Punctuation

Six-year olds do not understand the value of punctuation. I learned this the other day at dek hockey practice. (Yes, the definition of insanity is not learning from your mistakes. After two seasons of coaching, I'm positive I've done enough penance to make up for the few sins I've committed in my life. But for some reason, I didn't say no when my kids asked if I was going to coach again this season.)

 

The season started interestingly. One evening, I asked my son if he would like to help me plan out a couple of simple plays. He instantly perked up and grabbed several dozen pieces of paper. “We're only going to come up to two or three,” I cautioned while he looked for a pencil.

 

“I know. I'll get more paper for the next play.”

 

“Bud, the plays have to be simple. Remember, the kids on the team are going to be between 6 and 10.”

 

He ran off several names of kids he'd played with previous seasons and asked if they were going to be on the team.

 

“I don't know. I won't have the roster until the first day of practice.” (I'm pretty sure professional football coaches at least have a hint of their players a week or two before their season starts. It seems that the standards for volunteer coaches of dek hockey in Pennsylvania are far below par. Don't even get me started about my ordeals with salary caps.)

 

A few minutes later, my son came back with his first plan. After his third trip of carrying the papers, he had it all together.

 

“I said the play needs to be simple.”

 

“It is. See, we get the ball then they shoot it (He pointed to the first X). Then I pass it here. (He showed me the second X.) Then the winger runs over here. (This was represented by a Y.) Their defense (These were A and B) think (Now, I vaguely remember what he was like at 6 and playing dek hockey. It was his first season. And I'm positive that if you asked his coach how he played, the word “think” would not be one of the descriptive words.)

 

We were half-way through the Cyrillic alphabet and I was lost and we were only halfway through his play. “Bud, this might be too complex for some of the younger players. (And the coaches.) How about something like this. I call it around the world.”

 

My drawing only had three Xs. I could tell he was not impressed by the way he looked for the supporting glossary.

 

“It might work. How about we try my play first?”

 

“Let's see who's on the team first, then I'll decide.”

 

So this brings us to our first practice of the season. I have to admit, my team is easy to describe. Short pretty much sums it up. What they lacked for in size, they made up for with an uncanny knack of hitting my shins with their sticks. Even with my old sports injury (It was NOT gout. I have the note from my doctor.) I was running the drills with them. Our first drill was getting the ball out of our zone.

 

“Ok guys, listen up.” This is usually a good way to start a drill.

 

I want the defense men to shoot the ball up the boards as hard as they can,.” I pointed where I wanted them to shoot. This is also a good way to continue the drill. Also, notice the well placed comma.

 

This is where the punctuation comes in. The comma clearly states that there is more coming. It does NOT in any way imply that the ball, carelessly left on the dek, should be shot as hard as you can in such a way, that while the coach's hand is out, your follow through ends up crushing most of the bones in his thumb. At least, when I was in school it didn't mean that.

 

Laying on the dek and whimpering would not be considered a good way to continue the drill. But, at least I now have two sports related injuries.

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.

Herb II

“Dad, will you coach my dek hockey team this season?”

“Mine too!” My daughter piped in.

After my perfect season as a substitute coach, I couldn't say no to their requests. Also, being well into middle age, I am apparently developing senility and have forgotten how dangerous dek hockey is.

“Coach, why don't you have pads?”

I looked down to see one of my players (That's all guesswork. He was encased in impenetrable shin guards, elbow pads, gloves and helmet a good three sizes too large. Since he was still standing upright, I'm fairly certain he was a human boy.) swinging his stick painfully close to my bare ankles. My first response was, “Because I'm stupid and want a painfully slow death.” But I've found middle-aged sarcasm is lost on the younger generations. (and my sense of humor is lost on pretty much anyone.) I gave a thoughtful look at, what I was fairly certain was his face, and said, “ I don't know.”

This was enough of an answer and he went off to chase a ball or whack at one of his teammates. (In truth, those are pretty much the same thing.)

After a few minutes of loosely regimented drills, (I was still trying to work up the nerve to get within striking distance (a mile) of their sticks.) it was time to go over fundamentals. We needed to cover the rules.

I learned about the importance of rules. My son and daughter were having their own Stanley Cup in our driveway that weekend.

“Why did you stop us?” my daughter demanded, stalking over to me.

“Slashing,” I explained as I stepped away from her stick.

Her head tilted a little to the side as she took in my verdict. When in trouble, my daughter has two modes. The crushed, world ending sobbing side and the let's-learn-so-we-won't-get-caught-next-time mode. “But I was going after the ball.”

“The ball wasn't near your brother's head.”

“It bounced.” I have give her credit, she didn't even pause.

“You were chasing your brother, swinging your stick.”

“You said to attack the ball.”

“You were screaming that you were going to kill him.”

“That's slashing?”

“That's attempted homicide, but they don't call that in hockey. The closest thing is slashing.”

After this, I thought it would be a good idea to go over the basic rules with my team. We called a huddle in front of the net. “Ok guys, listen up.”

“Those two birds are watching us play.”

“Birds don't watch dek hockey.”

“What are they doing then?”

There's one thing about an adult teaching kids, usually the kids are looking up. At this age, they are easily distracted. (The birds were watching us. I could tell from their laughter every time I ducked.) I crouched down so there would be fewer distractions. “Ok guys, listen up.”

Eleven helmets dropped and looked down.

“Why are there holes in the dek?”

“That's so water will drain.”

“Last season, it rained really hard and the corner was filled with water.”

“I know, I skidded through it like this...”

“GUYS!”

“Yes coach?”

“Let's focus. We need to cover some of the rules.”

“I know the rules, coach!”

“I got called for tripping once.”

“We'll cover tripping in a minute.” Maybe there was a hint of desperation in my voice. “Ok, guys. Who knows what high sticking is?”

You'd think, after two kids and surviving my wife being pregnant twice, I'd have a better grasp on cause and effect at my age. I had eleven armed and armored kids gathered around me... listening intently.

You might be wondering, what does it sound like when eleven sticks are instantly raised from the ground to straight in the air? I can tell you...

It sounds like a middle-aged man screaming in panic followed by eleven kids giggling. The giggling is what hurt the most.

“Coach, why are you bleeding?”

“I had a bloody nose once. I didn't get hit by a hockey stick though.”

“What hit you?”

“I ran into someone's head.”

“Ok, guys, sticks down,” I said, still dazed.

You know, I think they giggled harder this time when I screamed as all the sticks sliced back down.

“Coach, you should have to wear a helmet too.”

I can understand why Coach Herb had a reputation for swearing.

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.

An Old Sport's Injury

When I was in college, my best friend and I would play racketball on the weekends. Neither of us was great, but we didn't let that impede how hard we played. I remember one weekend. It might have been the after-effects of alchohol, or maybe too much studying (yeah... I don't buy that either, but had to include it to protect what little reputation I have left. Also, when I become famouse and historians review these articles, lines like that may cast enough doubt on what I actually did...) but we were showing off our “kill shots” (the serves that cannot be returned. They require a great deal of skill, timing and power. Or in our case, luck) (yeah, there were girls working out in the gym too, but I highly doubt that crossed our mind.)

We both went for the racketball at the same time. I hit the ball and it was a beautiful shot. My best friend hit my thumb and it was also a beautiful shot.

That's the only sports injury that I can really remember. It's not even a good one, because it doesn't bother me on cold and rainy days.

I started thinking about this recently when I woke up one morning and my big toe was having issues. After work, those issues had grown into a full blow “I'm-never-walking-again-so-just-put-me-out-of-misery” tenderness...

This all happened at Thanksgiving and we were travelling to both sets of grandparents. That meant at least five hundred years of combined medical experience. The only problem when you combine that many years of folk-lorish medical knowledge amoung 5 people (my parents, my wife's parents and my wife's grandmother) the results are always elderly afflications. The suggestions as to the cause of my limp ranged from:

“Fallen arches.”

“Eh? What did he say?”

“You need to wear a truss.”

“Arthritis?”

“Eh? What did he say?”

“What happened to your foot?”

“I can't find my dentures.”

However, it was my own mother that showed a complete lack of compassion in a single email. She had the nerve to suggest it was gout. When I looked it up, I saw “it affects middle-aged men”. At 44, I am NOT middle-aged. Oh, there are days I feel old, but not middle-aged. The side effect to the email was my wife was off on a new witch hunt. Not only does middle-age cause gout, but apparently there's something about diet being important. By the day after Thanksgiving, I had a new diet planned out for me. (This is another affliction of middle-age, planned diet. The next step to old-age... one of those pill boxes with each day of the week)

Face with the horror of bran three times a day, I took my health into my own hands and went to the doctor and got x-rays. It turns out I was right and I'm not middle-aged. It was a stress facture. I guess, when I played dek hockey with my son's team, in addition to the bruised ankles and ego, I fracture my toe.

So, the past two weeks, my wife and I have been constantly warning our children and dogs not to jump on me and watch my toe. “Daddy hurt his toe,” is the common refrain.

“What did you do to your toe?” My daughter asked, concern lacing her voice.

“Put my cane back.”

“But it's my horsey.”

“No, I need it to walk.”

“Why?”

“I hurt my toe.”

“What did you do to your toe?”

“Put my cane back!”

“But it's my horsey.”...

What does this have to do with sport's injuries? Well, now I finally have an excuse for disappointing my children as well as people that irritate me. While, technically, it's not an “old sports injury”, my toe is old, dek hockey is both a sport and form of medieval combat, and a stress fracture is an injury.

When ever I need an excuse or that day after the huge snow storm, I can now cite my “old sports injury.”

Practice

This spring, I got a terrifying email. “Dek Hockey practice”.

Oh, the email started off innocently enough (I'm paraphrasing. Reading the email still gives me panic attacks). “Parents, the kids have had a great season, since playoffs start on Saturday, we're going to have a practice Friday night to show them positions.

Let me explain dek hockey, if you are not familiar with the sport. It's hockey, with a ball. They play it in an enclosed area, like hockey, but instead of ice and skates, they have a ball, shoes, shin pads, elbow pads, gloves and a helmet. You may think it's enclosed to keep the ball in. That might be true, but the real reason is; when you give a group of 6-9 year olds wooden sticks, federal saftey laws require that they be separated from the public.

The email went on to lie that the parents would only stand in the positions. I'd just gotten over a severe case of a mutated Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu attack. (I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't fought off this mutated virus, it would have swept across the world with devasting results.) I figured I owed it to my son to show up and support him. After all, it was only to show positions, help them figure out where they needed to play...

The first drill sounded simple. When the ball goes into the corner, the kids are supposed to pass it up the boards. (the main point being not to pass it in front of their goal...) The coach passed the ball into the corner, a kid ran after it, passed it up the boards to a waiting teammate. “Fathers you pressure the kids.”...

There are several things wrong with that sentence. The kids were armed with deadly weapons. We were outnumbered. The kids were armed with deadly weapons.

After several hundred trips into the corner, almost as many bruises on my shins and a growing desire to whack one of the little monsters, they called a break. Fathers against sons, in a game that would go down in history as one of the bloodiest battles. Up and down the dek we raced, sticks flying, parents crippled and kids laughing evily.

I've read enough medical journals (ok, my wife has nagged me enough about junk food and exercise) to know that seeing dark spots are not a good thing. When I started seeing double, it was time to sit down. (Ok, it wasn't so much a decision.) Two heart attacks and a stroke later, the “practice” was over and I was allowed to seek propper medical treatment.

This fall, when the email came, my wife finally found me, curled up in a ball whimpering.

“What's wrong?” I think there might have been some worry in her voice.

“Dek hockey practice...”

To my horror, my son was right behind his mother and sent up a cheer. My only hope of ignoring the email and explaining to my son how it hadn't been delivered was gone.

However... this time would be different. I was healthy, the Ebola-SARS-Swine-Avian flu had been completely wiped out.

“I'm going to beat you so bad.” my son started off with the trash talking on the way to the practice.

“Oh yeah? I'm going to bury you so deep they won't be able to dig you out.” I countered.

“That was good!” (He needs a little work on the whole trash talking.) “We'll, after we get home, I'm going to throw away your keys!” (Again, we're going to have to work on this.)

How did I do this time? I made it through the practice on my feet. I even managed to play with a broken ankle. (I found out that the official dek hockey ball, while about the size of a baseball, is made out of rocks and probably pleutonium and spikes pop out right before it hits your ankle.) Did the parents win? Well, the coach was the kids' goalie and the team's regular goalie was ours. While the adults played their best, our goalie pretty much summed it up when he wanted the parents to shoot on him.

However, I did win the face off against my son at least once. I think that was because I went for the ball and he went for my ankles. So, while techinically I won the face off, he wasn't the one limping. “Old age and experience will beat youth and skill” might be true. But when youth comes armed with hockey sticks and a thirst for blood, old age doesn't stand a chance.