Going to Open Ice

Our Rosemount Mites started the season in early November and I took the opportunity to become head coach of my son's team. I've never been a head coach for any sport before so it's a little different in having to develop practice plans, working with our Team Manager (i.e. God-send) and keeping all of the players and parents happy.

We haven't played any scrimmages as of yet and the kids are all nibbling at the bit to play someone else. It's a good group of kids, well motivated, and well mannered. Hell, I have yet to break up a major fight (but it's still early in the season). Along with chasing the kids on the ice I've also signed up to play in a men's league in Eagan and we play Thursday and Sundays nights (either/or) so that's been fun as well. We're the Rosemount Hockey Dad's which tells you of our vintage. In other words we may not be as fast anymore but we've got all that wily knowledge under the helmets.

This morning was particularly rough on me. My son's team practiced outdoors from 6 - 7pm, we came home and watched Marion Gaborik hang 5 goals on the NY Rangers, and then from 10:15 - 11:15pm I had my men's league game (which we won BTW). I managed to tweak my left arm and left knee but it wasn't anything that a cold beer couldn't help fix when I got home.

As you can tell, I love hockey. My wife jokes (well, half-jokes) that she's becoming a hockey widow. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm addicted to it, but I'd much rather do this than sit on my ass all night long in front of the TV watching bad network re-runs.

I know for a fact that I'm a better coach than I am a player. Hell, I think my son is a better player now than I ever was growing up. I'm glad that I can share that with him. I'll keep you updated on how each of our perspective seasons are going.

Before I go I want to comment on something: Kyle Okposo left the Gophers this week for the New York Islanders. Nice job bailing on your TEAM in the middle of the season. If he had wanted to leave before the year fine. If he wanted to leave after the season, fine. Right in the middle? Quitter.

Oh sure, he's getting a lot of $$$....it's not about that, it's about finishing something; about being a team player. I've told my son that if he sign's up to participate in something you better finish it to the best of your ability. Too bad Kyle, you were a hell of a Gopher. Now you're a hell of a goat.

BIG airplane

Airbus decided to drop one of their new A380 aircraft into MSP today and a couple of co-workers and I decided to go over and take a look. It actually arrived last night and then took off this morning at about 10:00am to fly VIP's around. It landed here sometime around noon, so a couple of us went out to geek at it. Here are a couple of pics. (For a sales trip I was surprised how dirty parts of the exterior were).

Departing Prague

It’s quiet now.

About 45 minutes out of Iceland, cruising westbound in a nearly empty Boeing 737-800 you discover some solace over the cold North Atlantic. I catch my breath.

It’s been a long week since I left home for Amsterdam and then onto Prague. A lot of time sitting on my ass waiting for people to do their jobs so that I can do mine. It’s one thing feeling helpless, but it’s another thing to feel helpless in a country formerly ruled by Communism. Now I know that the Berlin Wall fell way back in the day but some things are hard to shake. My time in Prague proved that to me.

Now we were suppose to be out of Prague 2 days ago, so in total it was about 4 days of sitting at the airport and hotel being frustrated. On our off time we stuck close to the hotel, staying close, visiting a couple of local watering holes. When the temperature is right around freezing, the wind is blowing and the snow is pelting one tends to stay close to warmth.

Because we were so delayed in leaving Prague our colleagues from the Netherlands took us out to dinner at a nice Italian restaurant in the old city. The underground in Prague is clean and efficient, and we were transported quickly to the old square where we were able to take in some of the sights of this historic city. In America we don’t have this sort of antiquity. Sure we may have Boston, Philadelphia and the other towns of our founders, but nothing like this. It’s hardly an apple to apples comparison when you are crossing a bridge built in the 1500’s and back home they talk about tearing down sports arenas less than 20 years old because they are “obsolete”.

But I digress.

So downstairs to the Italian restaurant we went; vibrant, busy, typical European. And it was wonderful. The food and wine were first rate, the company engaging and light hearted, and it helped take a little of the bad taste out of my mouth of the entire experience.

We arrived at the airport this morning apprehensive, but when they told us that CSA was doing pressurization checks on the aircraft I had a pretty good feeling that we’d be departing on schedule. I can’t say that leaving Prague was the saddest chapter in my life. Maybe I’ll come back again someday, who knows; that’s how strange this industry is.

So here we sit, 4 of us in back of an airplane configured to carry 174. The 2 pilots up front are hitting our waypoints as the CFM56-7B engines propel us westward against the fading sunset. Not many people get to do this, but then again, I don’t know too many people who’d really want to.

Soon I will be home again. Until the next time.

So why do we do this? Why do we bring ourselves miles and cultures away? Maybe working for an airline requires you to be wired differently. Maybe it’s a badge of honor to wear to tell others that you’ve persevered and done the duty. I think that in aviation you are always striving to prove that you can do things other people in other industries wouldn’t think of doing. I’m sure our fathers and their fathers were the same way. Explorers, adventurers, people who would do the job no matter how hard it was and how much sacrifice it takes. I see aviation like that. We’re not teachers, lawyers, captains of industry. We’re the ones who get the planes to the gate on time, invisible roadies making sure that the aircraft are safe for Jenny and Billy to take that first plane ride to see Mickey Mouse. Glamour in aviation went out the window back in the 60’s.
So why do we do it?

I don’t exactly know? Let me ask you this question…why do you do what you do?

All work and no play.....

OK....so I'm here in Prague.

The people are Eastern-Bloc Friendly, the food is marginal....oh what the hell, working here as a westerner sucks. Your first clue that you are not in Kansas anymore is the fact that 12 foot concrete fences topped by razor wire surround the facility, and that you spend about 10 minutes each morning going through security. (Hell the first morning I got frisked but didn't ask Comrade Ivan whether or not he was going to buy me dinner).

The Facility at CSA is right out of a Post-Communism handbook. Drab is in every imaginable shade, lights are optional, and closed doors are a must. If someone smiles down the hallway you expect an alarm to sound.

I guess my spirits aren't helped by the fact that the airplane is many days late now.....add to the fact that it's right around freezing, and we haven't seen the sun in a few days.

Our Dutch colleagues are taking us into the city tonight for dinner so we'll see if that brightens our moods any. I'm hoping that will be the case.

Greetings from Amsterdam

My co-workers and I boarded NWA flight 56 from MSP - AMS and arrived yesterday at about 12:30 local time. Because of some circumstances out of our countrol Neal had to fly straight on to Prague and Allan and I are here in Amsterdam to sort out some paperwork and then to Prague.

It was a quiet night for us in Amsterdam. The typical November Dutch weather was up to it's normal self. Intermittent rain with high gusts of wind. Neither Allan and I wanted to fight the crappy weather and walk through the city so we stuck around Schiphol. Oh well, beats a stick in the eye. Oh, the Heineken was sublime as well.

I've never been to Prague before and I've heard that it's a beautiful city. I can't wait to see it. I just hope that we're able to actually get away from the airport and see some tourist stuff.

Happy 4th Birthday Grant!

I can't believe that our "little" boy is now 4. It seems like yesterday that we were bringing him home from the hospital and now look him. Time flies.....time flies......

Start of the Grind

Part of my loves traveling on business, and part of me hates it. This morning the hate side is winning. I've been preparing myself for the path that starts this fall and finally ends sometime in June.

It's one trip to Seattle, a couple trips to Amsterdam, before Christmas, and then Seattle 2 or 3 times in April and May. Add to this the forthcoming hockey season and well....you get the idea.

My mood may change again though - I think the overcast sky has a lot to do with it today. I don't expect anyone to feel sorry for me, I know a lot of people who travel a lot more than I do, I'm not as hardened as they are I guess.

Last night when I was saying goodnight to my oldest he started crying because I was leaving. I hate that crap. It'll soften up anyone. Oh well, time to suck it up and get it done.

R.I.P Colin McRae 1968 - 2007

I just realized that he's just a few days older than me.....wow.



For those of you how don't know who Colin McRae is, he was a Rally driver from the British Isles. I got into Rally (specifically WRC) a few years ago once I figured out that NASCAR wasn't making it for me anywhere. Do a search on Google for WRC or visit this site for more about the sport if you are interested.

www.wrc.com
http://www.colinmcrae.com/

Life is Good

More often than not my job can sway between terror and tedium. But other times there are moments of pure joy that leave me feeling extremely gratified and thankful.

Yesterday was one of those days.

One of the many facets of my position at work is flying out here to Seattle to pick up airplanes. It doesn't happen often, so when it does, I take every opportunity to drink in the experience and make every monent count. We were supposed to take off from Boeing field at about 1:00pm yesterday but because of some issues beyond our control we didn't get into the air until close to 6:00pm.

Most of the traveling public doesn't get to see what I get to see in regards to air travel. Sure, I see the lines at check-in, at the shoe check at TSA, the packed flights, and the endless waiting for luggage at the carousel. I'm like the rest of you. And I absolutely hate it as well. Air travel is no longer the adventure it used to be, in fact, it's possibly the most excrutiating experience one can go through and have to pay for it (unless you like going to the dentist but I digress).

One of my job responsibilities is to go on customer test flights, and check aircraft out to make sure that they are up to snuff. It means flying in brand new aircraft before they enter revenue service. In other words I get to nit-pick eveything. Maybe there is a scuff on a sidewall panel, or a reading light doesn't work. My job is to document all the problems and see that they are resolved before the aircraft leaves the delivery center.

Now mind you this isn't a typical flight. While the pailots are up front flying an agressive flight profile, myself and others are up and around the cabin, testing seats, inspecting carpet, lavatories, ovens, and windows. All the little air vents and reading lights, tray tables, and seat pouches are poked, prodded, and summarily looked at. All the while the pilots up front are banking, twisting, turning, and putting this piece of beautiful machinery throught the paces.

Seatbelts? Sure, maybe on take off or when we simulate a rejected take-off but other wise....nawwwww.

Not to many people get to experience this sort of thing, and when I have the chance to I think that I've got the best job on earth. During the latter part of the flight yesterday, we had all done our jobs, we had wrung out the systems, noted our discrepancies and we were headed back to the field. As I sat in seat 7F looking out the window I gazed out over purple mountain majesty as white cotton balls cast friendly shadows over sappy, prickly pine covered ridges. I looked into deep mountain lakes and could almost taste the clear blue water as they spilled out into waterfalls, falling seemingly into the eternity of a lush carpet of ferns.

Life and earth look different while you're steaming up the window that you lean against as you drift back to terra firma. As we deplaned, and walked away from the airplane a pink whispy, whimsical sunset cast a smile upon us as we walked back into the building. I thought about how lucky I was to do what I had just done. I looked around at the rest of our crew and wondered to myself if they realized how special it had been.

I'm a lucky guy.

Blue Angels 2007

Have I ever mentioned that I like airplanes?


I'm so proud - my first youtube post......

Common Ground

Grant and Stanley don't always get along with each other. Go figure.

Sometimes they get along just fine (usually when they're plunked on the couch watching Spongebob) but other times...well...not so good. What typically happens is that Stan wants to play with his buddies and Grant can't leave them alone, and I'm usually trying to step in between them before too much blood is spilled. Boys will be boys but I try to intervene once someone picks up a weapon which happens more often than not.

But over the last couple days we've found some common ground. Our old flower garden. Or as I like to call it, our worm hunting grounds.

Last fall we had a small storage shed built where our old garden was. We took down the fencing and where we used to have our wildfowers is some open area where the boys can dig. It started on Monday afternoon with Grant and I, and yesterday afternoon Stan jumped into the fray. I use the big shovel to dig into some of the harder terra firma while the 2 boys use hand spades to do the detail work.

So far neither handspade has been used in anger.

I think it's good dirty fun. They get along and work together, get out in the fresh air and away from the TV. And me, I get free bait and a little sanity.

A Quiet Walk

Life is busy, that's a given. Like most, I don't take the time to stop and smell the roses and I really should. I think all of us should. Like most, my days are hurried and harried and you never seem to be able to catch up.

Running, Running, Running.

Always.

And it sucks.

My morning drive up Pilot Knob Road in Eagan is fairly mundane, the usual crawl up north through the suburban stop lights sipping the usual coffee, and flipping through the usual morning talk radio. Both the coffee and conversation bland at best. Normally I'm focused ahead of me, watching for brake lights and the occasional Canadian Goose. But something caught my eye this morning.

On the sidewalk along Pilot Knob was an elderly couple walking up the sidewalk. Hand in Hand.

There was quiet there. Peace. Dignity.

It wasn't quite a DeBeers diamond commercial, but I found it poignant nevertheless. Through all the hustle and daily business there walked partners in life seemingly oblivious to the daily chaos surrounding them.

Hopefully one day I'll have that peace.

One day in the Rosemount Post Office....

Our 3 year old, Grant, can be a handful. A handful as in a hand-grenade with the pin pulled, or a handful as in you can’t get enough of your hands on him because you just want to squeeze him to pieces. Kids are like that. Some moments we might want to sell him to the circus but you take a breath and he’ll have a glint in his eye and you can start laughing until tears come from yours.

On April 17th he decided to be a hand grenade.

Well maybe that’s not entirely fair. On that Monday, Brenda had taken him on some errands, nothing big, and nothing too strenuous. But at the Rosemount Post Office he started to get whiny. Not that I blame him, I mean seriously, how much fun can you have at a post office as an adult let alone as a 3 year old?

It’s a Monday, and it’s also Tax Day so there are a few people there. No biggie. She brings him in and goes to our P.O box, meanwhile, Grant is complaining that he wants to go home. No full-on meltdown, no snot-flying, tear-drenching epic tantrum. He’s whining a bit but hey, we’ve seen worse. Brenda continues to do her thing, managing his volume and getting her stuff done.

“BE QUIET!” a voice booms out. But it’s not my wife’s voice. She turns to look and there is some middle-aged lady glaring over at Grant. Stunned, Brenda takes him by the hand and into the line to mail something. Grant continues to whine, same volume, but there’s not anything Brenda can really do about it.

“SHUT-UP!” the voice comes again from behind the line. “Is she talking to him?” asks another woman behind my wife in line. “I guess so….” She answers in shocked anger. Brenda finishes her business, and without a word walks out of the Post Office with Grant in tow.

Now I’m a parent, so I have an ability to drown out most whining, but I can also see the other side, because I don’t enjoy hearing it either. But I tell you what, you have some balls telling a parents kid to shut up. I’ll give granny the benefit of a doubt, maybe she was just having a bad day. After all it was tax day so maybe she was pissed off that she had to mail her pull-tab money to the government. Who knows.

Good thing it was Brenda instead of me. I would’ve gone postal.

Un-Reality Television

I don't watch a whole lot of TV anymore. My viewing diet typically consists of hockey (go figure), the Discovery Channel, the Food Network, the National Geographic channel, and a little of the History Channel.

I like to watch music videos but since MTV and VH1 don't show those anymore I go to youtube for those. VH1 Classic actually does show video's that don't annoy me so I'll give credit where credit is due.

What I really detest these days are so-called "Reality Shows". I had about 3 minutes in the first survivor just to see if anyone would be dumb enough to eat a cooked rat. I haven't seen an episode of American Idol, the Bachelor, or any of network television pablum that passes for entertainment.

Two of my favorite shows could be considered reality shows however and I'll explain why I differentiate them from most of the others.

One of my favorite shows is "Deadliest Catch" on Discovery Channel. If you want reality this is it. It is life and death - and from this viewers perspective, there isn't anything on that show that isn't compelling. You can't fake the terror and fear of an entire crew when a 60 foot rougue wave knocks a boat on it's side. It's not like they can tell 2 captains that they're going to have to race between a couple of islands and see who catches the most and then give a rose to the winner. That's crap.

My other favorite is American Chopper now on TLC (previously on Discovery). While I haven't paid as much attention to it this season as I have in the past I still follow and enjoy the show. The constant Paul Jr. vs. Paul Sr. battles have long been lost on me but what I enjoy the most is watching the crew create. I don't even own a motorcyle but I can appreciate the effort and creativity involved in fabricating one. I'm not naive enough to think that shit isn't sprinkled into the mix to keep things interesting but all in all I think it's entertaining.

But why must every other media outlet have to shove these shows down our throats? I understand that Fox9 has to pimp "Idol" because it's on the network. But when I turn on the radio in my car on my morning drive I find myself flipping the dial trying to get away from the "results."

Darfur.
Iraq.
Proposed 350% increase on the beer tax.

These are issues, not who got booted, not if Paula is drunk or not.

I make the choice to not watch it, I'm also given the choice to not to care about it. Don't try to convince me that I should.

End of the season...

The Gophers lost 3-2 to UND tonight so the 2006-2007 season is in the books and over with. But that's not the season that I'm upset that ended.

My son's Mite season ended today. One of the things that I hate is putting the gear away after the season. After every practice and scrimmage I go to the basement and take out all of his gear, hang it up and air it out so it doesn't smell and get develop a lot of mold. I swear that in the bottom of some kids hockey bag is the cure for cancer.

He played his final games against the other Rosemount teams this weekend and we got shelled pretty bad yesterday but today while he was in goal he played pretty well and we wound up winning. So after I turned in the goalie gear and we came home, I took the bag downstairs and hung it all up. It seems like the year went by so fast, and like so many things in childhood you wish that they wouldn't end, but you blink and they are gone in an instant.

We had our team party after the afternoon game yesterday and it was fun to have a chance to chat with all the other parents over a couple of beers. As an assistant coach I'm always worried about teaching and coaching and sometimes you can forget about the parents that bring those players to practices and games. Last year for the Boosters I put DVD's togehter for 14 of the teams, and while I wasn't asked to do it this year for the Boosters, one of the mom's and I decided to do one on our own. I gave them to the kids and they loved them. For all the yelling and prodding I did this year I thought it was the least that I could do.

So his gear hangs in the laundry room, socks and jersey in the dirty clothes pile ready for the washer. Shin pads and gloves quiet and dry. True, I could have him in spring hockey, but he hasn't pushed, and I haven't pushed either. The season started in November and it's time for him to hang it up for now. But I still hate it.

Hockey Dreams can Come True

The following story is something I had written in the spring of 2006. I wanted to capture the moment before my memories had faded. I hope that you enjoy it.

Youth hockey in Minnesota can be a wonderful yet trying endeavor for any hockey parent. From association fundraisers to far away weekend tournaments and summer hockey camps you know that once you start your son or daughter in the sport and it takes hold of them you are going to be in it for the long haul. While I had only played organized hockey for a brief time as a child I knew of the trials and tribulations of my parents taking me to games and practices at all hours and in all weather, and now being the father of a 7-year-old Mini - Mite 2 in the Rosemount, Minnesota hockey association I steel myself for the long journey ahead. Who knew that on this damp, foggy November morning, our journey into youth hockey would take an unexpected and wonderful turn.

It was Thanksgiving weekend and we were scheduled to practice at Inver Grove Heights since Rosemount was hosting their Peewee and Bantam tournaments. Ordinarily I bring my son to the rink by myself as our precocious 2 year old, Grant, would rather toddle around the rink with my wife in tow than watch what is happening on the ice. But this morning we decided that all of us should come to the rink to watch Stanley and the rest of his team practice. My son plays in the Rosemount Area Hockey Association, located in Rosemount, Minnesota, which is a small-to-medium size, outer ring suburb of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. While not a traditional suburban hockey power, the program seems to be making the right moves to grow and develop players through the association. Rosemount begins with its Initiation Program at the Mini-Mite level, which comprises of kids from the ages of 5-8 years old. Most of this team had played together before in Mini-Mite 1’s the previous year and it was a joy watching how they had all developed and improved in the short time since they had started out. While most of the kids on the team had previous skating and/or hockey ability, there were some who needed a little extra attention while on the ice; and as coaches and parents it was our job to help them along with little coaching but lots of encouragement.

We arrived at the arena running late as usual, and Stanley and I walked down the hallway to the locker rooms while my wife Brenda, and my youngest took to the grandstands. Before too long I had Stanley’s skates laced up, helmet strapped on and I sent him out onto the ice ahead of me. By the time I had my skates tightened and gloves on, the rink was full of Mini-Mite 2’s. Before coming out onto the ice, one of our coaches, Steve Lewandowski was joking around in the locker room telling the rest of us coaches that we were under evaluation, when in fact he had forgotten his skates and was going to have to watch from the stands today. The rest of us joked around that we’d better be on our best behavior lest we be cut from the squad. So onto the rink I went.

Being that it was the Thanksgiving weekend I didn’t quite expect the number of players on the ice or family in the stands that we had show up. I figured that since it was a holiday weekend that there would be a fair amount of kids who would be out of town visiting family, but as I skated around and warmed up it appeared that most everyone must have enjoyed their holiday here. After a few minutes of skating around and stick handling it was time to start our drills. Our Head Coach, Doug Ebner blew the whistle, the kids obediently shot pucks back into the nets and skated down to the far end line for some warm-up drills. During these drills we have the kids practice their strides, their stopping and starting, and making sure they keep “Good Hockey Position,” which is both hands on the stick, knees bent, and head up.

After we do these initial drills then it’s time to break the team into thirds and to move them to different “stations”. Coach Mike Burr and I took our group to the center ice area and started having our kids practice their stopping techniques, while Coach Doug had his group in one end skating around the cones and shooting on the goalie, who this week was his son Wyatt. The far group with Coach Mark Peare was working diligently on how to correctly pass the puck. While we encouraged and exhorted our players about using proper techniques, I slowly realized that something was going on in the lobby.

Soon after starting our drills I looked over to the lobby area, as there seemed to be some sort of commotion happening. Looking over I saw a group players walking into the rink, full gear on, many wearing their helmets, and all wearing dark green hockey pants and socks. They also seemed a size or two larger than your typical youth hockey player. Curious of what was happening I skated over towards the boards, and to my utter amazement I realized who it was.

It was the Minnesota Wild.
I’ve been a hockey fan for as far back as I remember. When my brother went to the University of Minnesota he worked at the ticket office and was occasionally able to get us tickets to watch the Golden Gophers at the old Mariucci Arena. This was in the late 1970’s when Herb Brooks was working magic before the Miracle. I was hooked, and it wouldn’t let go. I’d also catch every Minnesota North Stars game I could, many nights listening to them on the radio in my room as I drifted out to sleep. I can’t remember how many late afternoons were spent at the local rink after school with a few friends, noses running, toes frozen, but never tiring. Each one of us was Neal Broten, Bill Baker, and Mike Ramsey, or a multitude of college or NHL’ers in front of thousands of screaming, cheering fans. When I’d find solitary time on the rink I would forever be Mike Eruzione turning and wristing a hard shot past the Soviet goalie to the delight of a nation, dancing on the ice, with arms raised in jubilation. In my mind I’d run over a running commentary in either Al Michaels or Al Shavers voices; “Up the boards to Broten, across to Christian, fed to the slot to Ancheta…he shoots, he scores!!!” Then I’d gather the puck from out of the goal, skate back the other end of the rink and do it all over again. And again. And again. And again until the lights came on and I’d have to rush home for dinner.

But while I was excited to see the Wild in the building, part of me wasn’t sure to make of it. My first fear was that they were going to kick us off the ice. In fact, once I realized that it was indeed the Wild I skated over to where Brenda and Grant were sitting in the stands and excitedly told them that the Wild were at the rink. Wide-eyed she asked me what they were doing at the rink, and at the time I wasn’t sure. Later on we found out that Xcel Energy Center where they play and practice was being used for a concert that evening and the Wild needed a place to go and Inver Grove Heights was an alternate location for the team. Meanwhile, as the realization of the Wild being in the building began to spread around the families in the stands, and the kids and coaches on the ice I began to wonder if we were going to be able to remain on the ice to finish our practice. I know how disappointed I would be, but my main concern would be how the kids would feel.
I skated up to my son, ”Stanley, guess who’s here?” He looked over to the lobby area, since vacated by the players, “who dad?”
“The Wild just showed up. I don’t know what they’re doing here, maybe we’ll be able to watch them practice before we’re done.” His eyes grew to be big dark saucers; he smiled around his mouthpiece, and skated away to continue his drill.

I found myself looking over to the door that leads from the locker rooms to the ice every few seconds, waiting for a couple of the Wild players to hopefully join us on the ice. I asked Coach Mike if he knew anything about this but he was as much in the dark as the rest of us were. The previous spring after our season was finished, Coach Doug had arranged for our team to skate at Excel Energy Center and Mariucci Arena on the same day, about 3 hours apart. I thought that somehow Doug had pulled a few strings and had the Wild show up as a treat. But he had ho idea of what was going on either. After a few more minutes of drills (which none of us could seem to really concentrate on), I saw the door swing open, and out stepped the Minnesota Wild. And it wasn’t just a few of them, but it was the whole team. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Coach Steve Lewendowski, who had forgotten his skates, had approached Brent Burns (#8) of the Wild and asked him if he and some of the other players would like to join our Mini-Mites on the ice, and he agreed. Instead of sulking about a scheduling mistake, the players piled out of the locker room and joined us all on the ice. They weren’t kicking us off the ice, no; they wanted to share it with us. It was a relief to me, and I wasn’t the only one. Griffin Lanoue, one of our hard charging players, had been worried as well. At first he didn’t know who these guys were, but when he realized that he was staring Dwayne Roloson (#30) in the mask, and recognized Marion Gaborik (#10) skating around he figured that he was going to have a pretty good day. He was right.

So there I was in front of one of the players benches, trying to keep 7-year-olds interested in learning on how use proper edge control when they stop at the cone. Yeah right. Like that’s what was going to happen now. To my surprise, Kyle Wanvig (#27) skated up to me and asked, “So coach, what drill are we running?”
“We’re skating up and stopping at the cones to practice our edges,” I replied.
“Mind if we jump in line with your guys?”
“Sure,” I replied, “why not,” I answered back. Sure enough, players like, Kyle Wanvig, Wes Walz (#37), and Stephane Veilleux (#19) jumped into line, our Mini-Mites looking up at them in disbelief, and we briefly continued our drill. Suddenly I noticed how crisply our players were skating and stopping, fast to start, and hard to stop, an intensity in their faces as they came to stop in front of me. When the Wild came through they also did there best to impress me that they knew the drill, grinning the entire time. Wes Walz looked over to our group of Mini-Mite’s and said in a loud voice, “who wants to skate with me?” All of them let out a resounding roar and followed him in a board-to-board relay as fast as their legs would take them. I noticed my son and how suddenly intense he was, trying to impress, knees bent, both hands on the stick. Good Hockey Position. Just like we were teaching them. Stephane Veilleux approached me and talked to me for a few minutes, asking how old the kids were and which team we were. I commented about the season the Wild were having, and thanked him for coming out to skate with the kids. It was then and there how I realized how surreal this whole thing was.

There we were on a Sunday morning in a suburban ice arena, with 7-year-old kids, and the local professional hockey team sharing the rink. My son has a runny nose while skating after Wes Walz, I had “The Franchise “, Marion Gaborik stickhandling in one end of the rink, with Wild team enforcer Derek Boogaard (#24) who is 6 feet 7 inches tall (without skates), skating next to kids who barely reach the bottom of his hockey pants in the other. Gram Peterson later remarked to his dad, upon looking up at Boogaard, “Dad, he was taller than the Zamboni!” On one end of the rink I saw Wild players curling around the circles to take a shots on goal on Kindergartener Wyatt Ebner, placing well-placed pucks in the middle of his leg pads. When asked by his dad, Coach Doug Ebner, what it was like to make saves on real pro hockey players, Wyatt deadpanned, “Dad, they are shooting them into my legs.” A couple days previous, Wyatt had gone to his first Wild game where they had played the St. Louis Blues, and Pierre – Marc Bouchard (#96) had scored a couple of goals, and now here he was clearing pucks out from behind Wyatt and chatting with him as he stood between the pipes. In the far end, Pascal Dupuis (#11) was giving some instruction on how to zip a pass across and catch a pass softly, our kids absorbing every word. Meanwhile, all of the parents and families of the Mini-Mites who were expecting to be patiently stamping their cold feet and drinking their hot cocoa are staring in the ice in complete disbelief.

After some of this initial shock wore off I realized something, and that was how much of a good time the Wild players were having. The cynical part of me thought that I’d see some dour looks from these adults, some of them multi-millionaires, of having their practice disrupted by a group of 7-year-old beginners. But by the looks on their smiling, laughing faces I knew that it couldn’t be further from the truth. Seeing and hearing them urge the kids along, passing them pucks, chasing them, almost made it seem like they were enjoying the moment even more then our players. All of them, kids and pros were sharing a special time, and all of them seemed to know it. This wasn’t some sort of convoluted publicity stunt thought up by some marketing whiz from the NHL. This was an honest mistake in scheduling that turned into something special. Under these helmeted heads you could sense the joy. In each Wild player you could see that they remembered what it was like to be that 7-year-old, full of wonder and exuberance, before statistics and bonuses seemed important. And in the children’s eyes you could see the joy of know that someday, they could be this player in a Wild sweater, skating in front of thousands of cheering fans.

As was our usual team practice, we broke into scrimmages, again dividing the ice in thirds, with blue on one side, and yellow on the other. We let the Wild figure out where they wanted to play. One of our kids, Nick Peare is a sparkplug of a player, always moving, always skating, and seemingly always scoring. At one point, Wes Walz looked over to me and says, “hey coach we better put a ‘checker’ on this guy.” I laughed and filed that one away to make sure that I told Nick’s father after the skate. Goals were scored, and through it all we laughed and enjoyed the scrimmage. But pretty soon it was time to get off the ice. We gathered our players from each end and congregated at center ice, our players taking a knee, the Wild players taking knees beside and standing behind them. Rather than 2 separate teams on the ice, for 20 short minutes they were all one team. The players faced the stands for a couple of pictures, and the applause of the gathered family and fans, while not necessarily loud, was heartfelt and thankful.

As we gathered in the locker rooms afterwards it sounded like a million voices at once. “Did you see….,” and “Wow, wasn’t it cool…” Each child had his or her own story and wanted everyone to hear it all at the same time. We piled out of the locker room to see if we could catch some practice and maybe a couple of autographs from the players. After the Zamboni was off of the ice, a few of the players took some time to sign whatever pieces of clothing or spare pieces of paper we parents could find in the arena. Dylan Hall had about 6 or 7 autographs on his Rosemount Irish jersey, and my son had his stocking cap signed by goaltender Dwayne Roloson. Andrew Howard didn’t have any paper with him, so he literally took the shirt off his back and had the Wild players sign it while he zipped up his winter coat to keep the chill of the arena out.

We stayed for the rest of the practice session, amazed at the speed, the grace, and the power of the NHL’ers, and part of it was back to business for them. My son and a friend of his from the other Mini – Mite team went back behind the bench to catch some action there. One of the Wild trainers pretended to squirt water at them from behind the Plexiglas. As they were laughing and walking back to us parents, Coach Mike Ramsey scooped a blade full of snow of the ice, lifted it over the glass, and showered our 2 unsuspecting boys. As they looked up surprised, Coach Ramsey had a laugh and skated away back to practice. “Who was that?” asked my son.
“That’s Coach Mike Ramsey,” I answered, “he played for Herb Brooks in the 1980 Olympics.”
“He played for Herbie?”
“Yep, you just got a blade-full of snow from a guy who beat the Soviets and won a gold medal.”
“Cool.”
Yes…very cool.

As practice wound down, and the Wild players cleared the ice, a few of us remained, our children patiently waiting to see if they could get a couple of more autographs. And the players for the Wild didn’t disappoint. They took their time, smiled, signed, and walked out to the team bus that was waiting outside. If anyone on our Mini-Mite team wasn’t a Minnesota Wild fan before, they sure were now.
As we drove home that day we just couldn’t believe what had just occurred. In fact, I couldn’t believe it the next day when the Minneapolis Star-Tribune ran a small little article of the practice in the sports section. Our family left the rink that day walking on a cloud. The memories that we would take away from this day would stay in our minds forever. Someday, Wyatt Ebner would be able to tell his kids how he stopped the Wild shooters again and again, or how Wyatt Solderholm scored a hat trick against Dwayne Roloson. And how my son would be able to tell his kids how Manny Fernandez lightly punched him on his facemask when he smiled and said hello. It’ll be a thousand stories out of a thousand little experiences that were encompassed in those brief 20 minutes on the ice.

For those children on that day, the players and the coaches of the Minnesota Wild did something extraordinary; they inspired without trying. By being everything they were, and nothing they weren’t, they demonstrated to our kids how much they truly love the game. And to us coaches and parents, by showing respect to our kids, they helped to make life long hockey fans. For me, part of a child’s past came true, I can now say I shared the ice with past, present and future Olympic medal winners, Stanley Cup Champions, and NHL All-Stars. For a late starter who’d never made it past Midget “B” I thought I’d made out ok. I know that this life-journey as a hockey dad is going to be filled with challenges. I’m sure some mornings I’ll be sick of sitting in cold arenas while drinking 3rd rate coffee from out of thin paper cups. I’m sure I’ll wince in discomfort every time I get the monthly bill for ice time. But I know that I’ll temper that that by knowing that through it all, hockey dreams can come true.

My good deed for the day....

It was my first winter here at work (1992) and we had a little departmental Christmas Party. Since I was living at home at the time my mom didn't want me bringing in a platter of Twinkies so she cooked up some eggrolls and dipping sauce. My manager at the time, Mike, loved the things and he would've eaten the whole tray of them if we would have left the room.

Since that time I've changed positions here at work and when we cross paths he'll ask me when he can expect some of my moms eggrolls. It's an insiders joke and we'll laugh about it.

But a few months ago things weren't so funny. He had gone to the doctor complaining about some pain in his leg. After a couple more appointments he finds out that he's got a tumor in his leg. For a while there he was on a chemo drip to shrink it down so they could eventually operate and remove it. While he was on that poison he was shrinking away in front of us, he lost his hair, and was on limited duty here at work.

But things are looking better now. The operation went well, his hair is starting to come back, and he's back to full duty.

And as an added bonus, he's got some more eggrolls. I told my mom about his plight and she was more than happy to make some more for him. He said he owes me. Naw, it's all good. Just so he's back at it is payment enough for me.

And my mom made up some extras for me.....

Sometimes a little "Thank You" means a lot

Yesterday afternoon we went to my parents place for dinner. Before we left our house we decided that it might be a good day to introduce our 3-year-old, Grant, to skating. So we loaded up our skates and sticks and headed to my folks place.

After we arrived we sat and visited for a while, and then the 4 of us drove down to the local flooded park/rink to skate a little while. Grant did ok, his little feet were chopping all over the place and in all reality I think he had more fun on the swings with mom than on the ice with dad. He did something I thought was fairly amazing though, he actually stood up by himself on his skates. Not too bad his first time out. I don't expect him to be another Sidney Crosby.....Derek Boogaard maybe....but I digress...

So after a few more minutes of tolerating the cold, Brenda and Grant have had enough. Stanley and I aren't quite done skating around yet so I tell them to pack up and drive home since it's only a short way back to my parent's house. So then it's just my 8-year-old and I out there on the rink.

This is the park where as a child I spent many a winter afternoon with my neighborhood friends. None of us played organized hockey, hell, truthfully we could barely skate. But like many Minnesota kids, it was at frozen sheets like these where we learned to skate, fall and get up. And in many ways learned about ourselves. As kids we'd come straight out to this rink and play until either the street lights came on or until we couldn't feel most of our extremities. Most times it would be the lights that came on first.

So it's just me any my eldest on the rink. This is his 3rd year of organized hockey so he's got some ability in him, he's a student of the game and plays hard and fair. He's also spent a fair time at the rink in full gear though scrimmages and practices. Around cones, on the line, around the circles, etc.... One thing he hadn't done yet this winter was spend time alone on the rink, no gear, no drills. Just time for creativity with the puck, dreaming 8-year-old hockey dreams.

So that's what I let him do.

We skate, we pass the puck to each other, but we don't really talk too much. We just play. No pressure, no pads, no whistles. Just my kid and I on the ice hanging out. Was it magical? No, not really. Was it fun? Absolutely.

After a while we both were starting to feel the cold (more me than him) so we decided to kick off the skates and head back to my parents house. As I'm getting my skates off he says, "dad, thanks for taking me skating today. That was fun."

Yes it was.