Herb III

“I'm going to play goalie tonight,” my daughter said as I carried all the pads onto the dek.

Yes, I do not learn very quickly. While I did survive multiple games of being locked inside a large cage with rabid, armed and armored children in the spring, I decided to push my luck. (In case your memory is as bad as mine, or, on the very slight chance, you have not read my blog, let me refresh your memory on the “sport” known as dek hockey. Take a group of kids that have no concept of mortality and mind numbing pain (The mind numbing pain was when their sticks hit my shin, hand, foot, head...), cover them with shin pads, elbow pads, thick gloves and a helmet. Now, add wooden sticks (that could very well be sharpened and should be declared weapons of at least local mass destruction.). Because of local zoning and for safety reasons, you have to put them in an enclosed area with a fence at least fifteen feet high. In itself, this isn't too bad. But some idiot came up with the bright idea that adults need to be added and they do not give the adults any safety gear, not even tasers.(“They” say it's to coach, but I think it's so there's fresh prey for the little hooligans.) Last spring, my son and daughter both asked me to coach their teams. This season, my daughter moved up from the we'll-teach-them-the-basics-of stick-handeling-and-passing, AKA “Throw in raw meat and run and hide” league to the real league and they both wanted me to coach the team.

After most of the season, my daughter had gone from turning pirouettes in the middle of the dek and sometimes having a general idea of where the ball was on the dek (usually the side opposite of where she was looking) to wanting to play goalie. It was the last game of the season and we had third place locked up.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Without another word, she started taking off her shin pads so she could put the goalie pads on. If you've seen professional hockey, you've seen the pads they wear. Well, they wear the same pads for dek hockey. I don't mean the same pads metaphorically. They are The Same Pads. But, my daughter is about ¼ the size of a professional hockey goalie.

“I can't walk,” she said from behind the pads.

I carried her over to the goal and gave her the basic lecture. “Keep your pads together. Square up on the ball. Keep your stick in front of you.”

“I dropped my stick.”

I picked it up and put it in the general area of her palm. The problem was she had the blocker pad on her right hand. There were two things wrong with this. First, she's a lefty and as everyone know, the catcher pad goes on your primary hand. (Although, at this age and size, the goalie is pretty much a mound of pads with a helmet on top. (Sometimes there is actually a head inside the helmet.)) The other problem was I had no idea where her actual hand was.

“I dropped my stick again.”

I picked it up again. “Ok, just keep your eye on the ball and have fun.” Then some of the kids got ready to warm her up with practice shots.

I'm sure you've seen the drills in professional hockey where the players line up and each one shoots on the goalie. The shots are organized and everyone goes in order. Well, with six to nine year-olds, this is everyone shooting at the same time. Luckily, my daughter dropped her stick and was currently stuck on the dek. Every time she got a grip, she needed two hands to push herself up, so she dropped the stick again. Then she'd grab the stick and fall over and start the process all over.

After a few minutes, I checked again and we both agreed, maybe she wasn't quite ready to play goalie. So, we got her out of the pads and the other goalie padded up just in time for the game to start.

Since we couldn't get second place or lose third place with this game, I told the kids we were going to have fun. I wanted them to relax and spend the next hour running as hard as they could. After the first period, our goalie said he wanted a break. My daughter chirped up that she was ready to play goalie now.

There's a three minute break between periods in dek hockey. During the season, I'd gotten the pattern down. We had three kids that could play goal and we usually switched goalies. My system was, get the current goalie to lie down while I called the kids around to give them The Speech. While I undid the seventy or eighty clips that keep the pads in the general area of the goalie:

• I went over what the kids were doing right and what we needed to work on the next period
• Called the kids back into the circle
• Repeated what they were doing right and what we needed to work on now that all the kids were gathered around.

Once the pads were off, the next goalie dropped down into the pads and I:

• Reversed the seventy to eighty snaps.
• Made sure the kids were all ok.
• Figure out who was going to be playing starting the next period
• Realized that instead of fastening the clips around the boy's legs, I'd actually fastened the pads to each other (Think about tying someone's shoes together.)
• Remind myself that I was not supposed to swear around the kids
• Redo the clasps
• Get the shoulder pads on and the goalie jersey (This is not a cosmetic. The jersey is only thing that holds the shoulder pads above the kid's waist.)

By this time, four minutes of the three minute break have gone by. We do our cheer and the next period starts.

I spent a few seconds thinking about the wisdom of this decision. I called the kids into a tight huddle.

“Ok guys, we have a new goalie. Can you protect her?”

“yes.”

“You can do better than that!”

“Yes!” eight little voices yelled loud enough for a couple of parents in the stands to look over.

My routine had been fine tuned over countless weeks. But, I had not taken into account my daughter.

“Where's my stick?”

“Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.”

“Am I going to get to wear the jersey?”

“Yes. Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.”

“And the shoulder pads?”

“Yes. Let's get your pads on first. Drop down.” She has the cutest laugh when the vein in my forehead throbs.

Five minutes later, the shin pads were on her. The other team was lined up.

“Coach, can I play center?”

“I want to play defense.”

“Dad, can I play defense too?” That was my son.

“Everyone plays the same positions they were when the period ended. Ok, stand up.” That was to my daughter.

“I can't”

I picked her up and set her on what I think were her feet. Then pulled the shoulder pads over her head and the yellow jersey. “Where's your helmet?” Not that there was much room for it.

“I dropped my stick.”

We were already seven minutes into the the three minute break. The jersey made a very nice dress on her. She held up her hands. At least I think she did, the sleeves of the jersey covering her “moved”. I put the gloves on her “hands.” and snapped on her helmet.

“I dropped my stick again. We both bent down and I found out that the helmet beats skull.

“Mommy said we're not allowed to say that word anymore.”

She was finally ready and we had a thirty foot walk to the goal. Thirty feet for me to pass on all my knowledge to my only daughter. Thirty feet to tell her everything she needed to know so that she could be The Goalie. Thirty feet of me saying goodbye to my little girl and turning her over to the hard, cruel world. (She might have been ready for this, but I wasn't.)

“Daddy, I can't walk.”

Thirty feet for me to carry her.

“Ok. Keep your pads together, square up on the ball.”

“I dropped my stick.”

I put it back in the area of her hand. “What's the most important thing?”

 

“Have fun,” came from the mass of pads.

A couple of seasons ago, I was able to coach my son when he scored his first goal. I lost my voice in that game. My daughter stood in the goal like I'd shown her. I yelled encouragement to her. When she made her first block, I lost my voice. Over the season, all the parents had learned what to yell to help the kids. Between my yelling and the parents, our games were never quiet.

When the other team had a break away, everyone stopped and you could hear a pin drop as everyone held their breath. I watch the kid charging down on my daughter as the stands went silent. When she blocked the shot, EVERYONE exploded. That was when I lost my voice for the rest of the game.

Cubs

When I was a kid, I used to watch those wildlife shows... The ones where they'd show a family of lions or something with new borns. The babies would be climbing on the father, biting his ears and making a general nuisance of themselves while he was trying to sleep. The narrator would say something like this wasn't just play, the babies were learning how to hunt through this aggressive play. After a few minutes, the father would open one eye, and the babies would continue. Eventually, he would give the babies a good swat and they'd tumble away and go rough house with each other, just long enough for the father to get comfortable and then be back.

A part of me was always surprised at that. Until this week.

We were snorkeling, all four of us. Again, my daughter was snorkeling with me. (Don't get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy the constant soundtrack I now have with every snorkel. (“I love fishes” sung three thousand times can be very catchy, even if it is grammatically inaccurate.) My daughter is able to practice her ballet dancing, sing, point out fish, and generally go in the opposite direction I am trying to swim at the same time. So, every trip with her in an adventure.) We all headed for the small artificial reef to look for the lobsters she and I had seen the evening before.

“Look daddy, I'm dancing.”

“You can't dance in the water.” That was her brother, the realist.

“Yes I can.” To her credit, she did prove she could. The only problem was I was still trying to get my second fin on. (Recapping here... Holding a bobbing five-year old from being washed out to sea, trying to balance on one leg (with a flipper already on) and get the second flipper on and not pull all my middle-aged muscles (yes, I've finally admitted it, but I do not have gout!) is not the best way to start a morning.)

“Sit still!” Maybe I growled it louder than I intended. I'm pretty sure I caught my wife smirking (I'm pretty sure it was a full-blown smirk if I could see it through a scuba mask.).

“I lost my fin.” Actually it came out more as “I wost by bin.” (When she's snorkeling, she can enunciate clearly with her snorkel in her mouth. Any other time, like when I'm half-off balance, she's impossible to understand.

“Where is it?”

“I don't know.”

I caught a glimpse of blue a few feet away. Keeping one hand on her, my fins and mask in my other hand, I lunged and grabbed it (spontaneous evolution, look it up.) before the next wave pushed it further away.

This time both fins were strapped tighter. Rather than chance anything else coming off, I pushed off with one fin and started towing her to the reef. (Towing is an understatement. My wife took my daughter out one snorkel. I'm not sure how it happened. I had to go back up on the beach and get my stuff, and amazingly, that took much much much longer than I expected. After they were done, my daughter and son were fighting the waves and each other, as usual, and my wife was panting on the beach. “Your... daughter... is... heavy. Did you... know that?” “Really? I hadn't noticed.” I don't think she caught the sarcasm.) Halfway to the reef, I put the other fin on and got a better grip.

“Where are the lobsters?” My wife asked as we approached the reef. Now, she's been diving for over fifteen years. One of our hobbies while we dive is to learn the behavior of what we're watching. So, I have no idea what possessed her to lead our two impressionable children to think that the lobsters, which we'd never seen there, and this is not a big reef, would still be there.

This is about the same time my daughter swam right in front of me. I know because of the two blue fins that hit me in the face. (At least they were still both on her feet.)

“Under the water.” I probably muttered.

Both kids proceeded to dive in search of the lobsters. My son dives very well and was able to make it down the ten feet and look inside the old tires that make up the artificial reef. My daughter's version of diving is... describable. It's a several step process. First, her head goes straight down. (From everything I've read, this is the normal process for diving.) Almost at the same time, her butt goes up (think of a dolphin breaching). So, this would be great. However, she does both so well that she doesn't stop and this is where it gets interesting. Her head ends up too close to her knees, but since her butt's already in full dive mode, her knees, much to her head's frustration, disappear. Now, the only way for her head to catch up to her knees is to take a shortcut by spinning 180 degrees. This usually works for a second, before another 180 degree turn in the opposite direction is needed. While all this is happening underwater, her flippers are flailing around above the water. Anyone within five feet is sure to get kicked in the face at least once per dive. The final part of the dive is the snorkel clearing. By now, it's completely filled with sea water. (But somehow, none of the water is in her mouth. One theory is she does not stop talking/singing during the diving, but no one has had to courage to get close enough to verify this.) Clearing the snorkel involves a quick scamper up my back, and a few minutes of readjusting. Then back into the water for another dive.

After about ten minutes of blue and yellow flippers (my son) zipping around me and kicking me in the face and body, I remembered the father lion and his cubs. In case you are wondering, no I didn't swat them... barely.

Graduations

It's the time of year when flowers are in bloom, the weather's warming up and children are belting out songs without a care in the world. This is the third year we've been blessed with off-tune singing. One of the nice things about having our daughter go to the same preschool as our son is that we don't need to spend as much energy translating.

See, three years ago, after we moved from Virginia, we found a great pre-school and daycare for our children. At three and a half, our son was the perfect age for his first graduation. There were four songs his class sang. The first day they practiced the songs, my parental knowledge was seriously threatened. We were driving home and I heard his soft humming from the back seat.

“Daddy, what's the second line of the Turtle song?”

Now, I grew up knowing the twinkle twinkle song. The ABCs were another song I had a solid hold on. But, I can't say I'd ever heard the turtle song. I remembered there was a cartoon he watched, Franklin. “Do you mean the Franklin song?”

“No, the Timmy the Turtle song.”

“How's it go?” I figured if I stalled long enough, we'd be home or something along the way would catch his attention.

“I had a little turtle. His name was Tiny Tim.” He was remarkably close to being on pitch and there was a hint of melody. “I can't remember the rest of it.” There was the unspoken hint that, as his father, the one person he depended on, his role model and absolute hero, I had better step up with the second line.

When he was a baby, we spent many nights signing. He knew all the words to Cat's in the Cradle and Puff the Magic Dragon (Yes, I know the real meaning of the song, but at 3 a.m., it's an easy song to remember and sing.) “Where did you learn the song?”

“At school. What's the next line?”

“What's the song for?” Yes, I was stalling, but the speed limit through the neighborhood is 25 miles an hour and as the president of the civic association, speeding through the winding streets would not send a good example. I just needed a few more minutes and we'd be safely home.

“I can't tell you, it's a secret.”

Bingo! We spent the rest of the drive home talking about secrets, I even tried to see if his mommy had any, but he wasn't selling her out, even for a popsicle,

This year, it was my daughter's turn. One day we were driving home and from the back seat came, “I 'ad a wittle turtle, it name was Tim.” My son and I both jumped in on the second verse (Anyone with kids knows how those songs worm their way into your subconscious. Just walk though any mall and start humming “I love you, you love me...” and all the parent's will go glassy-eyed and join in on the Barney Song chorus.)

As the weeks went by this year, I realized they had a different person doing the program. My daughter added ballet to her routine. I know my son didn't have a ballet section when he graduated. And the thought of the teachers guiding eight 3 and 4 year-olds through Swan Lake guaranteed I'd have a front-row seat.

Every night, sometimes during the afternoon and even once or twice before I had my morning coffee, my daughter would announce, “Oh no! I forgot practice my ballet! Where my radio?” And she'd desperately search. As soon as she found something that could possibly be considered a radio (Believe it or not, apparently a rock on the ground has high innate musicalness.) she'd push a “button” and start her practice.

The last time I saw ballet was the movie with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines. That was pure amateurism next to my daughter's fusion of break-dancing, wall-shaking foot-stomping and a hint of the Charleston. We learned right away to wait for the “Tadaaaaaa” before we clapped. A premature clap earned you a cross, hands-on-the-hips, “I not done yet!”

So, after many months of being serenaded while we ate dinner and post-dinner floor shows, it was time for her first graduation ever. She'd watched her brother graduate from preschool and kindergarten. She'd watched his Christmas and Thanksgiving shows. Every time, she'd been in the audience, quiet and the not-center-of-attention. It was her turn!

My wife and I picked them up after school and went out to for a special pre-show dinner. I checked on our future star, “Are you ready?”

“Yes!”

“I'll be in the front row,” I promised her. (I was having a hard time with my baby growing up. Today, her first musical program, tomorrow she could be on Broadway, and not returning my calls.)

She went back with the rest of her class as soon as we got the school. Our proud family found seats in the front row, as we promised, and waited in anticipation. Would this be The Breakout Performance? How would the other parents feel when they saw the pure, raw talent? How does a three year-old do autographs when she can't write her name?

A hush fell over the room as the teachers led the kids out. Our daughter peaked around the doorway, saw all the people and raced straight to her mother's lap. At least she had a good view of the rest of the program.