A Night at the Zoo

“You may bring an air mattress or foam pad if desired.”

I've learned that anytime a business recommends something to enhance comfort, there is probably a very good reason for it. My son's cub scout den was going to spend a quiet evening at the Pittsburgh Zoo. The only drawback, as a parent, that I could see, was that someone had the brilliant idea to include the cub scouts.

We got a complete packing list that included ear-plugs and blow up mattress. The adventure was scheduled to start on a Saturday evening and last through Sunday morning. My wife, being a complete coward decided to take our daughter to a water park for a girl's day instead of stepping up and taking her only son camping.

I wasn't that worried though. My son and I had a full day planned. Dek hockey in the morning. I was certain this would work out some of his energy. Then we had to go home and pack for our overnight adventure. Luckily, my wife and daughter had already left for their trip. That meant, I got to pack.

And, I had a list. In addition, there was another important note. We were going to have to carry our stuff to the discovery center. Since they mentioned that a wagon would be a good idea, I figured this meant a very long walk. The list said to pack a change of clothes. If my wife had been doing the packing, this would have meant:

A change of clothes for over 70 degrees and sunny

A change of clothes for under 70 degrees and sunny
A change of clothes for over 80 degrees and rainy
A change of clothes for under 80 degrees and rainy
Extra shoes and socks
Another change of clothes for each of the above conditions
Two pairs of MATCHING (she always stresses this to me and I have no idea why. The kids always have a bottom and a top, how much more matching do you need?) pairs of pajamas
Another pair of heavy pants in case it was colder than forecast
A light shirt in case it warmed up in the afternoon
A jacket
A winter coat
A rain coat
Boots
Gloves
Mittens
A snake bite kit

(We usually only travel with seven sherpas, a team of oxen and a forklift for short weekend get-a-ways.) But now, the packing was all up to me. I was solely responsible for my son's comfort while we braved the wild frontiers of Pittsburgh's Zoo. So, I stepped outside and saw that it was warm and the sun was shining. There was absolutely no reason to think this would change over the next 24 hours. I packed a pair of shorts and a t shirt for both of us. Oh, and underwear and socks, but since this was a guy's weekend, those weren't technically required.

A few minutes after our clothes were packed into a plastic bag from Walmart, I had the sleeping bags and the air mattress ready to go to. (Once the air mattress was deflated, there was a lot more room in the bag, so our clothes fit in there too.)

Then, we were off on our adventure. I'd been to the zoo a few times and had my phone's GPS, so there wasn't really any need to look up directions. It was East, then somewhere off the turnpike. That somewhere was at the exact same place I lost connection to the GPS server.

“Dad, are we lost?”

“No.”

“You sure. Mom usually swears like that when she's lost.”

“We're not lost!”

“She says that too.”

“Just look for signs to the zoo.”

“We're never going to make it. Oh well, maybe we can try again next year...”

Contrary to his lack of faith, I found the zoo. He was in charge of the pillows and I was in charge of carrying everything else. After a few mile hike, we were at the kid's discovery center along with twelve other scouts and an assortment of parents.

So... we'd had a morning of dek hockey, a long hike and there were 5 solid hours of activities planned. Lights out was at 11 pm. All I had to do was survive from 6 to 11, surrounded by twelve cub scouts, every poisonous reptile in existence and a room full of bats. Once the lights were out, it would be clear sailing. Yes, no doubts.

The first doubt was when my son's best friend laid out his sleeping bag next to my son. For the next hour, they discussed dek hockey, what they'd see at the zoo, the meerkats, what they'd seen at the zoo, the meerkat tunnels, dek hockey and the Gila Monster that was sleeping directly over our heads.

Before long, I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. You would think after a long day of running, hiking, running, playing in the meerkat tunnels, more running and more playing in the meerkat tunnels, my son would be so exhausted he couldn't move. It was shaping up to be a quiet night on our air mattress. I've been woken up from a peaceful slumber by:

A pillow from my wife blaming me for snoring

My daughter proclaiming she lost a toof
My daughter proclaiming the toof fairy had come. (For serious, dad. She came)
My son having a nightmare.
My daughter having a nightmare.

It's surprising how strong the paternal instinct is. I was in a deep slumber when my son tried to kick a reverse field goal. His heel connected solidly with my groin and I didn't feed him to the Gila Monster. He might have woken up a little as I whimpered. Over the course of the short night, he kicked me in the back twice (I learned after the first kick to the groin), used my head for a footrest and mistook me for the air mattress.

“Rough night eh, bud?” I asked as I rolled up the sleeping bags.

“No, I slept really good.”

It's a good thing reptiles don't have ears. They would have learned some new words...

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.

Tooth Fairy

I live with morons.

My daughter finally lost her first front tooth. This tooth took a while to go from loose to out. For the past three weeks, I'd check and be told that it had not fallen out yet. I suggested a hammer to help it come out, but that was nixed before I could find a hammer. It took a group of excited Brownies and my wife's elbow to finally get it out. Apparently my daughter was a little distracted as they learned about the Ruffed Grouse and my wife's elbow didn't check for right of way.

A few gallons of blood later, my daughter arrived home to tell me all about her first Brownies meeting. It might have been a bit mean of me to keep asking, is it grouse or grouth? After the tenth time, it was still funny...

I did my fatherly duty and made sure the tooth was placed in a plastic sandwich bag so it would not be lost (After going through my son's fifty teeth, this was a common habit. (This is important in a bit...)) The tooth fairy made it's stumbling and grumbling way into her room much later that night and swapped the tooth for cash. The grumbling was because I didn't plan ahead. For well over six years, my daughter has fallen asleep in every position imaginable (and many unimaginable). The one thing in common was her pillow never figured into those positions. So, when I tucked her tooth (in it's plastic bag) under her pillow I figured the swap would be easy. This night, she was plastered over her pillow. The middle of the night is not the time to silently sneak a tooth from under a six year old anticipating a visit from the tooth fairy.

I was a bit surprised the next day when I got a teary-eyed call on my way home. (This is where the moron-ness starts) Her other tooth came out at school! (actually it was shhool) and she lost her toof. After some intense patience on my part, I gleaned the whole story. The nurse had put her tooth in a special necklace for her to bring home. My daughter, being MY daughter, had to check out her toof... several times. Unfortunately, one of these times was on the shhool bus as she was getting off. Someone bumped her and her toof was lost! Gone forever.

I assured my distraught daughter that I would look for it when I got home and was pretty sure I'd be able to find it.

“How can you find it? It's gone!”

“I have special daddy skills.” (Those skills stemmed from my son when he lost his second tooth and couldn't find it. I found this out at bed time. My suggestion that I could pull another tooth wasn't too well received. So began project “Distraction.” My wife read his stories while I searched. Believe it or not, very few household items look enough like a bottom tooth to fool a tired child. I had a brainstorm when I came across the first tooth he'd lost. This met all the requirements... It was tooth shaped and it was handy.

“Where did you find it?” He instantly perked up.

I rolled my eyes to cover a small bit of information I'd forgotten to gather. In the initial panic, I neglected to ask where he was when he lost it. “Where do you think I found it? Right where you lost it.”

The nice thing about children is they are so trusting. “You mean you found it in the family room? I looked all over. How did you find it?”

“I was just lucky.”

Ever since, that tooth has been in the top drawer of my dresser. It's gotten us through at least 4 teeth that were lost and never made it home.)

Shortly after I got home, the search began for my daughter's newly lost tooth. Against all odds, the tooth was found. (The impressive part was that I still remembered where I'd stored the fallback tooth.)

“Is this the tooth you lost?”

“Where did you find it?” She carefully took the tooth from my hand.

“It must have fallen into a pocket on your backpack.”

Then, I started to worry. This WAS my daughter and she was looking at the tooth far too intensely. There was doubt. And the only other tooth I had on hand was a front tooth.

“That's my toof?”

“Yes. Don't they look weird when they fall out?” Ok, there might have been a bit of hysteria in my voice. I snatched the tooth from her hand. “I'll put this on my dresser. We'll put it under your pillow tonight.”

That night, my daughter made sure she had the tooth when my wife put her to bed. I made a quick check so I knew where the tooth and bag were. But, there was no plastic bag.

“Where's your tooth?”

“Under my pillow!”

"I don't feel it. Are you sure?”

My daughter picked up her pillow and pointed at her tooth. There were just three little problems. The tooth was white. Her sheet was white. The tooth was not in a plastic bag.

Her mother got a very strong talking to about night vision, stumbling and finding a white tooth the size of a grain of sand. She didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. I think the exact words were, “Ok. I'm going back to sleep.”

The tooth fairy definitely needs better support staff.

The Cure

“Gramps is not allowed in our house.”

This might sound like a rather harsh statement for my six-year old daughter to say, but she was not backing down. The “spot” on my lung turned out to be a spot on my rib. Apparently I'd broken it sometime in my past. Since I am well into middle-age now, (Going from “young and healthy” to “over forty and we need to run some tests” in one doctor's appointment ages you quickly.) I can't be expected to remember when this happened, but it probably had something to do with helping the insurgents cross war-torn Afghanistan. However, with age comes responsibility, so I followed up with my doctor who confirmed that there was nothing overly wrong with my lung. He also found why my shoulder and neck were “twitchy”.

The problem could be fixed with a local and 20 minutes under the knife. (In this case, knife meant “a chisel and hammer”. And local meant “you won't feel any pain, but you will feel everything else.”) So, an appointment was made for the next Saturday. There was just one problem... My daughter.

My daughter has a very deep and painful caring streak. Her view of of medicine is, “more is better”. (if she does become the doctor she is threatening, the pharmaceutical companies are going to LOVE her.) If one bandade would do the job, then my daughter will make sure that ten cover whatever real or imagined scratch you have. I've seen her dolls after a day of play and there is nothing sadder than seeing a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog released from intensive care and only a few small patches of red showing through all the medical dressings.

“What happened to Clifford.”

“He got a scratch.”

“All those bandages for a scratch?” I shake my head.

“It was a bad one.” Then her medical attention would turn to me... “Daddy, you need a shot.”

So, I was torn, I could have the pain quickly and easily (Yeah, I took that with a grain of salt. Remember this the same profession that categorized explosive diarrhea as a “mild” side effect.) removed and then go home to the tender care of my daughter... Or I could live with the pain for the rest of my life, or until my daughter turned eighteen. In the end, my wife convinced me to have the “procedure”.

My daughter, in her most medically sincere voice, told me she would take care of me. (This was right after she jumped on shoulder. Apparently the tears were enough for her to ask if that was my bad shoulder...) That's when I had a brainstorm (or a stroke).

“I hope you do a better job than Mommy and Gramps did last time.” (This got her competitive streak up.)

“What did Gramps do?” There was a hint of disappointed suspicion in her voice.

“Well, last time, Gramps and Mommy were taking care of me. I couldn't bend my knees and I had socks on. Well, you know how slippery the floor in the kitchen is?”

“Oh yes!” She jumped off my lap, using my shoulder for leverage, and proceeded to demonstrate how well she can slide.

Once the tears cleared, she was back in my lap for the rest of the story. “Well, I had to go to the bathroom, and Mommy and Gramps wanted to help me get up. Except, my feet slipped on the floor and they dropped me!” (Well, drop may be a bit of an exaggeration... It was more, my socks started to slip on the hardwood floor, and rather than react in a medically safe and prudent manner, both let go. The icing on the cake was when my wife started to laugh and then my dad followed suit.)

One of the coolest things about children is their frame of reference. They haven't become inured to things yet.

My daughter listened to the story, then stood up, her tiny fists on her hips. “That Gramps! He dropped you! I'm not letting him anywhere near you.”

“But, he's going to want to get ice for my shoulder,” I warned her.

“I'll get your ice!”

“But what if he wants to see how I'm doing?”

“I'll keep him away from you, daddy.”

Mission accomplished.

Now, you might be wondering, how could I sell out my dad so easily? Well, the story I told my daughter is true. Both my wife and my dad defended their actions by saying they'd been up hours and were exhausted. I can see how sitting and drinking coffee while I had my kneecap removed and re-adjusted and bones chopped out of my knees can be an exhausting experience. Now, I only have a week to figure out how to keep my loving, caring and supportive wife as far away as possible. I'm going to check out the finer points of restraining orders...

Out of Warranty

“Since you're over forty, we need to run some tests.”

In case you are wondering, the Caucasian, male kidney (for all I know, it could be all kidneys, I hate to make broad sweeping statements.) is only good for forty years. After that, you need tests before you can do anything.

I found this out recently. Over the past two weeks, my neck and shoulder have been “twitchy”. This is my medical term meaning it hurts enough to remember, but not enough to actually do anything about. Well, yesterday, that “twitchy” went into full blown “is amputation an option.”

Now, I've gone through four knee operations (not the wimpy arthroscope stuff either. The real chisel and hammer, bone shards flying kind.), a fractured toe (definitely not gout, so don't even think it.) and child birth. (Yeah, I know my wife “had” the baby, but I suffered through the labor. (You might want to grab another cup of coffee, this is going to be a long side track.) I have a pretty cool bone disease. I get extra growths throughout my body. At one time, I had one on the middle finger of my left hand. When people would ask why four knee operations, I'd either make up a story about land mines and guiding the insurgents through the mountains of Afghanistan, or sometimes tell them the truth. Through my twenties and thirties, I got immense pleasure, especially at work, showing what the disease did. I could legally and morally give anyone the middle finger.

I lost this passive/aggressive outlet for my deep-seated frustrations when my daughter was born. My wife somehow mis-planned the epidural and didn't have it in place at the third month. So, when we got to the hospital and the anesthesiologist was overbooked, we resorted to the age-old “squeeze the husband's hand” method of pain relief. Well, after the blessed event (she let go of my hand) I saw several things. The growth on my middle finger was gone. My wedding ring was a wedding oval. Oh, and I had a beautiful, wrinkle-covered daughter. That's, from what I've heard from unreliable third parties, when I passed out the first time.)

So, I'm no stranger to pain. Today, it was bad enough for a trip to the doctor. After an initial examination, it was determined that an x-ray was in order. A few doses of radiation and it was back to my room to wait for the Dr. to read the film and come back. At this point, I just wanted something to ease the pain until I could see my real Dr for a long term solution. A few minutes later, the emergency room Dr did just that. “Do you smoke?”

“Not really, an occasional cigar.”

“The x-rays show a spot on your lung. You're young and healthy, so I'm not that worried about it, but want to get another angle on the x-ray.”

While the pain in my shoulder didn't stop, I wasn't really noticing it any more. The doctor was rather attractive and thought I was young. Then the words “spot”, “lung” and “on” seeped through. A young doctorette though I was young and healthy even with a spot on my lung. I still had it.

I went back for more x-rays and then back to the room to wait for the young, cute doctor. That's when I found out there's a warranty on the adult male kidney. And I was no longer young and healthy. A CT scan was ordered because the second set of x-rays were inconclusive. My middle-aged kidneys needed to be tested to see if they could handle the dye used in the CT scan.

There is a bit of good news though... In order to get a more accurate x-ray so they could conclusively say they weren't sure what the spot on my lung was, the radiologist had me grab my left elbow and attempt to place it behind my right ear. While that was physically impossible, it did move whatever was “twitchy” back to where it should be.

Now that the immediate pain was gone, I was able concentrate on what the doctorette had said... I was no longer young.

Really good ideas

“I have an idea.”

This phrase used to give me cold chills, until my daughter amended her catch phrase to, “I have a really good idea.” Now, I just have an overwhelming urge to curl up in a corner when I hear it.

Don't get me wrong. Her ideas are actually really good. The problem is her grip on reality is almost as shaky as mine. Neither of us sees the point in letting the Laws of Physics (most of which I would not have voted for anyway.) limit our flights of creativity. The main difference is, after forty plus years, I've learned which way to lean right before you light the fuse so you have a better chance of getting out of the blast range.

What has me afraid, very afraid, is that she is a good six years ahead of me.

Electricity and I have always had a... cautious relationship. It's not that we don't get along. We get along just fine, but it doesn't always keep up it's end of the bargain.

I remember our first run in. My dad had an old Lionel train set. Not the little things you buy now-a-days that are made out of plastic. No, they were made from steel and each car was at least a foot long and weighed pounds, not ounces. Every Christmas, I'd hassle my parents until they dug out the four boxes that held all the cars, tracks, buildings and trees. I'd carefully set the tracks up around the tree. You could tell these were made well before child welfare was established. The tracks connected via small, razor sharp shards of metal. I think the dried blood probably helped the electricity flow through the tracks faster.

Once the track was together, and the little houses and trees in place, it was time to connect the transformer to the track. Again, this was back when they made things to last. The transformer was a huge black box that was big enough to power a small third-world country. Every year, I'd plug it in and the lights in the house would dim for a second. I'd carefully line the wheels on the track. (Getting them lined up wasn't the hard part, levering the engine onto the tracks was.) We were then ready for the Christmas Tradition.

I'd turn the lever on the transformer, the lights would dim again and the engine would... do nothing. “It's still broken,” I'd proclaim and the second tradition would start, the Repacking.

But, I had the whole year to wonder why it was broken and how do you fix a transformer. One year I got the brilliant idea. If the transformer was broken, why not just take the transformer out of the equation. Stay with me, this makes sense, even now. The track needed electricity to run the engine. The transformer was blocking that. Take out the transformer, and voila! Working train. Now... What would effectively supply the electricity? Exactly, an old extension cord. All I had to do was cut one end off, bare the wires and my theory could be tested.

And I had the perfect tool to bare the wires. And they were custom made. See, I had a lamp by my bed as I was growing up, but the plug was right where I slept, so at night, the plug from the light would jab into my back. One day, I thought, if it was flat, no more poking. And, we had a replacement plug that was flat. It was perfect. Because my room was in the basement, there wasn't much light, so I needed to replace the plug quickly. I figured I could chop off a good five seconds by cutting the end off while it was still plugged in and keep the light until the very end.

You'd be surprised how easily steel melts. But, I now had a pair of pliers that were perfect for stripping wires and my career as an amateur electrician was off to a (literally) blazing start.

After cutting and baring the wires, I only paused a moment before attaching the bared wires to the track. Now was the moment of truth. I'd imagine Alexander Graham Bell felt the same trepidation as I did. (In case you are wondering, no, the train was not set up around the Christmas tree. I was young, not stupid. I'd set it on a ping pong table in the basement. The area was surrounded by thick concrete blocks and should be able to contain any unforeseen explosions.) As I plugged the cord into an outlet, I got my first view of how fast electricity travels. Sparks flew from the engine as it got the full jolt of energy that it'd been missing for years. The track became a mere idea as it hit a corner and continued in a straight line and became airborne for at least twenty feet.

How does this relate to my daughter? Well a few weeks ago, I heard her in her room, crying. I went up and found that all the lights upstairs were off. A fuse had blown and left her in the dark. Flipping the circuit breaker fixed the darkness and my wife and I consoled her until the sobs stopped.

A little later that night, I got another shout from upstairs. The cord on my daughter's lamp was frayed. As I looked it over, the “frayed” was more a cut. The cut was all too familiar. “Did you cut the wire?”

Her little shoulders trembled a bit as she nodded.

“Why?” I might have sounded a little more severe than I wanted, but in my defense, it's hard to sound parent-ally concerned when you are trying not to laugh.

“I thought it was a good idea.”

Everyone says that I am going to be in trouble when she reaches her teen years. Me, I think the world is going to be in trouble when we combine my years of knowing which way to jump and her really good ideas, especially after she has several years to fine tune them.

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.