Hockey Dad Page 11

  Mind you, a coach has to be careful not to cross the line. That point was driven home to me at practice one day. Our best defenseman was Femi Amurwaiye. Femi was a smiley, outgoing kid with a lot of personality and I really liked him, but he had a little Eddie Haskell in him. "Hello, Mr. McKenzie, how are you today?" he would often say. Femi, who went on to play prep-school hockey at Holderness in New Hampshire and then NCAA Division Three at Amherst College in Massachusetts, could be a real character and wouldn't mind testing you a bit either. He would eat Skittles between periods. He wasn't above cutting a corner or two in practice drills.

  We were doing a hard, full-ice, zigzag skating drill that included sprints and then quick-step lateral crossovers. From my end of the ice, I saw Femi fall down on the crossovers. He got up slowly and basically stopped doing the drill. I was yelling at him from the far end of the ice to keep going. He was shrugging his shoulders and not doing the drill, just sort of shuffling along. I kept yelling at him to get going but he wasn't moving. I just assumed he was pulling a fast one to avoid doing the rest of this drill. I wasn't amused. Kyle O'Brien then skated from that end of the ice to me and said: "Mr. McKenzie, I think Femi is hurt pretty badly."

  My heart went into my mouth. I raced down to see what the problem was and Femi showed me his leg, the inside of his thigh. It was quite a nasty laceration. Femi had a habit of not pulling up his socks all the way in practice and when he fell, he somehow shredded his leg and was bleeding pretty good. I was devastated. Actually, mortified. Here I was, yelling at the poor kid to skate and the blood was running down his leg. If I needed a harsh reminder that, even in this atmosphere of pushing the kids to be better, common sense must still always prevail, I certainly got it that day.

  Somehow, through all of the losing and my pushing and prodding of the kids, we all managed to maintain our sense of humor, perspective and sanity. Of the almost forty regular-season league games we played that year, we won a grand total of five.

  The best players on our team in any given game that year were call-ups from the major atom AAA Wildcats. James Neal, who had a terrific rookie season (2008-09) in the NHL with Dallas, and David McIntyre, who was drafted by Dallas but subsequently had his NHL rights traded to Anaheim and New Jersey while starring for Colgate University, were both '87s but more talented than any of our '86s.

  Because we finished in last place in our division, we didn't qualify for the OMHA playoffs but were automatically entered into the ETA (Eastern Triple A) playoffs or consolation round with the other non-playoff teams and the losers from the first round of the OMHA playoffs. Maybe it was because we had more incentive than other teams, but the kids came together really well in the ETA playoffs. They competed hard. The differences in physical play and speed that were so glaring early in the season were not nearly as great at the end and-surprise, surprise-we actually won the ETA championship.

  It really was quite an accomplishment for those kids. I was unbelievably proud of how far they came that season. They deserved all the credit in the world and so did their parents, because while the kids invested the blood, sweat and tears and believe me, there were all three of them-it was the parents who fostered and permitted an environment that allowed their kids to be pushed as hard as they were by their Crazy Head Coach.

  I really like to think the kids learned a large life lesson that season, but even if they didn't, I know I most certainly did.

  20: Of Gun-Shy Dogs and a Crisis of Confidence

  WHO STOLE MY TWELVE-YEAR-OLD SON MIKE and what the hell did they do with him?

  That pretty much summed up my reaction to the beginning of the minor peewee AAA season, my first as a head coach.

  It was one thing for the whole team to have taken a surprising and precipitous fall from where they were in previous years; it was quite another for it to happen as strikingly as it did to my son in the 1998-99 season.

  During his first four years of rep hockey, Mike was an above-average AAA player, not elite by any means, but above average. In his major atom year, for example, he led our team in scoring, averaging close to a goal and almost two points per game. He skated quite well, demonstrated good athleticism, showed tremendous self-confidence, competed hard (sometimes too hard), had great passion for the game (sometimes too passionate), exhibited great hockey sense and vision, made terrific plays and had nice soft hands for finishing.

  But it wasn't very far into the minor peewee season when I could scarcely believe my eyes.

  He no longer skated well; in fact, he looked slow and awkward. He was no longer aggressive; in fact, he appeared tentative and timid. His athleticism and confidence had seemingly disappeared. He didn't compete nearly as hard and while he still loved to go to the rink for practices and games, his offensive instincts and skills, which were so readily apparent in the past, weren't as much a factor now that he had become slower.

  What had happened to Mike in the space of mere months was symptomatic of our entire team, but I don't believe anyone's game had gone as far south as quickly or noticeably as Mike's.

  I was crushed. I'm not going to lie. It was just so unexpected and presented some real challenges in my first year as a head coach.

  Here I was, responsible for the performance of seventeen largely underachieving kids that season, and the one thing that I never used to have to worry about-Mike-was suddenly my most heartfelt and deeply personal concern.

  There will be those who suggest the explanation was readily apparent and cite this being the first year of body contact as the reason Mike became a shell of his former self. Lots of kids notice a big difference when hitting is introduced. This is often the age when they separate the twelve-year-old men from the twelve-year-old boys, so to speak. And I might have considered buying that line of thinking if there hadn't been such overwhelming evidence to the contrary in Mike's previous years in sports.

  While Mike had never played contact hockey until that season, he knew what it was like to be hit and hit hard. Having played rep lacrosse since he was six years old, Mike was well acquainted with body contact. He didn't take backward steps or show any hesitation to scoop up loose balls in traffic or go to the danger areas in front of the net in lacrosse. He'd been crosschecked hard off his feet too many times to count and it never had any impact on him. I always believed he would go through the gates of hell if he thought he could score a goal there.

  Years later, I wondered if the fact Mike broke his arm playing Peewee A lacrosse in the summer of 1998 might have been a contributing factor. It happened in the annual Peterborough Early Bird tournament in May. It was just a freak accident. He tripped over his buddy Kyle O'Brien in front of their own net and fell. He used his hands to break his fall and broke his arm in the process.

  Since we're on this subject, I might as well go the distance and expose myself as Crazy Lacrosse Dad/Coach, too. I was an assistant coach on the bench, running the front door where players go out onto the floor. Mike came in the back door holding his arm and our very capable trainer Mike Doherty was looking after him.

  I could hear Mike crying and I looked down the bench. "You okay, Mike?" I yelled.

  "No," Mike said to me.

  "I don't think it's good," Mike Doherty yelled down to me.

  Mike was still crying.

  "Oh, he'll be fine," I yelled down dismissively. "Mike, come on down here. Your line is going on soon. C'mon, let's go…"

  "I can't," Mike shrieked, "my arm is too sore."

  More like too broken, it turned out. Cindy came and got him off the bench and took him to the hospital. I stayed to finish coaching the game. When it was over, I hooked up with Cindy and Mike at the hospital emergency room, where he was getting the fracture set and put in a cast.

  I don't honestly believe the broken arm was the reason Mike regressed in the minor peewee hockey season, but I have always tried to make some sense of that year.

  Or maybe it was his glasses? He had stopped wearing them under his helmet and cage. Samson's hair? Mike's glas
ses?

  Hmmm…

  The more plausible explanation was simply that Mike, like a lot of the kids on our team, hadn't gone through puberty yet and found himself at a big physical disadvantage. I think once Mike lost his wheels and became a below-average skater, his moves and skills, which came so naturally before, became difficult, if not impossible, to execute. I think once he realized he had lost that magic, he spiraled into a real crisis of confidence that manifested itself with a wholesale mental and emotional shutdown. At least that's my theory.

  There probably isn't any fate worse in minor hockey than being a kid who is deemed to be shy about contact and competing. Hockey is such a hard, physical game that when someone isn't prepared to play it that way, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Opposing players and teammates aren't shy about pointing it out and neither are parents.

  There is also a theory embraced by many in the hockey establishment: "A gun-shy dog will never hunt." The implication is that if a kid ever demonstrates any timidity or fear, he'll never get over that; it's just part of his makeup; a flaw, a fatal flaw. You're either tough or you're not.

  I don't necessarily buy that. I believe there can be a million factors contributing to a kid lacking confidence or not feeling comfortable with some aspects of the game. And I had some of my own experiences to draw on.

  Later in the book, I will talk a little about my nondescript minor hockey career, but since it applies here, I went through a somewhat similar experience as Mike at around the same age.

  I was never even half the player Mike was or is. I had played a couple of years in the Scarborough Hockey Association, a caliber of play that was a couple of notches down from the highest level in the MTHL. But in peewee, I went up a level to the MTHL's Scarborough Lions-Brad Park's father Bob was my coach-and I can recall very clearly that season getting berated by my mom and dad on the drive home for sometimes being hesitant to get physically involved.

  I am not sure then what prompted me to attempt to move up to the highest level of the MTHL the next season, trying out for and making the Agincourt Canadians minor bantam rep team. But I was even more out of my element there and my shortcomings were even more obvious, so much so that I was cut from the team a month or two into the season and replaced by a better, presumably tougher, player.

  Naturally, I was devastated, but I just opted to go back and play house league for a couple of seasons, where I was one of the better players. I regained my confidence, scored a ton and just enjoyed playing the game. But in my minor midget year, when I was fifteen, some of my good buddies were playing for a new lower-level MTHL team and I decided to join them. I thought I was long past any fears, but fairly early in that season, I accidentally clipped an opposing player in the helmet with my stick. It happened to be the biggest, meanest, toughest guy on the other team and he indicated to me he was going to kill me. I was sitting on the bench awaiting my next shift, not to mention the end of my life, and some of those old feelings of insecurity, and, yeah, maybe even fear, started to well up inside me. I didn't like how I felt. Honestly, I was ashamed I suddenly experienced another, far stronger emotion: anger and disgust with myself.

  It was, in a way, a defingerg moment. I told myself in no uncertain terms this was no way to go through life; that I either needed to grow a set and be a man or just quit hockey and accept my shortcomings. So I worked myself up into a bit of a state, hit the ice and went looking to confront my demons.

  I went right after the big, tough kid who was going to kill me.

  I ran at him hard, we battled and I thought we were going to drop the gloves to fight. I was ready to do that, but a funny thing happened. I could see and sense some uncertainty-maybe even a little fear-in his face as he decided to pull back.

  Not to be overly dramatic about it, but I can honestly say I never took another backward step in a hockey game for the rest of my life, and I got punched out more times than I care to remember because of it.

  So I like to think I had a little insight into where Mike's mind may have been. I had been a gun-shy dog but I learned to hunt. I was convinced Mike would do the same if only we could find what buttons to push to get him to where he used to be. I couldn't help but think it all came back to confidence. I wasn't entirely clear on why he seemed to lose his to the degree he did, but I was intent on finding ways to restore it.

  Keeping in mind Mike was still very eager and game to try anything that would make him better, we went on a quest of sorts.

  Recognizing he first had to improve his skating, I took Mike to Jari Byrski's skating and skills sessions in Toronto at least once a week if it fit our schedule. I mentioned Jari earlier and he's one of my favorites of the people I've met in the long and winding road of minor hockey. He's an off-the-wall character-think of a Ukrainian version of Kramer from Seinfeld-but a brilliant teacher of skating and skills. Most important, though, he knows kids and how to reach them on so many levels. Everything he does is designed to instil confidence. I can still hear him saying it so loudly on the ice with his Ukrainian accent-"Con-fee-dence!"

  I also took Mike to off-ice workout sessions with Mike Marson, the former NHLer who is now a Toronto Transit Commission employee and the older brother of "I hate Larry Marson" fame from Chapter Four. Mike Marson is one of the most fascinating people I've ever met, a martial arts expert with more black belts than Don Cherry has ties. His story-being the first black first-round pick in the NHL-is obviously remarkable but, for me, it pales in comparison to the story of his life after hockey and where he felt he was headed before making some significant changes for the better in his life.

  Mike Marson worked with a variety of clients of all ages and stripes who wanted to improve their physical fitness or strengthen their mind or learn self-defense or other manly physical pursuits. I've seen Mike Marson hypnotize people and do some incredible things to demonstrate his mental prowess and mastery over pain. He was just what the doctor ordered for a kid like Mike, who needed a little help to rediscover his true self.

  Now, it should be pointed out that not all that was being done that season was positive, educational and confidence instilling. Truthfully, I didn't always do a very good job of navigating through those turbulent times for Mike and me. As I was trying to teach the whole team how to deal with adversity, which was an uphill struggle, I was absolutely embracing the concept of tough love. The kids on the team knew I liked them so when I got in their face, they were fairly accepting of it, although there were some occasions where maybe it wasn't so pleasant. But as I told you earlier, I did it because I knew those kids were better than they were showing. Mike knew I loved him dearly and that I only wanted what was best for him. I knew that hockey meant so much to Mike and he badly needed to get over this crisis of confidence, not just for hockey reasons but as a life lesson as well. So I went at him hard, just as my dad went at me hard.

  As his coach, for example, I told Mike that, as a winger, if he couldn't get the puck out of our own end from the hash marks to the blue line on the breakout, I couldn't put him on the ice; that if a winger in hockey could have only one skill it would be to get the puck out on the boards because otherwise that winger is absolutely useless to his team.

  As a dad, there were definitely some emotional and uncomfortable drives home that season, but there was the one horrible and truly regrettable night when it went way too far.

  We were coming back from a game or a practice-I don't recall which one-and I was really laying into Mike about how poorly and softly he'd been playing. I decided to up the ante in terms of pushing a button to find the old Mike. As we were getting close to home, I told him that if he was going to play like a chicken or a coward, I was going to cut him from the team next season and I would stay on as the AAA coach without him. I told him he could go play AA or wherever.

  I didn't really mean it. I thought I could shock him into rediscovering the way he had always played the game, but I had gone too far. Way too far.

  Just as we pulled into our driveway
, Mike lost it. He snapped. He burst into tears and ran into the house crying.

  Cindy came to see what all the commotion was about and through his tears as he ran upstairs to his room, Mike told Cindy that I called him a chicken and a coward and I was going to cut him from the team.

  Cindy was not impressed. Not one of my finest moments; not a scene I enjoy recounting now. I will spare any further details and just say there was, in the wake of that night, a great deal of discussion, reflection and soul-searching on what's important in life. Fortunately for me, the father-son bond between Mike and me was so strong that it was able to withstand that episode. Mike quickly appeared to forgive, if not forget.

  The good news, not to spoil the story by jumping way ahead, is he eventually got back to that good place. Not overnight, mind you. It was a process, somewhat gradual in nature, almost painfully so at times, but one in which Mike ultimately triumphed and triumphed large.

  He did it and he should be proud. Me? Maybe not so much.

  21: No Need for a Coin Toss: 'Twas the Best Year Ever

  THINK BIG. Why settle for good when you can be great?

  Without getting too deep or philosophical, I really do believe in those attitudes. I've always told Mike and Shawn,

  "Don't ever be afraid to be excellent."

  So while practicality and common sense might dictate that a coach who won only five regular-season games the year before establish a modest goal of, say, just making the playoffs, I was totally convinced we had to set our sights much higher than that.

  And we did.

  I knew it was going to be my last year coaching Mike's team so I was consumed by the feeling that it couldn't just be a good year; it had to be a great year. And for me, great would be defined by setting and achieving two lofty goals. One, get the major peewee AAA Wildcats into the prestigious Quebec International Peewee Tournament. Two, get the team into the OMHA championships, which would require not only making the playoffs but winning two best-of-five playoff series.