Hockey season is here. Actually, I'm not completely certain that it ever quite goes away. The so called off season might have been those three days in mid July. Certainly no more than three and never more than two days in a row. Now-a-days parents enlist their budding stars in all types of summer hockey adventures that make my childhood experiences look downright amateurish. Howie Meeker was the cock of the walk in St. John's hockey circles in the 1970's. After all, Howie had played with the Leafs during the Original 6 era of the NHL and he was the league's rookie of year. So why is it that my only recollection of him is getting a hockey stick to the behind every time I skated over the blue line during drills? He pretty well did it to all of us kids. Gosh darn Howie, that smarted! I just don't think it made me any smarter.
I went to the rink a few nights ago to watch some of the kids who I had coached during the past few years. It was a big night. Final selections were being made for the top all star teams for the 11 and 12 year old hockey players from all over the greater St. John's area. As I walked into the tin can covered arena, I felt like I was back in my playing hey days of the 70's and 80's. The tension was so thick that I could see it hanging just below the rafters. I could have sworn it was just like the blue cloud that I grew up playing under and had no choice but to suck those toxins into my lungs. The blue cloud of the "good old days" was from cigarettes and what ever else patrons smoked. In any event, the cloud in the rink a few nights ago wasn't one of smoke. It was a gigantic tension cloud that wasn't emanating from the players, but from the parents. For many, their hopes, dreams and aspirations were skating before their eyes. The pressure being imposed seemed unbearable, certainly too heavy for such young skaters to bear. I know I played hockey when I was a kid. I'm just not sure if the kids I saw the other night will ever truly get to "play" the game.
I have stepped away from the game. A few years ago I stopped playing and this year I won't be coaching. I think the time away will be good. I was recently asked to coach and the person asking pretty much "had me at hello" and I said yes. But a few hours of sober thought made me change my mind. I would like to add my two cents on coaching.
Today's hockey coaches are equipped with the best of courses, equipment, and training videos. Our world is so much smaller today and it seems that the a former professional coach can be found toiling in just about any rink in every city, town and hamlet across the country.
It would seem that anyone can be a hockey coach if they so choose. A minor hockey coach doesn't get paid and the job requires an exorbitant amount of time, dedication, patience, passion, compassion, toughness, thick skin, short memory...... Need I go on? That's the kicker though. How many of you can honestly say you have these qualities or even know many who do?
A large percentage of people have no business being behind the bench. No amount of internet queries to find the latest and greatest drills for practices or listening to a coaching podcast on the merits of employing the 1-2-2 or 1-3-1 power play during games will ever change that. The game has too many coaches that are there for the wrong reasons, often selfish ones. Executives, parents and even young players see through the facade, yet, most often, nothing is done. (It sort of reminds me of my career in the RCMP and how I saw many problems arise because management and supervisors abdicated the responsibility that came with that role.)
Hockey people all need to talk a collective breathe. It is a great game. Give it back to the kids. Perhaps Howie Meeker had just the remedy for those that dare mess with it. Although even Howie may be hesitant for fear of breaking off the hockey stick of today. Those baby's cost $300 each.
I'll leave you with one of my favourite expressions and one that any kid who I have coached should know quite well: "There are those who play hockey and there are hockey players."
Thursday, October 03, 2013
Saturday, September 07, 2013
Silence Speaks Loudly
My younger brother is no longer speaking with me. That says a lot because it is not a tactic that our family employs recklessly. For that matter, I can't readily recall a time when either of my brothers, my sister or myself used it against a fellow sibling.
God knows there have been numerous incidents involving the four of us during the almost 50 years that we have been on this earth together. Some of these could have and should have warranted the cold shoulder being used to send a loud message to say that certain actions or words have not been appreciated. How about the time in 1975 that Margaret Ann, right in the middle of a heated game of Crazy 8's, changed the rule allowing 8's to be laid at any time and not just when the 8 in your hand matched the suit of the last card played? Dastardly indeed!
If you think that was a doozy, the wait until you read this one. Both of my brothers, during their mid teens, had severe physical reactions to something they drank or possibility due to the quantity of whatever it was they drank. My brothers and I came to name such occasions by using the much more pleasant code phrase - "I saw Ralph last night." Ralph is no longer a part of our lives, but he hung around with all three of us during our much younger days.
Now back to what they did. Oh yeah, I played a minor role in these capers too. It just so happened that I was the first family member each brother encountered as he attempted to slip past the ever watchful eyes of mom and dad. Being the middle brother, I did what anyone in my place would do, I aided and abetted them. Why not? After all, I was no angel and someday I may have needed their help to evade our parents, who never seemed to sleep soundlessly enough for my liking.
Although separated by 5 years, the outcomes of these two incidents were eerily similar. Both of my brothers invited Ralph to join us, at which point I had had enough. Brotherly love goes only so far. With Bill, Ralph was in the back seat of dad's car, which I had borrowed. With Gord, the setting was the main bathroom of our house and then after I got him back to our room, he even went as far as tucking Ralph into bed next to him. In each case, Ralph had to go and there was no way I was being responsible for doing that. I chose the same fate for both of my brothers. A knock on mom and dad's bedroom door looked after Ralph, not to mention any extracurricular activities my brothers may had been planning for quite some time. Even after such betrayal, my brothers didn't hold a grudge towards me. Maybe they have trouble recalling the exact details so blame for their capture has only been cast upon themselves. Or perhaps each has found someone else to blame. That must be it. Surely, it was all Ralph's fault.
I think I know a little of why Bill is so pee'd off with me at the moment. Over the previous few months, in his eyes, I've had three major strikes against me. The first happened in late June when I quit my job. It was not just any job though. It was one Bill had gotten for me with the company at which he is a high ranking manager. I lasted there a little less than 6 months but it was probably the method and suddenness of my quitting that irked him the most. An email to him and my immediate bosses stated that I was done as of that moment, no advance notice, no reasons given.
Strike two has to do with a small boat I bought from Bill earlier this summer. He had purchased a stake in another fishing boat and was going to put his current boat up for sale. We worked out a deal and I took over as the boat's captain. After the money exchanged hands I came to learn that Bill had no ownership papers for the boat. Apparently, the local resale market for boats and trailers has a soft under belly, with such items being passed around as easily as a flask of rum at a cold hockey rink. Whether it was my policing background or just the idea of wanting to legally own the boat, after trying unsuccessfully to make any head way on my own, I began to pester Bill for a resolution. I must have hit a nerve because one of our last discussions on this ended with him telling me that I was "cracked".
With Bill's frayed nerves and patience for me waning, it was easy to get to strike three. I didn't even have to swing. I went down looking. Umpire Bill called me out on a slow curve that barely hit the corner. Normally, Bill he would have let that one go and I'd still be at bat, but not after all of the other bad calls I made in the recent past.
Here's how that one went. It was early August and I had just docked at the wharf in Torbay, in the boat that is still owned by person or persons unknown. Cods' heads were flying and fillets were being sliced from the bodies of the 15 fish that the law allows one boat to bring ashore. As cleaning the fish is as memorable, if not more so, as catching them, I encourage all of my crew to partake. On that day, one of them was a landlubbing Mainlander and that was his first jigging experience. Well, at least his first time jigging for cod. Whatever other jigging he may do is really not the point of this story, nor it is any of our business. This is a family oriented blog.
I digress......my mainlander friend was following my instructions and doing an admirable job. It so happened that Bill and his new boat arrived at the dock at that moment. Bill's co-owners are friends of mine too, so they came over to say hi. Bill soon meandered over and without even acknowledging me he began to offer advice to my fish filleting Mainlander friend. His suggestion, although not unreasonable, conflicted somewhat with what I had shown my friend so I told him to disregard Bill and to keep doing it the way he was already doing it. There may be many ways to skin a cat, as well as a cod, but I discovered a new way to get under the skin of a brother. Bill was noticeably irate with my reply to his helpful advice. In retrospect, I don't blame him. He squirmed and shuffled his feet, as he considered his response. I guess I got what I deserved. Bill said: "Jimmy, you've got a problem."
At the time I didn't realize it but Bill was (and is) right. I do have a problem. It'll soon be three years since I left my career in the RCMP. I was in a very dark place in my life at that time, as well as for the few years leading up to my retirement. Even though I had served enough years to get a monthly pension, I still regard my leaving the Force as having quit. I haven't truly faced the demons that lead me to leave a career that I saw as defining the person I was. I now realize that the scars of depression and anxiety still cast a shadow over me. I have fooled myself and some of those close to me into thinking that all of that was behind me. The truth is I am still waging an internal battle against negativity and despair.
As regretful as they have been, my three strikes with Bill have helped me to see the truth. There have been a lot more strikes of late to go along with the ones I have handed to Bill. I've got some work to do, but recognition of a problem is an all important step in the right direction. To win this internal struggle will mean that I will have made peace with myself. I look forward to that victory. A good place to start may be to make peace with my brother. Bill, I'm sorry.
p.s. Gordie - Do you want to buy a boat? ;-)
God knows there have been numerous incidents involving the four of us during the almost 50 years that we have been on this earth together. Some of these could have and should have warranted the cold shoulder being used to send a loud message to say that certain actions or words have not been appreciated. How about the time in 1975 that Margaret Ann, right in the middle of a heated game of Crazy 8's, changed the rule allowing 8's to be laid at any time and not just when the 8 in your hand matched the suit of the last card played? Dastardly indeed!
If you think that was a doozy, the wait until you read this one. Both of my brothers, during their mid teens, had severe physical reactions to something they drank or possibility due to the quantity of whatever it was they drank. My brothers and I came to name such occasions by using the much more pleasant code phrase - "I saw Ralph last night." Ralph is no longer a part of our lives, but he hung around with all three of us during our much younger days.
Now back to what they did. Oh yeah, I played a minor role in these capers too. It just so happened that I was the first family member each brother encountered as he attempted to slip past the ever watchful eyes of mom and dad. Being the middle brother, I did what anyone in my place would do, I aided and abetted them. Why not? After all, I was no angel and someday I may have needed their help to evade our parents, who never seemed to sleep soundlessly enough for my liking.
Although separated by 5 years, the outcomes of these two incidents were eerily similar. Both of my brothers invited Ralph to join us, at which point I had had enough. Brotherly love goes only so far. With Bill, Ralph was in the back seat of dad's car, which I had borrowed. With Gord, the setting was the main bathroom of our house and then after I got him back to our room, he even went as far as tucking Ralph into bed next to him. In each case, Ralph had to go and there was no way I was being responsible for doing that. I chose the same fate for both of my brothers. A knock on mom and dad's bedroom door looked after Ralph, not to mention any extracurricular activities my brothers may had been planning for quite some time. Even after such betrayal, my brothers didn't hold a grudge towards me. Maybe they have trouble recalling the exact details so blame for their capture has only been cast upon themselves. Or perhaps each has found someone else to blame. That must be it. Surely, it was all Ralph's fault.
I think I know a little of why Bill is so pee'd off with me at the moment. Over the previous few months, in his eyes, I've had three major strikes against me. The first happened in late June when I quit my job. It was not just any job though. It was one Bill had gotten for me with the company at which he is a high ranking manager. I lasted there a little less than 6 months but it was probably the method and suddenness of my quitting that irked him the most. An email to him and my immediate bosses stated that I was done as of that moment, no advance notice, no reasons given.
Strike two has to do with a small boat I bought from Bill earlier this summer. He had purchased a stake in another fishing boat and was going to put his current boat up for sale. We worked out a deal and I took over as the boat's captain. After the money exchanged hands I came to learn that Bill had no ownership papers for the boat. Apparently, the local resale market for boats and trailers has a soft under belly, with such items being passed around as easily as a flask of rum at a cold hockey rink. Whether it was my policing background or just the idea of wanting to legally own the boat, after trying unsuccessfully to make any head way on my own, I began to pester Bill for a resolution. I must have hit a nerve because one of our last discussions on this ended with him telling me that I was "cracked".
With Bill's frayed nerves and patience for me waning, it was easy to get to strike three. I didn't even have to swing. I went down looking. Umpire Bill called me out on a slow curve that barely hit the corner. Normally, Bill he would have let that one go and I'd still be at bat, but not after all of the other bad calls I made in the recent past.
Here's how that one went. It was early August and I had just docked at the wharf in Torbay, in the boat that is still owned by person or persons unknown. Cods' heads were flying and fillets were being sliced from the bodies of the 15 fish that the law allows one boat to bring ashore. As cleaning the fish is as memorable, if not more so, as catching them, I encourage all of my crew to partake. On that day, one of them was a landlubbing Mainlander and that was his first jigging experience. Well, at least his first time jigging for cod. Whatever other jigging he may do is really not the point of this story, nor it is any of our business. This is a family oriented blog.
I digress......my mainlander friend was following my instructions and doing an admirable job. It so happened that Bill and his new boat arrived at the dock at that moment. Bill's co-owners are friends of mine too, so they came over to say hi. Bill soon meandered over and without even acknowledging me he began to offer advice to my fish filleting Mainlander friend. His suggestion, although not unreasonable, conflicted somewhat with what I had shown my friend so I told him to disregard Bill and to keep doing it the way he was already doing it. There may be many ways to skin a cat, as well as a cod, but I discovered a new way to get under the skin of a brother. Bill was noticeably irate with my reply to his helpful advice. In retrospect, I don't blame him. He squirmed and shuffled his feet, as he considered his response. I guess I got what I deserved. Bill said: "Jimmy, you've got a problem."
At the time I didn't realize it but Bill was (and is) right. I do have a problem. It'll soon be three years since I left my career in the RCMP. I was in a very dark place in my life at that time, as well as for the few years leading up to my retirement. Even though I had served enough years to get a monthly pension, I still regard my leaving the Force as having quit. I haven't truly faced the demons that lead me to leave a career that I saw as defining the person I was. I now realize that the scars of depression and anxiety still cast a shadow over me. I have fooled myself and some of those close to me into thinking that all of that was behind me. The truth is I am still waging an internal battle against negativity and despair.
As regretful as they have been, my three strikes with Bill have helped me to see the truth. There have been a lot more strikes of late to go along with the ones I have handed to Bill. I've got some work to do, but recognition of a problem is an all important step in the right direction. To win this internal struggle will mean that I will have made peace with myself. I look forward to that victory. A good place to start may be to make peace with my brother. Bill, I'm sorry.
p.s. Gordie - Do you want to buy a boat? ;-)
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
The Tale of Two James'
My four year old nephew, the real James Nixon, knows more than the average kid his age. In fact, it would seem that he is in a class by himself on the genius continuum. You see, little red headed James knows everything. To verify, all you simply have to do is ask him. Sure, it's an easy claim to make. There are lots of pretenders out there. Lynda's uncle Paul is "Cliff Claven-like" in knowing just about every tidbit of useless information. (Paul kind of looks like Cliffie too! Lucky Brenda!!) But when compared to James, Paul turns out only to be a pretender to the throne of being all knowing.. He is simply a master at parroting what he has seen on reruns of the Discovery Channel.
I have witnessed James' brilliance. The smart ones seem to have a mastery of grasping the obvious, whereas all others look for hidden meanings and answers to questions that never needed to be asked in the first place. The past Sunday, the Nixon clan gathered at mom's for our traditional weekly feast (FYI - any time there's gravy involved, then it can be classified as a feast). I was sporting a week's worth of facial scruff. I had let it get to that point for two reasons: one was to see how grey I had become, given I have very little hair on the top of my head to gauge such things; the second was to see if more manliness would spur on more womanliness in Lynda. From my experiment I learned that I could give Saint Nic a run for having the snowiest looking beard and I also found out that Lynda is all the woman I will ever need regardless of how much hair I have or from where it chooses to sprout. I dare not say any more, as she has forbidden me to mention her in my stories. (When she starts to read them, then I'll stop. Maybe.)
A week into having a face that more resembled a bear than my usual baby butt complexion, not one person had said anything to me. Not my wife, not our best friends who were home from Ontario, not my brothers, my kids, my mother, nor my many close friends who had seen me just about every day since I gave my Gillette razor a much needed vacation. I was beginning to wonder. Perhaps all of those years of trying to go unnoticed while following drug dealers around had made me a virtual ghost. I know I'm not drop dead gorgeous or a radical dresser, but eventually someone had to look me in the face and blurt something out.
Finally, finally, finally, someone took notice. Yes, it was James. As I sat on mom's couch, basking in the glow of having 'gluttoned' myself on a few plate loads of gravy covered something or other, James saddled up beside me, put his little hands of my cheeks and exclaimed "Uncle Jim, you have a beard!" James lived up to his self professed genius. I was so proud of him. I was about to give him a huge hug but when I took a good look at his face, he was sporting a gigantic moustache fashioned out of Grammie's gravy. It was hideous. I could barely bring myself to make eye contact. I certainly couldn't bring myself to tell him. I didn't want to be cruel and hurt his feelings. I figured it best just to say nothing. After all, he's four. He'll get over it.
Suddenly, the light bulb illuminated above my head. It all made sense to me now. People were looking at me for the last seven days. They were seeing my bristly beard take shape. The reason that no one said anything is that they were disgusted and embarrassed for me. I knew it couldn't have been my manly beard that grossed them out. I must have forgotten to wash off last Sunday's gravy moustache.
I have witnessed James' brilliance. The smart ones seem to have a mastery of grasping the obvious, whereas all others look for hidden meanings and answers to questions that never needed to be asked in the first place. The past Sunday, the Nixon clan gathered at mom's for our traditional weekly feast (FYI - any time there's gravy involved, then it can be classified as a feast). I was sporting a week's worth of facial scruff. I had let it get to that point for two reasons: one was to see how grey I had become, given I have very little hair on the top of my head to gauge such things; the second was to see if more manliness would spur on more womanliness in Lynda. From my experiment I learned that I could give Saint Nic a run for having the snowiest looking beard and I also found out that Lynda is all the woman I will ever need regardless of how much hair I have or from where it chooses to sprout. I dare not say any more, as she has forbidden me to mention her in my stories. (When she starts to read them, then I'll stop. Maybe.)
A week into having a face that more resembled a bear than my usual baby butt complexion, not one person had said anything to me. Not my wife, not our best friends who were home from Ontario, not my brothers, my kids, my mother, nor my many close friends who had seen me just about every day since I gave my Gillette razor a much needed vacation. I was beginning to wonder. Perhaps all of those years of trying to go unnoticed while following drug dealers around had made me a virtual ghost. I know I'm not drop dead gorgeous or a radical dresser, but eventually someone had to look me in the face and blurt something out.
Finally, finally, finally, someone took notice. Yes, it was James. As I sat on mom's couch, basking in the glow of having 'gluttoned' myself on a few plate loads of gravy covered something or other, James saddled up beside me, put his little hands of my cheeks and exclaimed "Uncle Jim, you have a beard!" James lived up to his self professed genius. I was so proud of him. I was about to give him a huge hug but when I took a good look at his face, he was sporting a gigantic moustache fashioned out of Grammie's gravy. It was hideous. I could barely bring myself to make eye contact. I certainly couldn't bring myself to tell him. I didn't want to be cruel and hurt his feelings. I figured it best just to say nothing. After all, he's four. He'll get over it.
Suddenly, the light bulb illuminated above my head. It all made sense to me now. People were looking at me for the last seven days. They were seeing my bristly beard take shape. The reason that no one said anything is that they were disgusted and embarrassed for me. I knew it couldn't have been my manly beard that grossed them out. I must have forgotten to wash off last Sunday's gravy moustache.
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