Requiem for an athlete

True, in a rare moment of repose.

Hi gang,

It's been almost a month since the girls and I had to say goodbye to a very, very special member of our family. Thanks to my editor at the New England Hockey Journal, I was able to pay tribute to our wonderful Labrador retriever, True. 

Anyone who has ever lost a pet, especially a pet dog, can probably appreciate the following. There is a rare and remarkable bond that forms between a pet and her owners. And True was truly remarkable. Let me know what you think ...

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Requiem for an athlete

Your indulgence, please. Writing has always been cathartic, and I'm hoping my craft can work its magic this evening.

It is approaching midnight, on the eve of July 4. I'm home, but can't sleep. The long holiday weekend was a tough one. Earlier today, my wife, daughters, and I had to put down our beloved yellow Labrador retriever, Trudell.

Longtime readers of this column might remember True (the nickname I always felt most comfortable with). I wrote about her a few years back, as an example of the perfect goaltender – remarkably quick, agile, and focused.

True celebrated her 10th birthday earlier this year. I realize that's 70 in "dog years," but this dog was still an absolute stud. Her narrow head and lean build was a testament to her lineage as a full-on American field Labrador retriever. True was bred to retrieve waterfowl, even in the most inhospitable environments.

Her father, Zeb, was my father in-law's prized retriever, and he enjoyed needling me that True, as a family pet, was "a waste of a great hunting dog." I always laughed, knowing he was right. In her prime, True was 65 pounds of quick-twitch muscle, sinew, and gray matter hard-wired to fetch.

But even in her "golden years," she continued to personify the qualities that make Labs such phenomenal pets. Good-natured, kind, exuberant. But what really set True apart was her boundless capacity for fun.

When True saw me grab my lacrosse stick and tennis ball, her response was unadulterated joy. Her ears picked up, her tail wagged uncontrollably, her entire body would shake with anticipation. At that moment, she was absolutely locked onto the ball, a pure athlete waiting to pounce. She was the perfect goaltender – coiled, confident, and unfazed by any outside emotions or distractions.

But True, as I would learn, was more than a natural goaltender. She was the ideal teammate. Though she wasn't a "cuddly" pet, she lived and breathed whatever mood filled our house. If we were happy and celebrating, True had to be in the middle of it. Unsuspecting visitors would get smothered with slobbering kisses. If we were upset, True would mope. She embodied our family atmosphere, yet rarely failed to lift our spirits.

Late March, True started showing signs that something was amiss. Her exceptional endurance began to ebb. She was hesitant to jump into the back of the family wagon after a run at the beach, and even struggled to hop onto our bed (her favorite napping spot). Like her father, True developed laryngeal paralysis, making breathing difficult.

Starting in May, True's condition deteriorated rapidly. Her decline happened so fast, we couldn't get ahead of it. Our local vet was visibly stunned when he saw her, just six short weeks after her annual physical. She was stumbling badly, her hindquarters barely able to support her weight.

We had X-rays taken, and were told that True, orthopedically speaking, was flawless. After consulting with four different veterinarians, the consensus appeared to be that True was suffering from some kind of neurological problem. It could have been the result of a tumor on her spine, or brain, or caused by a stroke. We tried steroid supplements, with minimal benefit.

The only option at that point was more expensive testing, which would only tell us what type of more expensive surgery needed to be done. For an aging pet who already was suffering from laryngeal paralysis, it simply didn't make sense. Our vets concurred. Lauri and I resigned ourselves to helping make True as comfortable as possible for however long she was with us.

Over the last two weeks of June, it was clear True's time was coming. She held on for a final visit from my mother in-law, the woman who weaned her as a puppy. On Sunday, Lauri made the courageous decision that True shouldn't have to deal with her declining health any longer. We drove to a clinic in North Andover, our girls cradling their "knucklehound" in the back seat.

We would return home to our small cottage that afternoon, knowing it would seem far too big without True. There would be reminders waiting for us, of course. Tennis balls in the backyard, the water/food dish in the kitchen, couches and carpets covered with her fine blonde fur. I'd miss her appearing out of nowhere every time I opened a peanut butter jar, or a package of cheese. Daily rituals, including her trembling delight at meal times, and our slow walks around the neighborhood (when she had to sniff every blade of grass), would change forever.

Now, though, we were only concerned for True's well being. More than anything, we didn't want her to be in pain. Her tail still thumped vigorously against the floor every time a new person came into the room, a sure sign of her indomitable spirit.

But part of True was clearly resigned. She had fought the good fight. She put her faith in our decision, just as she always had. She trusted us, unequivocally. She seemed perfectly at peace, even as the technician put the catheter into her front leg. The veterinarian then came in, assured us that we were doing the right thing, and explained the process. True, she promised, would not suffer.

Not a minute later, our beautiful True was gone. Her incredibly strong heart stopped beating, her labored breathing stilled. My wife, and our two daughters, took turns lying beside her, sobbing. The love this dog engendered was truly breathtaking. My girls then left, leaving me alone with my True.

I leaned in close, looking into those deep, milky brown eyes that no longer could see me. I apologized to her for being a less-than-perfect owner, for being short tempered at times, for being impatient when her boundless energy prompted her to run off.

Stroking her soft coat, I thanked True for the lessons she taught me, lessons about how to love without conditions, without boundaries of any kind. She taught me about joy – the joy of simple pleasures, joy of physical exertion, and joy of camaraderie, of just "being there." I knew I had to leave True's body behind, but I would take the lessons she taught with me.

Then, with a heavy heart and swollen eyes, I said my final good-byes to this wonderful athlete, to this perfect teammate. True.

FINIS

You team jersey, and what it really represents

Whether you win a title or not, always
take pride in the jersey you wear.

Hi gang,

This month's column was inspired by an incident with my younger daughter,and it features an interesting back story. Brynne plays for a co-operative hockey team hosted by a neighboring school district. What makes that arrangement particularly compelling is that the host school -- Masconomet -- is the archrival of our district in most sports. "Beat Masco" is a common battle cry in the halls of Hamilton-Wenham Regional High School.

But in girls hockey, girls from Masconomet, Hamilton-Wenham, Newburyport, Georgetown, Amesbury and Triton all join hands to form a single team under the red & white colors of the Chieftains. And the jersey these girls wear represent this impressive collection of individuals. As a result, that jersey is a vitally important symbol, a symbol that unifies six school districts and 13 communities. Pretty impressive, and something I hope the girls always keep in mind every time they hit the ice.

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You team jersey, and what it really represents

Sometimes I really feel sorry for my hockey-playing daughter, Brynne, because she has to deal with me. I'm the poster child (grown-up?) for Old School, and that goes for every aspect of the game. I believe in sportsmanship – "Yes, act like you've been there before." – and respecting the game, your opponents, your teammates, and your uniform. Just the other day, I got upset because my daughter left her game jerseys on the basement floor. That's a big no-no in my book.

At the risk of getting all crusty on my daughter (I promise, there were no tall tales of "hiking 10 miles to and from school, uphill both ways"), I told her that a game jersey is something you take care of, because it's more than just a jersey. It's a symbol. It represents the ideal that you've "earned" your place on a team, instead of just a uniform that you got because your mom and I shelled out the coin to get you placed on a team.

This means a great deal to me. In New Jersey in the late 1960 and early 1970s, there weren't enough rinks to accommodate the demand. That meant most league teams had tryouts. And kids got cut. Period. There were no apologies, no lengthy explanations. It was pure hockey Darwinism. You went to the try out, played, and then waited for the teams to get posted. If you didn’t make it, tough. Try harder next time. But if you did make a team, that jersey represented the effort, and the accomplishment.

I'm not sure that kids who are oblivious to the cost of the game – from the gear to the ice time – have a same appreciation for their jerseys. Now that I'm a parent, I feel the same as most parents. I want to provide for my kids. I want Brynne to have good equipment, not only to protect her, but also to help her get the most of whatever abilities she brings to the game. Good equipment does make a difference. While there's no substitute for god-given talent and a determined work ethic, the right gear helps. And most parents who love their kids, and love the game, are happy to spend the money needed to outfit our players adequately.

So this month, when we see lots of youngsters coming to the rink with the shiny new equipment that Santa brought, I'd like to ask parents a favor. Tell your kids to take care of their stuff. All of it. Require them to carry their own bag, and make them responsible for everything in that bag. This cultivates ownership, and ownership is a critical component of hockey. In hockey terms, "ownership" translates to accountability. That's one of the bedrock principles of the game. Don't make excuses, and don't point fingers. Be accountable.

Second is the literal definition of ownership. I had to buy my own gear. That was the deal I made with my mom (she paid for the leagues, not to mention playing taxi driver to all my practices and games). When you have a little sweat equity invested in your jersey and your equipment, you're more likely to care for them. Every player should take care of his or her own equipment. This is not mom and dad's responsibility. This is your responsibility. Air out your gloves and skates (removing the footbeds to prevent the rivets from rusting out). Hang up your game jerseys. Always.

The same goes for a goaltender's gear. Maybe even more so. For starters, goalies have more equipment. But it's also critical to remember that our ability to stop the puck relies on our gear working correctly. If a particular piece of equipment is faulty, because it's either worn out, doesn't fit correctly, or is put on the wrong way, it will affect your game. I love the old expression, "A good craftsmen never blames his tools." But a good craftsmen also knows the right tools make a difference. He knows how to use them, and makes sure his tools are in good working order.

Goalies, even young goalies, should inspect their gear on a regular basis. Make sure the snaps and buckles aren't broken (or missing), that all padding is in place, all the screws are snug, and the laces are in good shape (if they're frayed, replace them before they break). If you lose a screw on a toe bridge, the leg pad can pull away from the skate, and you can lose control of the pad. Same goes for a toe lace. With today's rotating leg pads, the toe lace (or strap) keeps the pad centered on a goalie's leg, which is critical for both safety and performance.

Here's another reason why goaltenders (young and old) need to be mindful of their gear – if the equipment doesn’t fit correctly because straps and laces aren't maintained properly, a goalie risks injury. The obvious example that jumps to mind is the knee cradle of the leg pads. These days, with the emphasis on the butterfly style, it's critical that the knee is secured in the pad's knee cradle. If the elastic is worn out, or the Velcro doesn't hold, the knee can slip out of the cradle and slam into the ice. Painful at best, a potential injury at worse.

This basic caveat also holds true for body armor like chest protectors, knee/thigh protectors, pants, masks and neck danglers. A loose or lost screw on a goalie mask can leave the cage dangling and your face unprotected (I've seen this happen firsthand). If a padding pocket is torn, Murphy's Law dictates that's exactly where the next shot will hit you. What's worse, it would be an injury that was entirely preventable if the goaltender just took a few extra minutes to properly inspect his or her gear, and got it repaired beforehand.

Granted, many veteran goalies are gear geeks, but that's a good thing. We're always looking to get an edge, and we know that equipment plays a part in that. It's not that we just like the new gear; we also enjoy taking care of it. It's part of our routine, and makes us feel vested in the position (part of that classic "us against the world" mindset).

Here are a few additional tips. Again, unless your child is very young, encourage them to take the time to learn how to put the gear on themselves, from skates to helmets. I understand this takes a little extra effort, but trust me, you'll be glad in the long run. And they can practice while watching whatever game happens to be on TV. What could be easier?

Buy your child a skate stone, and show them how to use it to remove burrs from their skate blades (a common problem for goalies, who often smack their skate blades against the posts). Nurture that sense of pride that a good craftsmen has in maintaining his tools. Make sure your young goaltender keeps a spare set of laces, and a replacement screw set, in a secure pocket of his or her goalie bag.

And don't ever – ever! – allow your child to leave his or her jersey on the basement floor.

FINIS

It's not my fault!

"How that puck get in the net?" -Patrick Roy

Hey gang,

Happy New Year, everyone. Since we're in the season of well-intentioned resolutions, I decided to focus on one of the key elements of an elite goaltender: Ownership. These days, seems everyone in society (especially greasy lawyers soliciting credit card "victims" and tax cheats) wants to tell you that "it's not your fault." Taking responsibility is getting more and more rare. But that's exactly what you need to do if you want to be a top-flight goalie. Here's my latest column for the New England Hockey Journal. Let me know what you think.

NOT MY FAULT!

Taking responsibility is a big part of a goalie's job

A few weeks back, I was prepping for a Sunday micro-ice coaching session when one 10-year-old netminder popped out of the dressing room, raring to go. Since we had time to spare, I asked him if he'd played any games that weekend.

"Yep, two," he said.

"How did they go?"

"Not so good. We lost both our games."

"How'd you play?" I asked, knowing wins and losses don't always tell the whole story.

"Well, my defense … "

The poor kid never got another word out. "Whoa, whoa," I interrupted. "That's the wrong answer. A good goalie never blames his defense. I asked you how you played, not the rest of the team."

The youngster just stared back at me, wide-eyed. I understand that my young understudy was only 10, but I also saw it as a perfect teaching moment. Hockey players, and especially goaltenders, are never too young to start learning the indispensable tenets of the game. Chief among hockey's bedrock principles is you need to look in the mirror before pointing fingers. If you're a goalie, that means assuming responsibility for keeping the puck out of the net. Full responsibility. Every … single … time.

That's not always easy. Positional players can shrug off mistakes, because they have the goalie to fall back on. The goalie bears the brunt of those blunders, because when the puck winds up in the net, the goalie is usually the last player it goes past. If it's a weak goal, the talk between the players – sometimes whispers, sometimes nothing quite so subtle – starts. It happens all the time, and it drives me nuts. The "blame game" is a popular pastime in far too many locker rooms.

Worse, coaches and parents occasionally do the same thing, sometimes almost without realizing it. There are two important factors in play here. First, coaches (and parents) should never lay fault for an entire game on the goalie – or anyone else, for that matter – in front of other players, particularly at the youth level (this dynamic does change somewhat at the high school and elite levels, but that's a topic for another column).

That type of criticism can crush a kid. ESPN anchor John Buccigross once wrote that the single most important attribute for a hockey player is confidence. That goes double for goaltenders. But confidence needs to be cultivated. Remember, the goalie doesn't have the same safety net as other players. And as any tightrope walker will tell you, performing without a safety net is a whole lot more nerve-wracking.

Badgering a goaltender for a bad goal isn't going to instill confidence. In fact, it will do just the opposite. A much better approach is to take a quick note of the mistakes that happen – was the goalie off angle, or did the goalie fail to cover a rebound – and then create a practice plan that addresses those shortcomings.

Second, coaches can't lose sight of the big picture. They need to understand the breakdowns in the offensive- and defensive-zone play that resulted in goals, or goal-scoring opportunities, and to assess responsibility correctly and fairly. I've watched more videotape than I care to think about, and believe me, the "fault" for a goal isn't always the final shot, or even the final pass. Listen to any quality hockey color analyst (NESN's Andy Brickley is terrific, as is Eddie Olczyk of Versus/NBC), and you'll typically get a thorough account of how a goal-scoring chance developed. More often than not, it's a mistake that happened two, three, or even four touches before the actual shot on net.

Yet, over and over, I hear coaches focusing on that final instant, and placing the blame squarely on the goaltender. Just a few weeks ago, one coach was telling me how his goaltenders were clearly his team's wink link. So I took a quick peek at the standings for his league, and noticed his squad was tied for dead last in scoring. Obviously, goaltending wasn't his only issue.

Of course, I'm not blind, either. I've coached some teams with pretty suspect goaltending. Interestingly enough, the kids often have a better read on just how good, or bad, their goaltenders are. I've seen defenders raise their games in order to keep shots to a minimum, knowing that's their best chance to win. But I've never allowed kids to point fingers.

Instead, coaches must foster cooperation. The bottom line is that this is a team game, and there's no place on a hockey team for prima donnas, whether at forward, on defense, or in goal. These players are like acid, burning through the tightly knit fabric that is so necessary for team success. They might be talented, or they might just think they're talented. If that player plays defense or offense, their commentary regarding the goaltending (legitimate or otherwise) can be a poison. Likewise, the goalie who thinks a goal is always somebody else's fault is also a huge liability. No matter how talented the players are, they're rarely worth the aggravation.

There are, I'll admit, exceptions. My favorite whiner of all time was Patrick Roy. There's no debating Roy's ability and his resume. The guy is a first-ballot NHL Hall of Famer. In my book, he's also a first-ballot inductee to the Whiner Hall of Shame. My most enduring memories of Roy are of Saint Patrick, slumped on the ice with the red light glaring behind him, raising his gloves and eyeballing his defenders as if to announce to anyone watching: "That goal wasn't my fault."

Roy got away with his on-ice antics for one simple reason. He was a tremendous goaltender, probably one of the Top Ten of all time (my own Fab Four includes Glenn Hall, Vladislav Tretiak, Tony Esposito, and Dominik Hasek, in no particular order). Roy was also a "me first" guy of the first order. Unless young goaltenders can play at Roy's level, they shouldn't even think about showing up their teammates. (Roy was still a jerk, but it's hard to argue with his accomplishments. Still, there's a "right way" to win and a "wrong way.")

What's more, it rarely happens in reverse. Think about it – When was the last time you saw a player publicly berate his or her goaltender? It almost never happens. Now, in private, and behind the goalie's back, is another matter entirely. This is when parents and coaches play a critical role in making sure goaltenders aren't singled out. Teams win together, and lose together.

All that said, goalies can't forget that they are the proverbial last line of defense. It's their job to make up for mistakes by other players, and to make sure they stop the puck. And part of the job description is "ownership." The sooner a goalie realizes and accepts this basic truth, the better. The goalie is the safety net. End of story.

For coaches and parents, it's essential to develop that mindset right from the get-go. Excuses are like a virus – give them a warm, welcoming environment, and they'll spread like wildfire. Soon, you'll have a full-blown epidemic on your hands.

Furthermore, excuses can become a crutch, replacing hard work and the drive to improve. Without that drive, a young goalie is going to start giving up more goals, and will need to find even more excuses. That's not a formula for success.

FINIS