Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Jeez, this is going to be a nightmare.
I find the Ice Pups gathered around the bench we’ll be sitting on. They all came dressed in their gear as advised, except for their skates, which the parents are busy helping to lace up.
Nervously, I glance back at the three rows of bleachers behind us, some already filled with spectators, and I’m assuming the rest will be taken by our parents as soon as the kids have their skates on.
“Attention,” I say, calling the parents’ eyes to me. “Can I get everyone to gather over here a moment?” I then look to the little boys and girls, advising them. “You go out on the ice. Remember the drills we did a few days ago when you skated back and forth between the boards? I want you to do that to get warmed up.”
When the kids are out of earshot and the parents are gathered around, I take a deep breath. “I just wanted to once again, set expectations. I don’t know what I’m doing and if anyone has decided they want to take over coaching duties, now is the time to speak up.” I’m met with complete silence, not unexpected. I nod. “Okay, because I’m the coach, I have a few ground rules I want to go over. Our kids are here first and foremost to learn skills and good sportsmanship. Low on my list is winning, and it should be low on yours as well. At this age, the kids should be having fun. I don’t want any family member or friend that’s here to cheer on your kid to yell out anything but absolute encouragement. There will be no profanity, threatening of coaches or refs, and there will be absolutely no forcing your kid to play rough or to hurt others. I won’t tolerate anyone speaking to their kid in a negative or abusive manner. Am I clear?”
Wide eyes look back at me, but I get nods from everyone but one of the fathers. I don’t push the issue because it’s enough that he heard my rules. Yeah, that might have been a little overboard and possibly driven by having a father who could dish it out, but it needed to be said for my own peace of mind.
“Okay, with that out of the way… let’s hope the kids have fun and we’ll work each week on trying to improve.”
Eventually, a ref steps out on the ice and explains the half-rink rules and how we’ll switch out players to give everyone a chance. At this age level of hockey, the kids don’t have the physical stamina to use the entire rink, so it’s halved, and each game alternates who is on offense and defense, with basically a simple mandate to try to get the puck into the net.
Me and the other coach, a very capable-looking man who mentioned only five times that he played minor league hockey, move to the bench and send out our first little warriors. They’re awkward on their skates, don’t quite know how to hold the stick correctly, and they miss hitting the puck more than they connect. I’m grateful they only play on a shortened rink as it takes forever for them to even skate the course of the half piece of ice, and at least one kid falls every minute or so.
It’s hilarious though, and the kids seem to be having fun. I’m laughing more than I’m cringing at how bad we look, and there’s no doubt… we are a pitiful team. The Mini Blizzards jump out to a 3–0 lead on us and their worst player is better than our best.
Still, the parents dutifully cheer and yell encouragement, some even laughing along with me, until… one doesn’t.
It’s the same father who didn’t acknowledge my pre-game speech as he leaves the stands and positions himself right behind the bench. His son, Theo, is out on the ice and he yells at him, “Theo… you’ve got to look at the puck. Just like we practiced.”
I grit my teeth, not by his words but that he’s left the bleachers and gotten close to the kids. I’m on edge when he yells out, “Are you even out there? Jesus… skate faster and quit being so timid.”
Okay, that’s going too far. I wheel around and say, “Mister…” Well, shit—I don’t know any of the parents’ names, so I yell, “Hey… you.”
He meets my gaze. He looks annoyed, his eyes moving back to his son.
I take a step over to him. “Hey… you.” When I have his attention, I point to the bleachers. “Return to your seat and if you can’t say something nice, don’t yell it out at all.”
“I have the right to give my kid pointers,” he seethes.
“No, you don’t. I’m the coach. No one else wanted to do it. So unless you want to take over the whole team, go sit back down.”