Page 14 of King

While I know it’s wasted breath, I feel the need to point out, “You do understand your aunt is a figure skater and has never played hockey, nor has she ever even watched a hockey game before.”

And because I don’t give smart six-year-olds enough credit, I’m shocked when she says, “Yeah… but you’re a doctor and you’re smarter than anyone I know. You’ll just learn how to do it and then teach me.”

So very simple and ironically, it’s exactly what’s going to happen. While today is truly going to be a fun game to let the kids get on the ice, I actually do have some semblance of a plan for basic stick skills to work on at our next practice. Today’s objective, however, is simply to keep them from bashing each other with the sticks and hopefully keep it to three or fewer meltdowns on the ice.

♦

It’s immediate intimidationwhen I walk into the IcePlex. There was a relaxed vibe the other day when I was here for Izzy’s practice, which unexpectedly ended with me becoming a coach. But this morning, the minute I step foot inside, I feel an electric surge of parental pride coupled with overenthusiastic little kids.

The noise is almost deafening with three full-size rinks and two games going on simultaneously per rink. You have the expected scrape of skates on ice, clack of sticks and shrill of whistles, but layered on top of that are hundreds of parents cheering, yelling and screaming.

I’m shocked as we walk by a row of stands and one father yells, “Check him, Marty. Knock him to the ice.”

Another person—a grandmother I think, based on the age lines of her face and snow-white hair, screams, “That was a penalty ref. For fuck’s sake, do your job.”

“Oh my God,” Brittany whispers to me as we make our way down to the rink where the Ice Pups will be playing the Mini Blizzards. “These people are nuts.”

“Probably anomalies,” I mutter, but then some man yells out, “I’m going to kick your butt, ref.”

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. Rememberthe 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.”

The man glares at me but turns on his heel, settling down next to a woman I assume is his wife. She looks absolutely mortified.

My heart is beating a little fast, but all in all, that wasn’t so bad. I turn back to the action on the ice, trying to yell out what encouragement I can to the players.

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