouse in the back and they bathe and wash clothes in the river, they also drink from it. Sylvia works at the gov't hospital with the AIDS babies and mothers. She helps administer drugs and counsels them on nutrition and nursing etc. She is amazing!! Some Swazi's don't believe AIDS is a disease, some are
superstitious and believe it's a curse some one put on them. Sylvia was called by the chief of her village because a mob was trying to kill an old man they accused of causing the AIDS. She calmed the crowd and saved the man. She showed us around her village, the empty huts where people lived and died and the kids are just gone?! The baby is newborn,(I got to hold him), both of his parents are positive, they just found out! Scott asks me why I want to help them, what do I think I can accomplish? I don't know the answer to this yet. I know I have seen their faces, and I have seen the children, and I can't turn away. Love you much Lisa

Reading those words from one so close and dear made me think of my own daughter. I take my aspirations for her for granted. How dark would my reality be if I had the same realizations as the parents of Swaziland; that I could offer my children nothing and no hope in the future? I was reminded of a recent dialogue I had heard at the first play my daughter ever saw in person.

They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meager, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

`Spirit, are they yours?' Scrooge could say no more.
`They are Man's,' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. `And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it,' cried the Spirit,…. ' --Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

I received another message from Lisa on Wednesday, February 8, 2006:

Hope all is well with Edna and the kids. We miss you all so much. Loved the
pictures sent at Christmas!! Scott has been filling you in on my experiences on the front trenches of the African poverty and AIDS epidemic. Pretty awful! I have met such wonderful people in Swaziland. They are so poor, no running water, no electricity, yet very happy and welcoming. After the treatment by the French it is a
little shocking. I was at the Mbabane Government Hospital last week. You can't imagine being in this hospital, a cement building, no food, no nursing staff. The patients are literally stacked one on top of the other, laying on the floor. I met a
boy, he was about 14 years old, he looked like he was 80. He was sitting on a chair crying, his mother was holding his hand. He told our interpreter that he was so hungry, he wanted beans and rice to eat. The mother had no money, no food is handed out in the hospital, just tea and a piece of bread every day. The father was at home and would not support them, they were farmers, lived out in the country. I had nothing with me, just a hand knitted bear from the USA, which we gave to him. (The Mother Bear Project, check out the website! ) A woman we were with went back the next day to bring the boy and his mother some rice, he had died that night. The boy had AIDS, he was raped by a man that had infected him. This boy died hungry, scared, and shunned by his father. No one will know him, he will never graduate from high school, have a family, make a difference in this world. But I knew him, I saw his tears and heard his crying for help. I will never go back to that hospital without money in my pocket. I am left with his face in my mind. Lisa

There is no record of the boy. The mother disappeared into the night. My friend would never know the boy’s name. But, as Lisa exposed herself to sickness and despair on the precipice of hell on earth, she had met he who was so ‘meager, ragged, scowling, wolfish’ described by Dickens: Ignorance.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

_________________________________

Please send a check for any amount to:
Lisa Mooneyham
2350 Mbabane Place
Dulles,VA 20189
Note: Aids Children

This is a State Department Address. Mail is filtered for any objectionable material. Please just send check or clothes.

Officials Steal Super Bowl from Seattle

I'm in a big hurry today. So, hang on. We're going to get scatalogical.

My son threw four innings on Saturday in Houston. Struck out six. He allowed no one to score. Ordinarily, this would be the big story. I would normarlly flesh out the details: pitch selection, strike percentage, etc.. I would offer descriptions of his knuckle ball and comparisons between his fast ball and various jet planes. But, I just can't let the weekend expire without throwing a flag on Big TV, Big NFL, Las Vegas Oddsmakers, The Sopranos and anyone else who was involved in the miscarriage of justice that was a Size XL slap in the face to equity and fairness.

Yes. Jerome Bettis became the NFL audiences big huggable teddy bear as his career wound down. It was his last game. And, didn't it make good television when he and Bill Cowher and Dan Rooney could share the big stage, wet kisses and a group hug? It would have made a very compelling reason for folks to tune in. But, did the NFL and Big TV have to script it?

Exhibit A.) That was the mother of all ticky-tacky penalties when Darrell Jackson's Seahawk TD was wiped off the board because of a dubious push-off in the 1st Quarter.
(If the poor officiating would have stopped here, I could have let it ride.)

Exhibit B.) Roethlisberger didn't get the ball over the plane of the goal line at any time during the twelve replays that I studied with my Bill-Nye-Spy-Glass. That was a bad call. (Is there a trend developing here?)

Exhibit C.) In the Fourth Quarter, Ike Taylor picks off Hasselbeck. Why? Because the Seahawks had completed a 20+ yard pass to the goal line two plays prior that was called back by a phantom holding penalty which replays exposed as another unforgiveable bad call. (At this point, the officials all traded in their black and white jerseys for Black and Gold before restarting the clock. But, in the interests of impartiality and propriety, Bill Leavy resisted Cowher's entreaties to don the Steeler Super Bowl Champs caps until the conclusion of the quarter.)

Exhibit D.) Despite all the quizzical officiating, the Seahawks were not the beneficiary of even one poor call. Hmmmmmm. (I'm crossing my arms and rubbing my chin.)

Side note: The Stones proved a very unfortunate choice for the Half-Time Show. Although Ron Wood was proficient with the slide guitar, Keith Richards was only aware enough to make his own song selections, independent of the band. Richards is a walking anti-drug advertisement. While Mick bellowed "I Can't Get No Satisfaction", Keith was 2,000 Light Years From Home. Wood looks like a slimmed-down Mrs. Doubtfire. Bill Wyman, who gave up his Stonemanship in the late-90's never looked so smart.

At times, pro sports makes a person feel dirty, in need of a shower. Last night was one of those times. I felt like ABC must have been laughing greedily, when the credits rolled; like used-car salesmen, who had just sold the country a big lemon.