Just call me Herb

After thirty years, there isn't a whole lot of the the 1980s that I remember... clearly. I do remember the Miracle on Ice and the U.S. Olympic hockey team. My best friend and I managed to get tickets to one of the exhibition games. It as a heady night of yelling obscenities with bad Russian accents. Reaganomics was in full force and the Cold War was hot. (For those of you old enough to understand that last sentence, think about how long it's been since you've heard Reaganomics and Cold War in the same sentence. Once the hot flashes have subsided, check the local nursing home for vacancies.)

Like most young boys, I identified with the players. Young athletes overcoming impossible odds. I didn't even know the coach's name was Herb Brooks.

After thirty years, I recently flashed back to this historic time. It was a crisp fall Saturday when destiny called. My son's dek hockey team needed a coach. His coaches were both going to be out of town. I remember the coach's last words to me and the team. “Just have fun guys. Winning isn't important and we have the rest of the season to catch up.” (I'd imagine the heads of the U.S. Hockey said the same thing to Herb.)

As the game time approached, I began to worry a little. I already knew our goalie was not going to be there, her father was one of the coaches, and our best scorer was not going to be there, his father was the other coach. Plus, one of our team had started the season with a broken arm. (I don't think having a cast up to your shoulder is a valid reason to let your teammates down. You still have a whole other arm, and the cast would ensure great form on a slapshot. I know Coach Herb would agree.) So, we were down to one line, a backup goalie and two substitutes.

On Game Day, we only had five players. This is when I knew how Herb felt. I was surrounded by a rag tag bunch of kids. Their eyes full of hope as they looked up at me. We were the underdogs on the world's stage (The bleachers were packed with four parents.).

This is where you measure your life. I knew the tremendous responsibility that rested on my shoulders. A loss today could traumatize these kids. A win and they would be heros for the rest of their lives. Yes... I knew how Herb felt.

“Coach, where am I going to play?”

I took a moment to survey the arena, gauging the subtle unevenness of the dek. Thousands of factors were analyzed in that split second as I made my decision. “You're going to play left wing.”

“Which side is left?”

So, my two-hundred page playbook might be a bit ambitious for this game. “Which hand do you write with?” He held up a gloved hand. After I turned him around so I had the right perspective, “You're on the side with the benches.”

“Which hand do I write with?”

“The one on the same side as the benches.”

To recap, we were down five players, I had three defense men, one forward, a new goalie and, at this point, I realized the benches were on the right hand side.

“Huddle up, guys.” I called as the refs came into the caged arena. (Now, I was starting to channel the Christians and the lions in the ancient coliseums.) (I also realized, for the first time, I was locked inside with them. In the past, see previous articles for detailed proof of how bloodthirsty these kids get, it had always been during practice.

“Are we gonna play, coach?” One of the kids asked. (Between the ages of seven and nine, all boys look the same. Especially when they are encased in shin pads, elbow pads, hockey gloves and white helmets. I understand why the goalies in professional hockey have the vividly painted masks. These are the same boys who's mothers were cheering for the wrong kid... and chances are, the wrong team.)

“Yes, we're gonna play.” I crouched, surround by my short and sparse rag tag team. I looked into their young eyes and knew exactly what Herb would say to these kids. “We are going to play. We are going to show those Russians what Americans are made of. I want you to go out there and play. You're not playing for yourselves, you're playing for the American Flag!”

“Dad?”

I knew this one was my son. At least I hoped it was, or I was going to have a lot of explaining to do to my wife. I pushed Herb back. They needed a rousing speech. Something to take out there and keep them going for the next thirty minutes. “Guys, we're here for one thing. We're here to have fun. Play hard and have fun. That's all I want today. Can you do that?”

Five kids said yes, a little unsure.

“Oh come on. You can do better. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Louder, I can't hear you!”

“YES, COACH!”

For the next thirty minutes, I yelled more than I ever had. And you know what? Those kids played hard. They ran for thirty minutes and played together. When I yelled, it was so they could hear me over their parents cheering.

My son has always played defense. He's good at getting in front of the goalie and keeping the ball clear. He's always liked that position (probably because he doesn't have to run nearly as much as the forwards.). But this game, I needed another forward. After a few minutes of grumbling, my son moved up to right wing. Our game plan was simple. Defense: shoot the ball out as hard as possible when on defense. When on offense, shoot it back at the net. Forwards: shoot the ball out as hard as possible when on defense. When on offense, someone in front of the net and everyone shoot it at the net.

The game was tied up at 1-1. Our game plan was working well. Halfway through the first period everyone (if you've ever tried to get parents on the same page when their kids are playing, you know how momentous this was) yelled, “Up the boards!” when the ball was in our end and “At the net!” when we were on offense.

I had just lost my voice for the second time. “Go to the net!” I squeaked at my son. I don't know if he heard me. “Two hands on your stick!” I'm pretty sure only near-by dogs heard me that time. One of his teammates passed the ball...at the net. My son was in position. And had two hands on his stick. And his stick was down. “Shoot!” Even I couldn't hear myself when I yelled now.

Herb might have won the Olympics against overwhelming odds. But I coached my son to his first dek hockey goal. I know Herb was proud when they won the gold medal. But it couldn't compare to how I felt as my son ran down the dek, jumping up and down, his stick high in the air.

We won the game 5-1. So, yeah, me and Herb, we've both been there.