tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11819686413040589082024-03-13T12:21:38.431-04:00This Old JockCelebrating the aging athlete - and inner kid - in all of us!BrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-54239650731547640212011-09-16T05:03:00.003-04:002011-09-16T10:01:39.746-04:00My Life as a Horse<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A doppelganger for This Old Jock?</td></tr>
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Hi all,<br />
<br />
A week from today I'll be motoring up north to Ascutney, Vermont, with the girls to connect with my brother Matty and his bride, Laura. The couple is driving out from their home in God's Country, otherwise known as Eagle, CO, with their two hounds and two mountain bikes. Laura has returned to her mountain bike racing roots, and she's signed up for the notorious Vermont 50 (one of the most grueling events I've ever done). So we're heading over to the Green Mountain State to cheer on Auntie Wedgie. And, no doubt, I'll relive one of the more inglorious moments of my own cycling career, the day I found out I was part-human, part horse. <br />
<br />
The following is an essay I wrote about the experience, a good eight years ago. The accompanying photo isn't me, but given the guy's expansive torso and semi-scowl, I suspect I've got a long-lost twin roaming those woodland trails! The funny thing is, looking over this piece, is that I'd give up my right pinky finger to be "only" 215 pounds again! Guess it's time to get back in the saddle and start pedaling. Often!<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>My Life as a Horse</b> <br />
<i>Coming to terms with size, cycling and the term "Clydesdale" </i><br />
<br />
Five years ago, signing in for the Vermont 50 mountain bike race — my preferred form of masochism — I handed my racing and driving licenses over to the woman at the registration table. She took my IDs, glanced up, and seeing the stressed seams of my jersey, quipped: "My, you're a big boy. Clydesdale?" <br />
<br />
"Excuse me?" I blurted out, unsure if I was just insulted. <br />
<br />
"Clydesdale," she repeated, with a grandmotherly smile. "You know, the heavyweight division." <br />
<br />
I didn't know. I do now. And, at 215 pounds, I've grudgingly accepted that I am, and will forever be, a horse. "Clydesdale," for the uninitiated, is the quasi-official term for a 200-plus pound male weekend warrior who insists he still has enough left in the tank to compete in endurance events such as cycling, running and triathlon. Women who tip the scales at more than 145 also have their own category, called either fillies or Athenas. <br />
<br />
I say "quasi-official" because not every event recognizes the big-boned category. <br />
<br />
However, there are several ruling bodies that oversee this division, including the <a href="http://www.clydesdale.org/">USA Clydesdale & Filly Racing Federation</a> and the international Team Clydesdale, and even blogs, like <a href="http://www.superclydesdale.com/">SuperClydesdale</a>. Initially, the notion of a weight-related race category didn't sit right with me. I understood age limits, but weight classes felt more contrived. To my way of thinking, you compete against your peers. If the skinny guy next to you has a better power-to-weight ratio, more power to him. <br />
<br />
That probably explains why I'm drawn to contact sports like hockey and hoops, where I rely on my bulk to dole out retribution (assuming I can catch the scrawny weasels). Ironically, I got into cycling because of the strain that running put on my joints, in no small part due to my beefcake build. <br />
<br />
I wasn't always like this. There were brief, post-collegiate glimpses of a trim torso. Shortly after turning 25, my college sweetheart and I split and I attempted to mend a trampled heart by making it work insanely hard. I pedaled for miles and miles, indoors and out, ultimately melting more than 45 pounds off my collegiate peak of 220. The weight stayed off for a year or so, but that had more to do with my paltry reporter's salary, since I couldn't afford food and beer. <br />
<br />
Eventually, the weight snuck back on despite hoops, hockey and a continued commitment to cycling. I never got huge, but I was consistently roaming around Clydesdale country. <br />
<br />
Things didn't improve much after 40. There's the inevitable downward shift in metabolism, making weight management doubly challenging. I still long for those days of 175 pounds and 32- inch waistlines, but Father Time is betting against me. <br />
<br />
Of course, it's not all bad. Cycling and competing keep my weight within reason, and my heart rate and blood pressure down. During road rides, I'm the most popular lead-out guy in the pack, with my "Big Dog" physique creating a massive wind wedge. On singletrack descents, gravity pulls me downhill like an anvil. <br />
<br />
Going uphill, unfortunately, is another matter altogether. Not long ago, a national cycling magazine featured a test to determine natural climbing ability. It was a simple height-to- weight ratio, followed by some pithy observations. On one end of the scale — say, if you were 5-foot-11 and 135 pounds — the chart suggested you might be "the next Lance Armstrong." I was at the other end. After dutifully dividing my 6-foot-2 frame by my 215 pounds, I found my spot at the bottom of the chart. The comment? "Move to Kansas." <br />
<br />
Well, we live in hilly Boston and love life here. The fact that I might be a lifetime member of the Clydesdale club wasn't going to force me into premature retirement. To prove the point, I took my XL game to New Hampshire last summer to tackle the infamous Mount Washington Auto Road Bicycle Hillclimb. At 6,288 feet, "The Rockpile" is the Northeast's tallest peak and the site of the highest recorded wind speed on earth, a searing 231 miles an hour. The daunting Auto Road, rising almost 5,000 feet in 7.6 miles, features 72 corners and an average 12 percent grade, including an ungodly 22 percent stretch over the last 100 yards. <br />
<br />
More than a third of the 600 racers were Masters athletes, but few were carrying as much baggage as me. Fierce winds, horizontal rain, a relentless incline and a balky lower back took their toll — I struggled to the summit in two hours, more than an hour behind the top finishers. But I did finish. <br />
<br />
Afterwards, I saw that 43-year-old Eric Brandhorst was the first-place Clydesdale. His time of 1:15:12 was a goal worth riding toward. I knew I'd be back. <br />
<br />
<i>(This article originally appeared in the now-defunct GeezerJock magazine. RIP) </i>BrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-17437404614138896752011-05-22T20:26:00.017-04:002011-05-23T22:46:15.814-04:00The Truth and Tyler<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d_hEn-1n3wM/TdmrxCN4U1I/AAAAAAAAAg4/GqTAh2P-4xM/s1600/Tyler%2526Haven.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-d_hEn-1n3wM/TdmrxCN4U1I/AAAAAAAAAg4/GqTAh2P-4xM/s320/Tyler%2526Haven.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609703669763691346" border="0" /></a><br />OK, I'm going to try real, real hard to not sound like the angry, exploited journalist here. Tyler Hamilton is, basically, a good guy, one of the most personable athletes I've ever met. It's just a shame that he's also a bald-faced liar. You don't have to take my word for it. You can take Tyler's word.<br /><br />Anyone who happen to watch tonight's <span style="font-style: italic;">60 Minutes</span> episode, with Tyler baring his soul to the world about his long-denied use of performance enhancing drugs and blood transfusions, can make their own decisions about the man's honesty. I have my own story.<br /><br />Tyler is a local guy, born and raised in Marblehead, a product of the Holderness School in New Hampshire, and an NCAA champion cyclist at the University of Colorado in Boulder. I started following him when he latched onto the Subaru-Montgomery squad, the irresistible "local guy makes good" storyline. And then his career took off, aided by his own tough-as-nails performances on the bike and the all-encompassing glow of Lance Armstrong's stunning comeback from cancer and subsequent Tour de France victories.<br /><br />Hamilton was a loyal lieutenant on Armstrong's US Postal squad for those early wins, and that catapulted him into the stratosphere of European cycling. In 2001, he left US Postal for a huge pay day and a chance to be a team leader with Team CSC. Those years were a roller coaster for Hamilton, marked by bad luck, bad crashes, and heroic efforts, culminating in a 4th place Tour finish in 2003 despite suffering a broken collarbone in an early crash. Clearly, we can't help but question now just how many of those performances were done <span style="font-style: italic;">au natural</span>.<br /><br />I remember going into my local bike shop shortly after the news broke of Tyler testing positive for doping at the Tour of Spain in 2004. We were all stunned by the news. Hamilton was by that time a legitimate hometown hero, an Olympic gold medalist in the time trial only weeks earlier (The attached photo shows Tyler celebrating is Olympic victory with his then-wife Haven. The two are now divorced). The bike shop owner, a forthright individual with intimate knowledge of the cycling world, stated flatly: "He's guilty. They're all guilty."<br /><br />That was seven years ago. And those simple two sentences have proven true, again and again and again. Bjarne Riis, Marco Pantani, Jan Ullrich, Hamilton, Alexandre Vinokourov, Floyd Landis, Alberto Contador, and even "the patron" himself, Lance Armstrong. The list goes on and on and on. There are few innocents in the European pro peloton. Very few, if any. And there haven't been for a while. Even those who haven't doped are complicit in their silence. Good guy Frankie Andreu? Guilty. George Hincapie? Guilty. The stain is pervasive.<br /><br />Now, I'm not saying these are bad people. They understood the rules of the game, and the rules meant that, if they wanted to compete, they had to cheat. As Andreu admitted, he was tired of losing to less talented riders simply because they doped, and he didn't. But these cyclists made that choice. And then they chose to lie about it. To all of us. And in doing so, they've cast a long, dark cloud not only over their sport, but over anyone who chooses to compete in it.<br /><br />I've interviewed dozen of professional cyclists over the years, including Hamilton on numerous occasions. I've often asked them about doping, and never had a single racer admit to me that he or she doped. Not once. People question why the US Government is spending so much money going after Armstrong. My reaction? We'll at least get to the truth, because people like Hamilton and Hincapie are going to think twice about lying to Uncle Sam. It's unfortunate, but sometimes it takes the threat of prison to get these guys to tell the truth.<br /><br />In 2006, I spent two hours in Tyler Hamilton's living room high above Boulder, when he hoped to overturn a ruling by USA Cycling to ban him from cycling after his 2004 positive drug test. It was a spectacular mountainside home, bought with a portion of the millions that Hamilton had earned through a gritty career as a cycling domestique, and later the team leader for Team CSC and Phonak. ESPN colleague Shaun Assael and I spoke with Hamilton, his wife, and his attorney at length about the charges, and his claims that he was falsely accused, the result of faulty testing. Tyler flat-out lied to both of us.<br /><br />"You have to believe me," Hamilton told us. "I didn't do it."<br /><br />Well, he did. It just took him a while to admit it. For years, he tried to parlay his "nice guy" image into duping writers and everyone else into thinking that, somehow, he was the victim. Perhaps, like former teammate Floyd Landis, Hamilton finally got religion. Maybe he wants to jump-start sales of his book. I really don't care. He's still in damage-control mode. Here's the bottom line -- Hamilton doped for selfish reasons, and now he's trying to come clean for selfish reasons.<br /><br />Journalists often take heat for "making the facts fit the story." But more often, we're the messengers. I conveyed Hamilton's message. And, yes, there once was a time I wanted to believe him. But no longer. And that makes me see red.<br /><br />Tonight, Hamilton told <span style="font-style: italic;">60 Minutes</span>, and anyone watching, that he lied to protect the sport, to protect his teammates, his friends, and the staff. Maybe so. But by lying, he also helped perpetuate a corrupt culture that now implicates, rightly or wrongly, almost everyone who participates in this great sport. He also lied to protect himself. I'd like to hear him admit that too.<br /><br />###<br /><br />Addendum (5/23/11): A great deal has been made of the timing of Hamilton's confession, and his decision to air it on national television. Many detractors, like those in the Lance Armstrong camp, say Hamilton did it to bump sales of his forthcoming book. Even if that's not true, Hamilton could take an enormous step toward legitimacy by earmarking any profits of his book sales to his previously embraced charity -- the National Multiple Sclerosis Society -- or any other charity that he has no financial link with. That would get my attention, and prove that Hamilton was serious about cleaning up the sport, and not feathering his own nest. -BBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-27871582845407979772011-03-30T12:52:00.014-04:002011-05-19T18:42:19.057-04:00The Water-Method Man ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x6GOrtMDt2o/TdWMyWW91pI/AAAAAAAAAgo/LGKUIJxhwck/s1600/WaterRunning.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 253px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x6GOrtMDt2o/TdWMyWW91pI/AAAAAAAAAgo/LGKUIJxhwck/s320/WaterRunning.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608543707583075986" border="0" /></a><br />Back in my college days (ancient history, I know), I went through something of a John Irving jag. Started with the novelist's breakthrough hit, "The World According to Garp," and then went on to read some earlier works, like "The 158-pound Marriage," and later ones, like "Cider House Rules." But oddly, one of my favorites was his second, "The Water Method Man." Little did I realize then how much the title would ring true for me know, well into my 53rd year.<br /><br />You see, I'm now <span style="font-style: italic;">The Water-Method Man</span>. OK, the definitions are really worlds apart. Irving's protagonist, Fred Trumper, suffers from an unusually narrow urinary tract, and is forced to guzzle inordinate amounts of water to flush out any nasty germs, etc. My "water method" is something entirely different. It is, I hope, my road to recovery.<br /><br />Six months out from hip surgery (a fluff and buff detailed in prior posts), I needed to get moving again. Not just for my body, which is sagging under the weight of 20 new-found pounds, but also for my sanity. Being active has always always been a coping mechanism of mine. And for the past six months, I've been as active as your typical garden slug. Probably less so.<br /><br />So I've started running. In the water. In a pool. Now, I understand the benefits. Water's buoyancy will help support my 200-plus pound frame, reducing the stress on my post-op hip (and various other joints). And the natural resistance will help me regain some of the muscle mass that I've frittered away this past half-year. I get that. But, admittedly, it's hard not to be self-conscious running in a pool.<br /><br />First of all, it just ain't natural. There are very good reasons why people a lot smarter than me have come up with a variety of swim strokes to help men and women carve their way through the water. Freestyle, butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke ... all make more sense than running. And that's pretty much what almost everyone else is doing each morning I get over to the Manchester Athletic Club (I'll address that "almost" part a little later). While all these dedicated swimmers are dutifully filling their lanes, I come in like an aircraft carrier, plodding along, creating a massive wake. I secretly say a word of thanks that everyone else is wearing swim goggles, so I can't see them rolling their eyes.<br /><br />Second, it's boring. I mean, put-a-vise-on-my-head boring. I'm easily bored anyway (which is why I've always been drawn to sports that require chasing something), but running at a snail's pace in a pool feel's like, well, water torture. There's no Zen escape, no "quite mind, active body" release. It ... is ... drudgery.<br /><br />To make things worse, the bottom of the pool is pretty slick, making foot placement a precarious proposition. It's one thing to be running in the pool; it's an entirely different matter to be flailing about like I'd scheduled my workouts right after a three-martini lunch. Occasionally, I'll stumble right into the path of an oncoming swimmer, and you can imagine just how well that goes over. Suffice to say that the sauna-quality atmosphere of the MAC pool can get pretty chilly pretty quickly.<br /><br />Today I had the bright idea of wearing my old windsurfing slippers for a little added grip. The problem was that these Nike slippers were waaaay too old -- they hadn't seen any action in almost two decades -- and promptly disintegrated once I got to work.<br /><br />On the plus side, I'm not the only person in the pool not swimming. There's actually a water aerobics/social hour session that started shortly after I started treading water. It was, in fact, fairly hilarious. The perky instructor -- who is not in the pool, but can only be described as buoyant herself -- didn't seem to mind one bit that most of the participants (ranging in age from 60 to 90, as best as I could tell) were more interested in catching up on local gossip than actually working out. And the music selection was priceless. Honestly, when was the last time you heard Michael Jackson's "Beat It!" ... ?<br /><br />But more than anything else, seeing the old-timers' aerobics class was a terrific motivational tool. I know I'm no spring chicken. Not by a long shot. Especially where my hips are concerned. But with all due respect, I'm not ready for the MAC morning water aerobics sessions either. So I put my head down, and kept running against the tide.BrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-19172002181482461772010-11-26T17:57:00.004-05:002010-12-04T12:48:02.920-05:00The Long Haul ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TMdPZEuOUvI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/bfEKhFR6zXs/s1600/Crutches2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TMdPZEuOUvI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/bfEKhFR6zXs/s400/Crutches2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532477959430886130" border="0" /></a><br />Now the hard part starts.<br /><br />The easy part, as with all surgery, is actually going into the hospital, and letting the doctors open you up, dig around, and make whatever repairs they deem necessary.<br /><br />That was followed by something of a hip honeymoon. I was coddled at home, and pretty much wherever I went. College kids would open doors for me while I was covering hockey games, and everyday folks would routinely give me a wide berth whenever I came staggering along. It was encouraging, to be honest, to see so many people making the extra effort to care for the gimp. And that, essentially, was what surgery had reduced me to.<br /><br />I was ordered to avoid full weight bearing on my surgically repaired right hip, primarily because the repairs were more extensive than my surgeon – Dr. Richard Wilk – initially anticipated. When I met with him just prior to surgery, Wilk was candid. Blunt, even. Fifty-year-old hips, he said, rarely are candidates for repair. More often than not, the labral tissue is so shredded that the best option is to simply clean things out.<br /><br />Fortunately, for me, once he got all his arthroscopic probes and instruments into my hip, Wilk found the tissue was in decent condition, or at least better than expected. True to his word, he made the repairs. I vividly remember, coming out of anesthesia, meeting with Wilk. He told me, in his typical straightforward manner, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”<br /><br />“OK,” I replied. “I’ll take the good news first.”<br /><br />“Well, we did a lot more repair work than we originally planned. The tissue was is pretty good shape, so we put in a couple of anchors.”<br /><br />Good news indeed, I thought. “And the bad news?”<br /><br />“Better repairs means a longer rehab. You’re going to have to be patient.”<br /><br />No way around that, I thought. The work was done, and I had specifically asked Wilk to do the repair work if he felt it was worthwhile. Now the ball was, proverbially speaking, in my court. The surgery was behind me. Now, it was all about recovery and rehabilitation.<br /><br />Predictably, I wasn’t the best patient, post-op. My wife, an occupational therapist, went out of her way to make sure our house (fortunately, a ranch) was free of obstacles. It would be six weeks, minimum, on crutches, to avoid any weight bearing on the repaired hip. When I got antsy, I’d take liberties, walking around the house without crutches. And if they caught me parading about, all my girls would read me the riot act.<br /><br />I’d commiserate with my older brother, Sean, an orthopedic surgeon from New Hampshire. Sean, 18 months my senior, is just as active, if not more so, than I am. He understands the need to keep moving. Like Woody Allen’s terrific shark analogy in Annie Hall, we believe that if we stop moving forward, we’ll die.<br /><br />“The problem is that we still think like a couple of guys who are 25,” says Sean. “Our brains won’t admit how old we are. But our bodies are 50, and the fact is, we’ve put our bodies through a lot of wear and tear.”<br /><br />That wear and tear was plenty evident on my X-rays, which revealed fairly advanced osteo-arthritis on both sides. That’s the reality for me, and my hips. Sean, after taking one quick look at my X-rays, basically told me that my hips didn’t owe me a thing. “I can’t believe you’ve been playing hockey on those hips for the past 20 years,” he said.<br /><br />Which, of course, made the decision to have surgery that much easier. I didn’t have anything to lose, really. Post-op, Dr. Wilk was noncommittal. The cartilage had, as predicted, flaked off the hip socket like rotted ceiling tiles. There were now small areas where the head of my right femur and the hip socket were bone-on-bone.<br /><br />Surprisingly, I wasn’t in much discomfort in the week after surgery. I tired easily, which was understandable, since my body was busy repairing itself. Still, I took painkillers for only a couple of days post-op, and then put them aside. I’m not a big medication fan, anyway. I’d would rather know if I’m pushing the joint too hard. I’m no hero, but I believe masking aches can be dangerous. But the truth was, there wasn’t much pain. My spirits soared, perhaps a bit too much too soon.<br /><br />I went out and bought a huge supply of triple-strength Osteo-BiFlex, with the hope it would accelerate the healing process. Though considered suspect by some, the glucosamine/chondroitin formula couldn’t hurt, said Wilk. It wasn’t the miracle supplement (“Clinically shown joint within 7 days!”) that the package promised it was, he said, but there wasn’t any real downside, either. My body would either take to it, or it wouldn’t. Simple as that.<br /><br />Today, six weeks out from my surgery, I’m finally off the crutches. That mean it’s time to start rehabbing. I’ve got a date with the physical therapist next week, and hope to get a regimen that will ultimately get me back on the ice, and the slopes, and the bike, and the soccer pitch, sometime in early 2011. My surgeon has warned me not to get too optimistic, but I can’t help myself. It’s my nature. I have a history of getting injured, But I’ve also been a pretty quick healer.<br /><br />Of course, I also have hips that are a candidate for carbon dating. Father Time doesn’t really care about my hopes and dreams and silly, old-man expectations. I want another bite of the apple; I’ll admit that. Wilk, though specifically stating that he doesn’t like making predictions, nonetheless gave me some odds to keep in mind, as parameters. The likelihood that I’d be able to play hockey again was pretty encouraging: 80 percent. The chances of playing goal again? Not so good. Probably 15-20 percent.<br /><br />But I’ll take those odds. What choice do I have? Plus, it’s time to stop wondering, and time to get to work. <br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p>BrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-83903955360842015932010-09-24T10:00:00.017-04:002011-06-07T17:21:38.755-04:00Pay up!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cdU9mFG-FRY/Te6WOJr_srI/AAAAAAAAAhs/urFdWNSdTbA/s1600/Surgeons.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cdU9mFG-FRY/Te6WOJr_srI/AAAAAAAAAhs/urFdWNSdTbA/s320/Surgeons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615590955240370866" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, breezy and cool!<br /><br />For years, I've joked with my stepfather about taking up golf "when I have my hips replaced." It was a running gag that we both got a good laugh from, because Don knows I'm incapable of ever taking golf seriously, and because I never thought I'd need to get my hips replaced. Well, it appears Don's take was a whole lot more accurate. Because the bill has come due.<br /><br />My hips, to be kind, are a wreck. They show the wear and tear of 50 years of a wonderfully rough-and-tumble life. These hips could be the first piece of evidence in the trademark trial of "Boomeritis," the tongue-in-cheek term coined by the American Society of Orthopaedic Surgeons to describe a raft of injuries that post-40 athletes subject themselves to.<br /><br />I think if I added up all the days I've spent on this planet, and divided that number in half, I'd have a pretty good count of all the football, soccer, basketball, street hockey, ice hockey, baseball, and softball games I've played. And that wouldn't include the countless days running, pedaling (on and off road), downhill skiing, cross-county skiing, snowboarding, hiking, climbing, swimming, and even the occasional weight-lifting session (never was a big fan!). There's an accumulative effect of all that fun, and for me, it's pretty much concentrated in my lower back, and my hips.<br /><br />Still, in all honesty, I can't complain. When my brother Sean, an orthopedic surgeon in New Hampshire, took a look at my hip X-rays, he confirmed what two surgeons told me previously. I was lucky to get 50 years out of those ol' hip bones. Seems I have a natural deformity in the "ball" joint -- too much bone -- which didn't make for a great fit with my genetically shallow socket joints. "Essentially, you've been trying to fit a square peg into a round hole all these years," said a straight-talking Dr. Richard Wilk. "You were bound to have problems. I'm a little surprised this didn't happen earlier."<br /><br />Which, of course, is small consolation when you're hoping to get another four, five, 10 years out of the current model. Surgery became necessary this summer, when a suspected "groin pull" from 11 months earlier failed to heal, and doctors finally ruled out a "sports hernia." An MRI in August revealed the extend of damage to my hips, especially my right, including joint deterioration and a torn labrum. That's when surgery entered the equation, and I immediately set out to find someone good. "This is the new sexy surgery," warned Sean. "There are a lot of guys rushing into this field. You want to find someone who has done a lot of them."<br /><br />Fortunately for me, I found Dr. Wilk, who came recommended not only by Sean, but by several Division 1 goaltenders who I help coach. Plus, Wilk has been doing these hip arthroscopes for years. I liked his resume, if not his diagnosis.<br /><br />"Basically, your hips are pretty much beat to shit," Wilk told me during my last pre-op visit. "Is that a medical term?" quipped my bride, who accompanied me for emotional support, and to get a better idea of how heavy an anchor I'd be post-surgery. But I was comfortable with Wilk's no-nonsense approach. He was telling me that he would do what he could once he got inside the hip, but he wasn't making any promises. In short, he could rely on his own skills as a surgeon, but couldn't be nearly as certain about the raw material he'd have to work with. Fifty year hips rarely produce a gem.<br /><br />So I've got a surgery date, and I'm eager to get it done. Like most everything I've done in life, I'd rather take a course of action. Surgery is never a great option (like BU coach Jack Parker once told me, "The only minor surgery is the one someone else is having."). But the alternative -- doing nothing -- is much worse. Time to pay the bill, and get on with it. Golf can wait.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-53542882309911589662010-09-11T08:43:00.014-04:002010-09-11T11:12:21.499-04:00Luck of the draw ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TIuRsLIcMEI/AAAAAAAAAck/2Nn117ZPG3g/s1600/StatueLiberty911.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TIuRsLIcMEI/AAAAAAAAAck/2Nn117ZPG3g/s320/StatueLiberty911.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515662356733767746" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, beautiful<br /><br />Nine years ago this morning, I was hunkered down in my basement office, furiously tapping away at the keyboard, trying to wrap up a story before my scheduled flight the next day. Lauri called me after dropping the girls off at day care, asking if I'd heard the news -- a plane had flown into the World Trade Center in New York. I hadn't, but my immediate reaction was that it must have been a small, single-prop craft. Maybe a lunatic, maybe just an awful accident. Like the rest of us, my mind wouldn't even consider the reality that eventually came to pass.<br /><br />I went upstairs, flipped on the tube, and watched the horror unfold. By that time, the second airliner had flown into the South Tower of the WTC, and all hell was breaking loose in Manhattan. I sat there, dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what was happening right before my eyes. Terrorism had taken on an entirely new meaning. When the TV anchors announced that the second jet was United Flight 175, a chill knifed through me like a bony finger of the Grim Reaper. United Flight 175 was <span id="{E2848828-D414-4D9C-AD6E-44A900EBF696}" style="font-style: italic;">my </span>flight the next day. Although I was on assignment for Continental, my trip was organized by the Hawaiian tourism office, and they booked me on United, flying direct to Los Angeles, then to Hawaii.<br /><br />My mood immediately shifted from disbelief to ashen. I was actually shaking, watching the coverage. My story didn't get done. And my flight, and trip, were canceled. My life, like the lives of countless thousands, was changed forever. So had the world as we knew it. And we're reminded of it every time we fly, every time we wait in a security line. Our daughters, thankfully, were too young to comprehend the depth of the evil on display that day. Lauri, my wife, was understandably distraught. I, for some odd reason, was simply numb.<br /><br />That night, I played hockey down at the local prep school. I hadn't planned to, but needed to do something to shake myself out of my stupor. So I grabbed my gear, drove down to the rink, and got into the first fist fight I could recall since high school. It was stupid, a reflection, I'm sure, of the tension that everyone was feeling that night. Not even hockey, a game that was my great escape for most of my life, could provide any refuge.<br /><br />A month later, I flew to Denver, Colorado, to meet my brothers Matt and Mike. We were headed to the High Lonesome Lodge on the western slopes of the Rockies, and along the way the United States unleashed its military fury on Bagdad. When we arrived at the High Lonesome Lodge, the place looked like a ghost town. Buzz Cox, the manager, explained that the lodge had been booked solid by Cantor-Fitzgerald, the finance firm devastated by the 9/11 attacks.<br /><br />Americans, to this day, are justifiably outraged at the murderous acts of Sept. 11, 2001. Like most, I will never forget. But I also try to remember how fortunate I was, of the difference that 24 hours can make. Did God "spare" me? I don't think so, because that would insinuate He didn't spare the 2,977 people who tragically lost their lives that day (and the 19 hijackers He allowed to live long enough to perpetrate such a heinous act). Sometimes I think the Almighty simply sets things in motion, and then lets the chips fall. Why wasn't I on that flight, along with Ace Bailey and Mark Bavis of the Los Angeles Kings and 63 others? It was just fate; the luck of the draw. It's a cruel reminder that none of us are guaranteed anything. Ever.<br /><br />Which is why we should celebrate everything we do have, and never once take the things we hold dear for granted. I get to enjoy this stunning Saturday morning, and plan to go for a bike ride the minute I get this essay posted. Today, I'll hug my bride and our girls a little more tightly. I'd like to say I do that every day, but I don't. Life, with all its challenges, tends to dull the immediacy of these moments. But every now and then I'm reminded. I need that.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-74163067111319774072010-09-06T11:34:00.017-04:002010-09-07T21:43:37.501-04:00The Sketch King rides again!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TIUKNz2ymDI/AAAAAAAAAcE/mkBpOiCdFRc/s1600/SketchKing.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TIUKNz2ymDI/AAAAAAAAAcE/mkBpOiCdFRc/s400/SketchKing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513824551159633970" border="0" /></a>Boston, a splendid Labor Day<br /><br />I admit it ... I'd almost forgotten. The sweet, cool breezes of early autumn and splintered sunlight filtering through the trees. That distinct loamy smell of the earth, and the absence of bugs. The sublime thrill of fat tires on skinny trails winding like a roller coaster through the woods. I'd almost forgotten how quickly your breathing becomes labored the moment those trails tilt uphill. The nuisance roots and rocks that litter New England's rugged landscape. And I'd almost forgotten the spontaneous laughter that erupts when it all comes together.<br /><br />Yes, the memories had faded. In the four years since I trashed my right shoulder after augering my bike's front wheel in a washed-out section of trail, and gone flying over the handlebars, I'd taken a self-imposed sabbatical from the singletrack. I had dabbled here and there, but I'd lost my nerve, frankly. I was scared. Scared of every slick, off-camber root or tire-grabbing chunk of granite that might send me to the ground or into a tree, and eventually the Emergency Room, again. Between hockey and mountain biking, I'd suffered a litany of injuries that had me feeling my age. The shoulder was the worst of the recent vintage, though, and I began contemplating more genteel pursuits.<br /><br />I turned to the road bike, not so much because I enjoyed it more, but because I felt like I had more control. The irony, of course, is that, among my cycling friends, road accidents typically have proven to be much more devastating. My thinking was (and this is probably as good an indication as I can offer of how far my confidence had sunk), if I tumbled on the road, someone would eventually find me, and help me get back home. In the woods, I could lie there for days. Ridiculous? Of course. But that's the mindset of a rider who has lost his bravado.<br /><br />Fortunately, my friends wouldn't let me fade away. They kept prodding me to join them, luring me with tales of new trails being carved in nearby parks, Bradley Palmer and Willowdale. Eventually, they wore me down, and I relented. I suited up Sunday with a fair amount of trepidation, but the morning was so damned beautiful it was hard to feel too negative about anything. I asked my buddies -- Billy E. and Mark O. -- to go easy on me. Not only was I venturing back into the woods after a long hiatus, but I was also riding on a bum right hip, compliments of a recently diagnosed torn labrum. It didn't hurt while I was riding, unless the incline got real steep, or unless I had to get off the bike. Which I did. Often.<br /><br />It was a strange sensation. I spied old, familiar obstacles that I'd cleared easily in years gone by, but I was unable to stop myself from stopping. I realized this was going to be a slow process. I told myself to be patient, even as I publicly admonished myself for being such a wuss. I was the ride's anchor, but Billy and Mark never once made me feel like I as holding them up. Every time I apologized, they would just look around, and comment on what a gorgeous day it was. The support was a huge boost. So were the trails, which had been cut with an artist's flare.<br /><br />I started to link some sections together, started to look where I wanted to go (instead of focusing on the trail's not-so-hidden dangers), started to reconnect with my Fat Beat's supple Ti feel. I started, even so subtly, to feel that flow train. I was back. Not all the way, but back nonetheless. I was still riding like the Sketch King, but I was riding. Off-road. And smiling just about the entire time.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-87292578538630911362010-06-14T13:00:00.018-04:002010-09-13T15:15:17.928-04:00The dream season ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TBZph3MH7iI/AAAAAAAAAac/p5Jsfq6B5v8/s1600/FatGoalie.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TBZph3MH7iI/AAAAAAAAAac/p5Jsfq6B5v8/s320/FatGoalie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482685626841558562" border="0" /></a>Boston, overcast ...<br /><br />I've played organized sports for pretty much my entire life, a good 45 of my 52 years. There have been plenty of ups and downs, and even the occasional title. I think there was a baseball and basketball championship during grade school, though I'm not sure, to be honest. There was the city championship for my Manchester Central High soccer team my junior year, in the fall of 1974, and the glorious intramural hockey championship at UNH in the winter of 1982 (in which I gladly traded in a night of studying for a statistics mid-term for a night of revelry with my teammates after the narrow but well-deserved 4-3 win)<br /><br />But, in all those years, I've never been part of an undefeated team, until now.<br /><br />This past week, the venerable Ipswich Sea Dogs of the Over the Hill Soccer League completed a nice run of the table, finishing their regular season with a sparkling 10-0-0 mark. It wasn't a "perfect" season per se -- only someone truly deluded would think anything that starts with "Over 50" could be perfect -- but our record was. Ten straight wins. It was fun to be a part of. I came to the team late, a last-minute signing. For the past five years or so, I'd played in the Over-40 division, with a great group of guys who called themselves Ipswich United (and more recently, Wen-Ham United), among other various nicknames. But my litany of injuries (hamstring pull, back spasms, tennis elbow, dislocated finger, groin pull) made my participation, and performance, somewhat unpredictable, and I encouraged Captain Dan Bates to find another keeper.<br /><br />Plus, I'm now 52, and my body was telling me that it was time to "move up" the the Over-50 division (no, that's not actually me in the accompanying photo ... just a reasonable facsimile!). I started feeling like a calcified Chris Chelios of NHL fame, chasing after a young and spry Sidney Crosby, with much less success, I might add. After missing Wen-Ham United's entire fall season, I made a few phone calls, and landed a back-up role with the Ipswich Sea Dogs. Truth is, the Sea Dogs resident goalie, Doug Plante, was also the team manager, and quickly 'fessed up that he'd rather play in the field. So, in short order, I became the starting 'keeper for this orange-clad squad that resembled the United Nations of old-guy soccer.<br /><br />We have guys from England, Vietnam, Chile, France, Trinidad, Greece, Syria, and God only knows where else. We have architects, laborers, biologists, craftsmen, salesmen, computer geeks, business owners, you name it. I'm the token Irishman and writer (and resident tech idiot). But the beauty of sport is nationalities, and professions, don't matter. Personalities are what make a team mesh, and we've got a wonderful group of guys who are still passionate about this great game. Not "perfect," but close enough. The play was a shade slower than my Over-40 campaigns, but feisty nonetheless. We're a group that plays hard, but plays fair. And that proved a winning formula, as we ran the table on the regular season. And, truth be told, this team probably would have gone undefeated with a bunch of Munchkins alternating in goal. I had a few saves over the course of my seven games, including a few solid stops, but I was never besieged. Not that I'm complaining.<br /><br />Our first playoff game pitted the Sea Dogs against the appropriately named North Read Gray Cobras. I made two decent saves early on, and we managed to squeeze out a 2-0 win, despite my misplaying a long shot that caromed off the crossbar, forcing my stalwart sweeper Sergio to clear the ball off the line. Next week, we play in the finals, but I'll be far, far away, boating in the British Virgin Islands. It's one of those dream assignments, especially since I get to take Lauri with me. But I'll have bittersweet feelings just the same, knowing that I won't be there in goal for my boys, the Sea Dogs. My only perfect team!<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-23932756487707871012010-06-11T09:30:00.006-04:002010-06-11T14:42:55.599-04:00Let the games begin!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TBJB73ts2bI/AAAAAAAAAaU/oc2chx1jmwc/s1600/WordCupBall.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 260px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TBJB73ts2bI/AAAAAAAAAaU/oc2chx1jmwc/s320/WordCupBall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481516193287035314" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, overcast<br /><br />OK, I promise to be a little more positive today, and why not? The best sporting event anywhere gets under way today, as the World Cup kicks off in South Africa. I did a web advance for <a href="http://magazine.fourseasons.com/">Four Seasons</a> magazine on the Top Ten reasons to check out the action. The one thing I neglected to mention was the much-maligned Jabulani ball by Adidas (at right), which all the goalkeepers are complaining about. Of course, goalies need something to whine about, since they spend all game just standing around! Here's my unabridged version ...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ten best reasons to watch the World Cup</span><br /><br />The FIFA World Cup, the quadrennial celebration of the sport known worldwide as football (and soccer in North America), is heading south of the equator this summer. For the first time ever, the world's most popular sporting event will be held on the continent of Africa, in the Republic of South Africa. The tournament began in 1930, and except for World War II (1942 and 1946), has been held every four years since. Brazil, which will host the 2014 World Cup, has won five of the 18 tournaments. Italy, the defending champions, has won four times, and Germany three. Impressive numbers. Want more? Here are 10 reasons to watch.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">One</span>. It is, simply, the biggest stage in all of sports. Period. The tournament boasts 32 teams from around the world (pared down from 210 nations during two years of qualifying play) – a truly international field representing an unequaled collection of soccer talent – converging on a single country. The month-long World Cup features a total of 64 games, with 48 "group" matches followed by 16 knockout games. The finals are set for July 11, at Soccer City Stadium in Johannesburg.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Two</span>. Star power. With a few notable exceptions, the best players in the world will be on display, not wearing their club uniforms but their national team colors. Expect to see players such as England's Wayne Rooney (Manchester United) and Steven Gerrard (Liverpool), Brazil's Kaka (Real Madrid) and Dani Alves (Barcelona), Spain's Fernando Torres (Liverpool) and Xavi (Barcelona), Argentina's Lionel Messi (Barcelona) and Carlos Teves (Manchester City), France's Franck Ribery (Bayern Munich), Portugal's Cristiano Ronaldo (Real Madrid), the Netherland's Wesley Sneijder (Inter Milan) and Robin van Persie (Arsenal), Italy's Gianluigi Buffon (Juventus) and Andrea Pirlo (Inter Milan), the Ivory Coast's Didier Drogba (Chelsea) and Cameroon's Samuel Eto'o (Inter Milan).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Three</span>. The power of emotion, driven by national pride. These stars aren't only the most skilled in the world; they're among the wealthiest athletes on the planet. But they're not playing for a payday. They're playing for honor, for country, and, in many instances, immortality, both home and abroad.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Four</span>. The World Cup can be a dazzling rite of passage, with fresh talent – brilliantly gifted but too young to know any fear – showcasing their wares before the world. Such was the case for 17-year-old Edison Arantes do Nascimento, better known as Pele, when he won his first World Cup with Brazil in 1958 against Sweden. Who are the new stars? Watch for Javier "El Chicharito" Hernandez and Giovani Dos Santos of Mexico, Jozy Altidore of the United States, Eljero Elia of Netherlands, and Angel Di Maria of Argentina.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Five</span>. The opportunity to see something truly breathtaking. Some moments are famous, such as the logic-defying save by England's Gordon Banks of a header by Brazil's incomparable Pele during the 1970 World Cup in Mexico City, Brazil's Carlos Alberto's laser strike against Italy in the finals that same year, or France's legendary Zinadine Zidane imposing his will on Brazil in 1998 during a 3-0 victory that secured the only World Cup won by Les Bleus. Some are infamous, such as the "Hand of God" goal scored by Diego Maradona of Argentina (with his hand) against England in 1986, or Zidane's bizarre meltdown when he head-butted an Italian defender in the 2006 final, possibly costing France a second title.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Six</span>. Intriguing match-ups. The opening contest on June 11 – between Mexico and host South Africa – may reveal whether either team is a contender or pretender. The Group C match between England and the United States marks the 60th anniversary of one of the World Cup's most memorable upsets (a 1-0 US victory in 1950). Group G, with Brazil, Portugal, Cameroon and North Korea has been dubbed the "Group of Death," since at least one very good team will not advance. Plus, every team from every World Cup final since 1966 is in the field, a harbinger of epic battles between long-time adversaries during the knockout rounds.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Seven</span>. The ever-present possibility of an upset. Rarely do all the draws go according to plan, and trying to find the sleepers in the field of 32 is an odds-maker's nightmare For proof, consider the 2009 Federations Cup, a dress rehearsal for this year's World Cup. Spain came in riding a 35-game unbeaten streak, and the No. 1 ranking in the world. The Spaniards were poised to make it 36 straight against a United States squad that was playing like second-tier competition. The result? A dramatic 2-0 victory for the Americans. In 2002, the Republic of Korea made a gallant-but-improbable run to the semifinals (with wins over Italy, Portugal and Spain) on home soil. Could South Africa's Bafana Bafana, led by the sublime Steven Pienaar (Everton), make a similar run to silence their detractors?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Eight</span>. Who has home-field advantage? The World Cup has traditionally gone to countries that reside at least close to the host nation, notably Italy in 2006 (Germany), France in 1998 (France), Germany in 1982 (Spain), England in 1966 (England), and Argentina in 1986 (Mexico) and 1978 (Argentina). But there have been notable exceptions as well, such as Brazil in 2002 (Japan/South Korea), in 1994 (United States) and in 1958 (Sweden). South Africa, meanwhile, is a wild card. The smart money may be on Brazil's Samba Kings, as they've proven themselves to be historically road worthy. But don't count out traditional heavyweights Argentina, Italy, and Germany, all of which can win ugly, and the resurgent squads from Spain, Portugal, and the Netherlands.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nine</span>. The host nation, long known as a symbol of divisiveness and apartheid, is now poised to show the world it can take on the role as a great unifier. Persistent questions lingered prior to the event whether the organizing committee, and the 10 stadiums, would be ready. Time will tell.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ten</span>: You won't be alone. Millions and millions of fans, from the passionate to the casual, are expected to tune in to the games. So many, in fact, that it's impossible to calculate, or even estimate with any accuracy, how many viewers will be watching. <br /><br />I know I'll be watching! ;-)<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-86953103824927334032010-06-10T07:41:00.008-04:002010-06-10T09:18:00.988-04:00The Tool<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TBDQWwCnrNI/AAAAAAAAAaM/zJ3ruyH2MV4/s1600/bettman-fortune1.gif"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 287px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TBDQWwCnrNI/AAAAAAAAAaM/zJ3ruyH2MV4/s320/bettman-fortune1.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481109835781483730" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, with a side of rain<br /><br />I'm not sure what I enjoyed more last night; the Chicago Blackhawks hoisting their first Stanley Cup in 49 years, or Philadelphia fans roundly boo'ing one of the most despised commissioners in sports -- Gary "The Tool" Bettman. Now, Philly fans are notoriously tough on anyone from out-of-town, but Bettman gets hammered everywhere he goes. And with good reason. Hockey fans can't stand him, because they know he's not one of them. He's a tin-voiced little weasel who pretends to care about the game he oversees (OK, the "league" he oversees) because he's all about appearances. But, in truth, any real fan of this glorious game can see right through The Tool's insincere charade. The emperor, in this case, not only has no clothes ... He has no credibility.<br /><br />Let me be absolutely clear about this. Bettman doesn't give a rat's ass about the sport. He has no passion for hockey, and remarkably limited knowledge of its nuances, the skill involved, the rules, its history, or its cultural significance. He's an expensive suit, with an over-inflated ego, and nothing more. Bettman's arrogance probably blinds him to the fact that he's almost universally despised. He works for the owners, and his only job (for which he is paid quite handsomely) is apparently to save them from themselves. We lost an entire season of the best sports league on the planet because the owners couldn't agree, and Bettman somehow tried to flip responsibility for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2004%E2%80%9305_NHL_lockout">the lock-out</a> on the players. Again, it was so transparent that it was laughable (except for the reality that we lost that aforementioned season). The best thing to come out of the lock-out was an enterprising attempt to have a Stanley Cup playoffs among non-NHL teams. But Bettman and the NHL owners, brandishing their financial clout and legal brass-knuckles, squashed the idea like a misguided chipmunk on the Mass Turnpike.<br /><br />And why did we lose that season in 2004-05? So selfish owners like the Bruins' Jeremy "Greed is Good" Jacobs could guarantee themselves "cost certainty." You want cost certainty? Put a great product on the ice, and try capping the cost of a ticket to $45, and a 10-ounce Bud Light to, say, $5. That may not guarantee you billions, but you'll make a profit.<br /><br />Bettman likes to think he's the master of marketing, bringing the lessons that he learned at the feet of his mentor -- David "I'd rather be a tall black man" Stern of the NBA -- to the National Hockey League. Only two problems with that. First, have you seen an NBA regular-season game recently? Just brutal. This is a league that has managed to suck the life out of a potentially great game. Compare it to college hoops sometime. No contest. Second, the NBA isn't the NHL. While the NBA glorifies the individual ("How's that ring looking, Lebron ... Oh, sorry."), hockey and the NHL are about team, first, second, and always. There are great players, to be sure, but even the greatest -- from Howe to Orr to Gretzky -- understood the team was always the primary focus. And the secondary focus was a distant second.<br /><br />But Bettman doesn't get that. He thinks, "Worked for the NBA, should work for us." And that's why Pittsburgh is playing in the Winter Classic again, to match superstars Sid the Kid vs. Ovie. Funny, but neither of those two guys (great players both) made the semifinals this season. Karma? I like to think so.<br /><br />So keep boo'ing, Philly fans. I cringe every time I think of how your Flyers turned the tables on my Bruins this spring, but you made up for it last night. Bettman had the post-game microphone, but he certainly didn't have the gumption or the backbone to work the crowd. He knew he'd get torn apart. He'd get the same reception in Boston, Montreal, Chicago, Toronto ... anyplace where hockey is part of the social fabric. The NHL commissioner is nothing but a tool, and he's got to go! The sooner, the better.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-48585900467855234042010-06-09T08:50:00.006-04:002010-06-09T09:28:32.079-04:00Soccer is for hard men, Part 3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TA-WQn3g4EI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/uEbRgHevmWI/s1600/DislocatedFinger.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 303px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/TA-WQn3g4EI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/uEbRgHevmWI/s320/DislocatedFinger.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480764483857080386" border="0" /></a><br />A splitter day in Beantown!<br /><br />With all the buzz surrounding the upcoming World Cup, it's inevitable that the soccer-haters are coming out of their narrow-minded closets to make fun of a sport they either (A) don't understand, or (B) secretly fear, 'cause they know they wouldn't be any good at it (or, more likely, would have a heart attack trying to play, given the typical circumference of their waists). I have no problem shrugging off their lame-brain comments ... A quick, "Oh, you think it's easy? Come on out and play with us sometime" is an easy way to short-circuit their short-sighted arguments.<br /><br />Others complain about the lack of scoring, which always makes me think "If it were easy, everyone would be doing it." I've pretty much given up trying to convey that the very fact that goals are so rare, so difficult to come by, is what creates the exquisite tension that puts true fans on the edge of their seats. There are usually dozens, if not hundreds, of great plays in every game that don't result in the ball crossing the goal line, but they're great plays nonetheless.<br /><br />Still, what annoys me most is when these sports "expects" insinuate that soccer players aren't tough. The theatrics of most South American (excluding the great Lionel Messi) and Inter Milan players aside, futbol players often take a pounding. I'll admit the occasional flop, and I don't like seeing them (in fact, I love it when an opponent gets in a flopper's face, embarrassing them for embarrassing the game). But most replays reveal fouls, and often hard fouls. Which, of course, got me thinking of this essay I did a little while back for the wonderfully titled GeezerJock magazine (later renamed <a href="http://www.masters-athlete.com/">Masters Athlete</a>). Just another piece of evidence that soccer is, indeed, a contact sport.<br /><br /><span id="{D3FE0C5D-D479-480E-A4F5-D331E2BF6106}" style="font-weight: bold;">It only hurts when it hurts</span><br /><br />“How the heck do you hurt your <span style="font-style: italic;">hand</span> playing soccer,” asks my older brother, the orthopedic surgeon, obviously amused. “Aren’t you supposed to use your feet?”<br /><br />Very funny. I’ve become accustomed to these little digs, given my penchant for injuries and my refusal to stop playing the sports that put me in harm’s way. The worst moments are the Emergency Room visits. I'll never forget the day, 10 years ago, when my poor wife, eight months pregnant with our first child, drove me to the ER after a mountain bike mishap. I won't bore you with the details, except to say that it took eight stitches to close the gash on my right cheek, just below the eye (I still have no idea where that tree branch came from!). The doctor that day took one look at my swollen puss, glanced at my chart, and quipped condescendingly: “Mountain bike accident, huh? Shouldn’t you know better at your age?”<br /><br />The fact that he made the comment more than a decade ago tells you what I thought of his advice. A few months shy of my personal half-century mark (now that puts things in perspective), I still run, ski, snowboard, cycle (off- and on-road), skate a few nights a week in various hockey leagues, and play goalie for an Over-40 soccer team. We play in Boston’s Over the Hill Soccer League, a name that conveys the same gravity and levity as, well, the name of this publication.<br /><br />This past summer, our squad was asked to participate in an invitational match – a “friendly” – against a team from Gloucester during the city’s St. Peter’s Festival. Not 10 minutes into the second half, with our guys nursing a 2-1 lead, a Gloucester player made a nice move on the end line, and sent a sharp pass across the penalty box. Admittedly, 20 years ago, I might have gotten to the ball a bit faster. Then again, the attacking striker probably would have been quicker as well. In an instant, my hands, the soccer ball, and the striker's foot came together at the exact same moment. The foot won, as my opponent connected squarely with the ball, mashing the outside three fingers of my right hand in the process. Pain ripped through my arm like an electric current. Worst of all, the guy scored.<br /><br />I immediately knew I was hurt, but had no idea how bad. A teammate rushed up, asking: "What's wrong?"<br /><br />"I don't know," I answered. "My hand is messed up."<br /><br />As I grimaced, face down in the grass, another teammate removed my padded goalie gloves. All I heard was: “Oh, that’s what’s wrong.” When I finally worked up the nerve, I peeked at my right hand, and saw my ring finger bent unnaturally at a right angle, sideways. Someone's wife called 9-1-1, and I found myself the embarrassed center of attention as I slowly trudged off the field. The first responders took one look at my crooked digit, and said, legally, they couldn’t touch me. A paramedic, who didn’t have the same liability headaches, tried to pop the joint back into place, but to no avail (though he succeeded in dropping me to my knees). So I click-clacked in my cleats across the asphalt parking lot and sheepishly took a seat in an awaiting ambulance.<br /><br />Heading to the hospital, I thought an ambulance ride was justified for shredded knee ligaments or other major injuries, but making such a fuss over a dislocated finger seemed goofy. The attitude of the ER staff didn’t help. Granted, a 40-something guy in a soccer outfit will elicit giggles, but I would have appreciated some self-control, especially since most members of the staff were noticeably overweight (an oddly common occurrence at hospitals).<br /><br />My ER doctor, however, was completely empathetic. A short, spry women with running shoes and a lilting Irish accent, she checked out the finger, ordered X-rays, and said she'd be back in a jiffy to straighten things out. Self-consciously, I made a comment about feeling silly, playing a kid's game at my age.<br /><br />"At least you're out there," she replied without hesitation. "That’s the important thing."<br /><br />She was right. I'll be back on the field, once the hand heals, and if I can avoid any return trips to the ER. After all, the boys rallied to win the Gloucester game, and I don't want them thinking I'm expendable.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-8860641811679893612010-05-14T06:21:00.032-04:002010-05-20T12:29:19.401-04:00The Divot<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S_RLqjLA0mI/AAAAAAAAAZU/bZokZHkVKg4/s1600/BrionsButt.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S_RLqjLA0mI/AAAAAAAAAZU/bZokZHkVKg4/s320/BrionsButt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473082641530016354" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, allergy season<br /><br />Not all that long ago, my brother Sean and I were out for a road spin, decked out in full cycling regalia. The thing about cycling gear, to be blunt, is that there's no hiding anything. Ladies, you know what I mean (wink, wink!). Not that I have anything to, ahem, "show off," mind you. It's just the reality of Lycra. Whatever curves you've got will show, good curves as well as bad curves. Which is just a way of setting up this little anecdote about Sean and I pedaling along. He was drafting behind me when he suddenly asks, "What is up with your hip?"<br /><br />I turned around, and in the most sarcastic tone I could muster, say: "Oh, this hip? You mean this dent right here?" I pointed to the distinct crease in my left flank. "You don't remember Boys Weekend at Chris's house, when I got hurt, and everyone said I was faking it?" And therein lies the story.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Divot</span><br /><br />I'm not a cross-country ski guy. Never have been. Too much work. I like gravity, and I like chairlifts. Cross-country skiing is for those skinny, endorphin-fueled endurance athletes who can push their heart rates into the stratosphere and just motor all day long. I'm not built that way. So it was with some trepidation that I agreed, during a festive Boys Weekend one frosty February at my brother Chris's place in Washington, N.H., to a cross-country ski outing through the woods back behind his house.<br /><br />Now, we're not talking smooth, tracked cross-country trails here, like you might find at the Jackson Ski Touring Center. Nope, nothing even close. These were rough-cut logging roads (known colloquially in New Hampshire as Class VI highways!), better suited for ATVs and 4X4s. In fact, most World War II tanks would have trouble navigating some of these "roads." They're actually decent hiking trails during the warmer months, but during the thick of a Northeast winter, they're a minefield, loaded with booby traps lurking underneath a fresh cover of snow.<br /><br />There were at least six of us, including me, my brothers Sean and Chris, Tommy Duval, and two of Chris's college cohorts, Bill Riley and Tom Paul. A really good group of guys. We all knew the evening would be a raucous boozefest, as we had an enormous pot of chili simmering and enough tequila to keep a Mexican border town looped for days. So, we decided we'd do something good for our bodies before pickling our livers. It was a beautiful day, if I recall (it's been a good 10 years now), cold but crisp. We all had our skinny skis and poles, and Chris picked out one of his favorite "highways" for a little exploration.<br /><br />Admittedly, I had my doubts about our agenda. First, I've never been all that stable on cross-country skis, with my heels flopping all around. I've snowboarded and skied on alpine boards for years, and prefer the control that comes with having my heels locked down (again, requiring gravity's assistance). I understand the necessity to have a free heel during the push-and-glide movements of Nordic skiing, but the corresponding instability makes me a tad uncertain. Add to that the unpredictable terrain that Chris had selected, and I was sweating bullets long before I started red-lining my heart rate.<br /><br />The first hour was relatively uneventful, though the ruts and troughs in the trail were challenging, as were the dozens of downed trees that crisscrossed our route. Plus, the road wasn't flat. The uphill portions were a slog, and the downhills, combined with those inadequate bindings and my dubious Nordic skills, were much too sketchy for my liking. Still, we made the best of it, laughing at each other and our plodding attempts to master the art of skinny skis. Some, like Sean and Tom Paul, actually looked pretty good, but most of us just flailed about, huffing and puffing and I'm certain making the task more difficult than it needed to be. Finally, the group agreed that the trails weren't going to improve, and we decided that both the chili and the tequila had probably aged to perfection, and any delay in consumption would be a crime against humanity. So we turned around. And, immediately, we faced a downhill that suddenly looked a whole lot more daunting than it had during the previous climb.<br /><br />Eager to get back to Chris's house and the blender, I volunteered to go first. My enthusiasm proved my undoing. Despite a pizza wedge that would make any ski instructor proud, I kept picking up speed. Toward the bottom of the slope was a huge fallen pine suspended across the trail. For a split second, I envisioned impaling myself on one of its branches. So, I took the only option my oxygen-starved brain offered, which was a head-first dive. And damn if I didn't pull it off, pitching my 200-pound frame underneath the hulking trunk. And that's when a white flash of pain flashed through my body.<br /><br />Hidden underneath the pristine blanket of snow was a tree stump, and I found it squarely with my left hip. I knew instantly I had done some serious damage. I got light-headed, my stomach started doing cartwheels, and my leg actually began convulsing. But to the guys at the top of the hill, it was a perfectly executed Pete Rose dive, and as I was writhing in pain, they howled and shouted encouragement. For a little while. Finally, Sean, an orthopedic surgeon, came to my aid. At worst, we thought it was a bad bruise (after all, I have plenty of padding in that particular area). Regardless, it was a long, painful trek back to Chris's house. And the guys -- being guys -- kept riding me, unconvinced it was anything serious. I tried convincing them otherwise, but they wouldn't hear of it. And, of course, the last thing any red-blooded male wants to be called is a wimp. Never has being the "butt" of others' jokes been so rife with irony.<br /><br />That evening, I wasted no time in masking the pain with a few rounds of beer margaritas. I strapped a bag of ice to the hip, gulped down a few heavy-duty painkillers, and then let the tequila works its magic. The gang sat around for hours, sharing laughs, singing songs, telling tall tales, and generally getting shnockered. The overnight, though, was tough. Each time I rolled onto the hip, the stabbing pain woke me up. The next morning, unwilling to give in to the group's sophomoric taunts, I agreed to go on another cross-country outing, and even managed to fall on the same hip again, sending another bolt of agony through my gray matter. So much for discretion being the better part of valor.<br /><br />The accompanying photo was taken two weeks after the fall. That's how long it took for the bruises to surface (and spread). Sorry if it's a little risque, but there's really no modest way to take that shot. Believe it or not, it looked even worse a few days afterward, but this is the only photographic evidence I kept. After a month, Lauri convinced me to go see my doctor. His diagnosis? I had sheared some of the muscles in my hip (that was the divot), and adjacent bump was the torn fibers curling into a ball. "Well," I thought, "that would explain why it felt like the top of my head was ripped off." Eventually, the colors subsided. But the divot remains.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-52510730879884767412010-05-11T12:19:00.013-04:002010-05-12T10:57:58.736-04:00Escape from Causeway Street ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S-mD8_-Q2qI/AAAAAAAAAY0/m4nwFMuTWhM/s1600/BobbyOrrFlying.php"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S-mD8_-Q2qI/AAAAAAAAAY0/m4nwFMuTWhM/s320/BobbyOrrFlying.php" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470048306406152866" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, beautiful<br /><br />When I first heard of the idea of a Bobby Orr statue being erected by the TD Garden, I immediately felt torn. On one hand, I truly believe Orr was the greatest hockey player -- the most revolutionary and most complete player -- to lace on a pair of skates. I grew up in New Jersey, a fan of the New York Rangers, and I still admired Bobby Orr, as painful as it was at times (he almost singlehandedly beat the Blueshirts in the 1972 Stanley Cup finals). He could do anything on the ice -- pass, score, skate, defend, fight -- and he did it with a disciplined fury, with unmatched grace, and with humility. If there was ever a Bruin deserving of the honor of being cast in bronze, it's the pride of Parry Sound.<br /><br />On the other hand, knowing the marketing types that have infiltrated not only the Boston Bruins, but all of big-time professional sports, this kind of grand, public display smacks of self-serving, self-important self-promotion. Even Orr, the consummate professional, was never one to seek the limelight, and was more than likely a little embarrassed by all the hoopla surrounding the unveiling of the above statue yesterday. That's one of the reasons we loved him.<br /><br />Orr was always about "team." He lived and died with each win and each loss. The current Bruins owners are about ticket sales, beer and hot dog sales (at ridiculous prices), and profits. They erect a statue that symbolizes all that was once right with the franchise, unaware how it shines a very bright light on their own shortcomings. The statue captures Orr in mid-flight, having been upended after scoring one of the franchise's biggest goal, an overtime winner that beat the St. Louis Blues in 1970 and secured Boston's first Stanley Cup in 29 years. It's now been 38 years since the Cup has returned to Boston (a period highlighted by former Bruin great Ray Bourque visiting with the Cup he won in Colorado, a heartfelt tribute to his fans, and an absolute dagger to the hearts of Harry Sinden and the Jacobs family).<br /><br />Last year, the Bruins cruised through the regular season with one of the best records in the NHL, but stumbled badly in the playoffs, getting knocked out by Carolina in the second round. This year's squad, beset by injuries and anemic goal-scoring, barely squeezed into the playoffs. But they've proved a resilient bunch, and edged Buffalo in the first round before taking a 3-0 series lead against Philadelphia. They returned home Monday, still holding a commanding 3-1 series lead, when the Jacobs family decided to unveil the Orr statue, 40 years to the day that Bobby converted Derek Sanderson's slick behind-the-net pass.<br /><br />Inexplicably, the Bruins then proceeded to stink out the joint, getting throttled by Philadelphia in their own building. It was as if the hockey gods decided that no team owned by Jeremy Jacobs would benefit from trying to capitalize on Orr's good name and unblemished character. After last night's embarrassing 4-0 blow-out loss to the Flyers, summarized by Dennis "Man Cave" Wideman getting spun around with a broken stick and then simply watching as Simon Gagne rang up Philly's fourth goal, I thought of the Orr statue. What would he have thought about the Bruins' performance, the way they simply failed to show up? Funny ... as I took a look at the accompanying photo, Orr doesn't seem to be celebrating. He seems to be screaming: "Get me out of here!!!"<br /><br />Who could blame him?<br /><br />Best,<br />-BBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-66583086411845579612010-04-12T10:20:00.018-04:002010-04-27T19:14:38.691-04:00Denial<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S8jKqyiwzCI/AAAAAAAAAX0/24sTfr69574/s1600/DoctorsVisit2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S8jKqyiwzCI/AAAAAAAAAX0/24sTfr69574/s320/DoctorsVisit2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460837384657620002" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, with spring in full bloom<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Or are we just holding onto the things we don't have anymore?"</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-Jack Johnson</span><br /><br />Last week, after a six-week wait, I finally got in to see Dr. Henry Frissora, a local specialist in cardiovascular medicine at Beverly Hospital. Frissora was recommended by my ortho guy to rule out the possibility of a "sports hernia." Seems my groin injury is something of an elusive diagnosis, with no one really sure of exactly where the injury is, or what course of treatment to recommend. I've been battling a chronic groin pull for the better part of seven months now, and nothing I seem to do (rest, stretching, massage) seems to be helping the healing process.<br /><br />I just wanted an answer, even if it was the one thing I didn't want to hear, which was: "We're going to have to operate." My patience had been stretched thin, and my waistline had been stretched to the limit. Seven months of relative inactivity had pushed my fragile middle-age psyche to the uncharted and inhospitable waters. I don't mind being an Old Jock, but being a cranky, calcifying Old Jock is no fun, and no fun to be around. Just ask my bride.<br /><br />Anyway, turns out Henry "Hank" Frissora is an old buddy of my brother Sean (they did a residency together at New England Deaconess), so we spent the first 10 minutes or so just chit-chatting about family stuff. Then we started in on the particulars of why I was in his office. I'm an old hockey player, a goalie no less. Assorted aches and pains, typical orthopedic foibles, but no major (that I'm aware of) issues, such as a heart condition, high-blood pressure, diabetes, etc. Not taking any medications, other than the occasional horse pill of Ibuprofen. Hurt the groin in a scramble in front of my net early last September. Felt a definite "pop" on the right side. Gave it eight weeks, and started playing again in November. Re-injured it right after Thanksgiving. Haven't done much of anything since, except coaching my daughter's Squirt hockey team, and running the occasional goalie clinic.<br /><br />All the while, the good doctor scribbled notes, and reiterated the mantra I've been hearing for years: The human body wasn't designed to tolerate this kind of wear and tear over the course of a half-century. Plus, he tells me that injured areas tend to get re-injured with ever-increasing frequency. Essentially, I think Dr. Frissora, in his own polite way, was setting me up for what was coming next.<br /><br />After rehashing the injury and my subsequent litany of starts-and-stops, he decided to give the old groin an exam. Pushing his fingers into the soft, sensitive tissue covering my pelvis, he asks me to cough several times. I obediently cough, and wince. Cough, wince. I then jumped up on a cold, plastic-covered table, and let Dr. Frissora poke around for another few minutes.<br /><br />The good news? Dr. Frissora is pretty sure I don't have a sports hernia. That's a relief, since it a sports hernia would have meant certain surgery. The bad news? I waited a month and a half for a specialist to tell me he has no idea what's going on with my groin injury. In fact, he told me there were "70 to 80" different connections -- between muscles, tendons, ligaments, and other connective tissue -- all intersecting at the very spot where my thigh and pelvis join, and it could be any number of those that were out of whack. It could even be a hip problem that's manifesting itself as a groin injury. Not the definitive diagnosis I was hoping for.<br /><br />So, instead of setting a date for surgery, I get the name of a physical therapist. I'll call him, 'cause I still want answers. I understand what Dr. Frissora is saying. Start thinking about another leisure activity. But I'm not ready to go there. Not just yet. It may be denial, pure and simple, but I've always felt it's easier for doctors to recommend lifestyle changes than it is for the practitioner to give up something he or she truly loves. For now, my love is still blind.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-66734444007243242962010-04-02T10:52:00.003-04:002010-04-03T09:19:32.936-04:00The most solitary position in sports ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S7dAVr0QJCI/AAAAAAAAAXc/mPoNq54f8M8/s1600/BrionsStance.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 175px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S7dAVr0QJCI/AAAAAAAAAXc/mPoNq54f8M8/s320/BrionsStance.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455900214865962018" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, beautiful!!!<br /><br />Goalie camp? At 43? Why not? Goes to show you're never too old to take a puck upside the head. This account of one of the longest weeks of my life (albeit eight years ago) appeared in the now-defunct Hockey Magazine. The photo above comes from my once-in-a-lifetime outing last January, playing at Fenway Park in Boston (which you can read about <a href="http://thisoldjock.blogspot.com/2010/01/frozen-in-time.html">here</a>).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Net gain</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A 40-something goaltender tries to recapture his glory days</span><br /><br />Lying prone on a cool sheet of ice, gasping for air, I lapse into another Walter Mitty fantasy. I'm no longer at the Mount Vernon Recreation and Ice Center outside Washington, D.C., desperately trying to keep from overheating beneath 35-plus pounds of soaking-wet goaltending gear. No, I'm between the pipes at Madison Square Garden, sporting the home white sweater of my beloved Rangers. The time? Winter, 1974.<br /><br />Boston Bruins' winger Wayne Cashman is in the corner, mucking it up with Dale Roulfe, my Rock-of-Gibraltar defenseman. The puck squirts to the front of the net. Bruins' center Phil Esposito, on his way to a 68-goal season, pounces on it. He snaps off a lightning quick snap shot, low, stick-side. I instinctively flash my left leg pad. The puck glances off my toe buckle and flips harmlessly into the crowd. In the press box, Marv Albert screams into his microphone, "Kick save, O'Connor, and a beauty!" Color man Bill Chadwick, a Hall of Fame referee, chimes in: "This kid O'Connor came to play tonight ..." A goofy, satisfied grin creases my face.<br /><br />"O'Connor! Hey, O'Connor! You gonna play sometime today?" barks Gerry "Elroy" Ellison, part-time goalie instructor and full-time drill sergeant. I surface reluctantly from my reverie, blinking the sweat from my eyes, realizing I'm still at the Puckstoppers Goaltending School. Slowly, I pull my bruised body off the ice, and resume my post for the next drill. I want to blame my murky state of mind on taking a puck up side the head, but I can't. I'm hurting because I'm 43. Whatever fitness I brought to camp with me evaporated as quickly as my fantasy. And my instructors aren't cutting me much slack.<br /><br />At this precise moment, I'm struggling to recall exactly why I signed on for this five-day camp. There are vague recollections - I not only hoped to recapture some of my youth, but I wanted to make sure the guys in the late-night league back home in Boston weren't thinking I'd gotten soft. Several of my goaltending colleagues have been entertaining thoughts about hanging up their pads and skates, which only hardened my resolve to turn back the clock.<br /><br />Truth is, I never had any formal education in the science of goaltending. My coaches in high school and the early days of college were former position players - forwards and defensemen - who had trouble relating to goalies. As other hockey players will attest, goalies are a singular breed, requiring special tutoring (or, as one derisive teammate once told me, “custom-made strait jackets”).My education was self-imposed - I ceaselessly studied Hall of Famer Jacques Plante's tome, "On Goaltending," until the book’s binder nearly disintegrated, and tried to apply its lessons to my game.<br /><br />Recently, on the downhill side of my athletic career but still playing a few times each week, my mind shifted into a "now or never" mode. I could soldier on, a half-decent, middle-age goalie, or I could try to pick up my game a notch. What I needed was some top-notch instruction. I found it with Puckstoppers, an Ontario-based outfit that visits Alexandria, Virginia, each summer for a week. You might not think of the District of Columbia and its environs as a hotbed for hockey. Think again.<br /><br />At the end of every morning session, dozens of pick-up players were lining up for noontime "stick practice." Back home in Massachusetts, many rinks shut down in the summer. Mount Vernon ice director Ernie Harris tells me "This place was originally designed to have two rinks. If I had that second sheet, I could book it solid."<br /><br />On the first morning of camp, I sat in snarled Beltway traffic, listening with a jaded ear to Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days" on the radio, wondering whether I still had the goods, and whether I'd be the only gray-haired keeper in the class. Heck, I'd have settle for anyone who could legally join me for a beer afterward.<br /><br />Fortunately, I met two guys my age - Gerry Oakman, who works with the Justice Department, and Joe O'Connell, a family doctor from Arkansas. Both have Boston-area roots, and share an almost inexplicable love for hockey. We hit it off immediately. In hindsight, that's not surprising.<br /><br />Goalies are naturally drawn to each other. We’re part of a team, yet stand apart – masked loners, solitary watchmen standing guard by our nets the entire game, an army of one. Other players don’t know what to make of us, but most are convinced that only someone with a few screws loose would actually volunteer to play our position. Buried under layers of unwieldy gear and confined to a limited skating area, goalies stick out like ocean liners surrounded by speedboats. Together, we make up an odd fraternity, a fellowship of proud masochists.<br /><br />Our task is simple: Stop a vulcanized rubber puck, an inch thick and three inches in diameter, from entering a 4-by-6 foot goal. With composite sticks and curved blades, even recreational players can fire a puck upwards of 100 miles an hour. Adding insult to potential injury, the very nature of the position leads to more criticism than applause. We give up goals, but don't score them. We're often blamed for losses, but only occasionally praised for victories. We are, in short, the team’s lightning rod.<br /><br />Oakman recalls a Plante quote - "How would you like to have a job, that when you made a mistake, a big red light went on and 18,000 people booed?"<br /><br />"For me, that's a motivator, to join a very select group of men and women who step up to meet that challenge," says Oakman.<br /><br />Challenge indeed. I always thrived on goaltending’s unique reality – by the position’s very nature, the goalie is the one player who can single-handedly stop an entire team from winning. After all, if the opponent doesn’t score, you can’t lose. And on those rare games when I’m really focused and feeling invincible, the puck looks the size of a balloon, and moves about as quick. In my mind’s eye, it seems I can see where the puck is going even before the shot is fired. Granted, those moments didn’t come often enough to sustain my dream of a pro career or Division I scholarship. But even now, when they happen, they’re magic.<br /><br />Unfortunately, I quickly realize there’s nothing “magical” about goalie camp. I understand it’s purpose and promise, but I’m ill prepared for the workload. For the next five days, two hours each morning, two each afternoon, Ellison and his Puckstoppers colleagues run us through a gamut of drills and instruction designed to improve our game. Or kill us.<br /><br />We work on stance, movement, angles, low shots, high shots, deflections, rebounds, breakaways. Shooting machines fire pucks at us relentlessly - one nicks a crease in my armor, just above my blocker, and my elbow stings for hours. During each session, usually following some tortuous skating or agility drill, Oakman, O'Connell and I exchange futile glances and muted words of encouragement. Sweat pours from old pores as we struggle to keep pace with youngsters a fraction of our age. Each day, we wonder aloud whether we can finish the week. Parents of younger campers look at us as though we've lost our marbles. Incredulous, I reply: "Hey, we're goalies!"<br /><br />The inference, I trust, is crystal clear - goaltenders, whether young or aging, are by definition a bit off-center. We all survive - barely.<br /><br />"I'm sure people were giggling behind my back," says O'Connell, who admits hoping to play well into his 60s. "Screw 'em. I always wanted to do this."<br /><br />Two weeks after I hauled my oversized bag of goalie gear from the Mount Vernon Ice Center for the last time, and the aches have finally subsided, my evaluation from the Puckstoppers gang arrives. I glance at the list of the position's finer points, including everything from dexterity, glove saves and rebounds. Most of my ratings fall in the "fair" category, with some "good" and a few "excellent" marks. Charity points, I figure. Head coach Chris Dyson reminds me, "glove in front, pads a bit apart."<br /><br />"If you work on those small points, your game will be huge," writes Dyson. "Unfortunately, there were so many 'small things' I can't remember them all!"<br /><br />Dyson's good-natured jab is followed by a happy-face doodle. I can read between the lines. I'm being told, gently, "Don't quit your day job." Walter Mitty would be crushed. Not me. Come tomorrow night, I'll be down at the rink, facing rubber.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-49791570782612341922010-03-31T09:28:00.007-04:002010-03-31T23:29:17.695-04:00Unfinished business ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S7NSetYPTvI/AAAAAAAAAWs/AQOdpyWN9hU/s1600/DelbartStJoes.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S7NSetYPTvI/AAAAAAAAAWs/AQOdpyWN9hU/s320/DelbartStJoes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454794261206617842" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, overcast<br /><br />I absolutely love this story, as it gets to the core of what <span style="font-weight: bold;">This Old Jock</span> is all about. I wrote two quick hits, one for the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/29/sports/hockey/29measles.html?ref=sports">New York Times</a> (which ran with the accompanying photo), and one for New York Magazine's web site. Here's the unabridged version, which I think captures more of the soul of the event.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Frozen in time</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">1989 teams reconnect to play canceled championship game</span><br /><br />Talk about delayed gratification. When Delbarton's Mike Pendy and St. Joseph's Kenny Blum skate into the face-off circle for the opening drop of the puck on Saturday, April 3, at Mennen Arena in Morristown, N.J., it will be the culmination of a long, long wait. Twenty-one years, to be exact. More than a lifetime, considering that Pendy, Blum and their teammates, now all in their late 30s, were fuzzy-faced teenagers in 1989 when the two teams were first set to meet for the New Jersey high school hockey championships.<br /><br />That game, however, never happened. In one of the most peculiar episodes in high school sports, the 1989 championship game, scheduled for March 18, was canceled due to a measles outbreak the affected both students and teachers at Delbarton, an all-boys commuting prep school in Morristown.<br /><br />"It was the most bizarre thing," said James Olsen, a senior Delbarton defenseman in 1989 who now works for Bank of America Merrill Lynch. "The school brought us into the auditorium to announce [the cancellation]. I honestly thought it was going to be a last-minute pep rally. It took a little time to register."<br /><br />Until that decision, it looked like a dream final between the state's two top teams – St. Joseph's of Montvale sported a 24-2-1 mark, while Delbarton was seeded No. 2 with a 24-3-2 record – that had rosters littered with all-state selections. Two players, Kenny Blum of St. Joe's and Derek Maguire of Delbarton, would be selected in the 9th round of the National Hockey League draft later that spring. Then, in an instant, the game was scrapped.<br /><br />The Delbarton coach, Jim Brady, vividly remembers that Friday, having practiced in the morning before attending business meetings in Princeton. Afterward, he drove to meet his team for a pre-game dinner. In the parking lot, he bumped into Olsen, who relayed that the game was canceled. "I thought he was kidding me," said Brady. "I walked into the restaurant, and there were all the kids, and it was like a morgue."<br /><br />The finality of the state's decision, say the players, didn't hit home until the following week. A few days later, the New Jersey State Interscholastic Athletic Association's executive committee declared the two teams co-champions, and what might have been the greatest hockey final in New Jersey history was relegated to some dust-covered record book. It remains the only time co-champions have been declared in hockey.<br /><br />"That was a pretty low moment for everybody," said Olsen. "We weren't going to have another shot it. Not everyone was going to play at college; some weren't going to be continuing their hockey at any competitive level. It was a lost opportunity."<br /><br />On April 3, though, these players from 1989 will have the rare opportunity of a second chance. The thought of actually playing the game – dubbed the Frozen Flashback – started as a lark last spring. Talk began percolating after an off-hand comment by Pendy, a center on the '89 Delbarton squad, in a Star-Ledger article on the 20th anniversary of the non-game. "Maybe we could get all these guys together 20 years later, lace up the skates somewhere and play that game," the former Green Wave assistant captain told the Star-Ledger. While Pendy's quote prompted a few giggles, no one took it seriously, given the logistics of trying to bring 46 players together two decades after the fact. No one, that is, except Scott Williams.<br /><br />Williams, a defenseman on the '89 St. Joe's team, saw parallels between the lost final and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Best of Times</span>, a 1986 comedy starring Robin Williams as an aging banker who couldn't forgive himself for dropping the touchdown pass (thrown perfectly by Kurt Russell) that cost his teammates, and town, bragging rights against their arch rival. Soon, Williams hatched a plan to combine that storyline with the quintessential hockey movie – Paul Newman's <span style="font-style: italic;">Slap Shot</span> – and the blueprint for the Frozen Flashback took shape. Buoyed by the support he got from an ESPN.com column by John Buccigross, Williams reached out to Delbarton.<br /><br />He was steered toward Olsen ("James is always one to think big," said teammate Peter Ramsey), who was initially skeptical. But Williams struck a nerve when he unveiled his idea of the game being a charity for cancer research. Williams's mother Janice has brain cancer, and he thought the game could be a terrific fund-raising vehicle. Olsen, who recently lost his father to cancer, was taken with Williams's sincerity, and agreed to pitch in.<br /><br />"That was really critical to making this event meaningful," said Olsen. "We're going to do some real tangible good for people who are suffering. Everybody I know has been touched in one way or another by cancer. It's devastating. I like the fact that people are going to use this opportunity to support a good cause."<br /><br />The players also responded, with a reported 40 of the original 46 signing on. "It's timeless," said Maguire, an all-star defenseman who later played at Harvard and two years with the Montreal Canadiens’ top farm team. "Whether you're 17 or 40, you want to play the game."<br /><br />"If anybody felt bad about what happened 21 years ago, they can feel good about it now," echoed Blum, who had an 11-year professional career after being drafted by the Minnesota North Stars. "We're not raising millions and millions of dollars, but we're doing something to contribute to a cause that needs as much help as possible."<br /><br />To make up for roster shortfalls, each team can add five players (they must be alumni and have graduated prior to 1989). The prevailing enthusiasm, say former teammates, is a testament to the strong bond that hockey engenders. "What's been great is getting the whole community back together," said Maguire. "It's been fun to see to see the guys coming out of the woodwork."<br /><br />Employing myriad connections through hockey, work, and their respective schools, Frozen Flashback organizers secured a number of corporate sponsorships, most notably Gatorade. According to Ramsey, a former Delbarton left wing and current managing director at Barclays Capital, the organizing group is close to covering its costs, and expects to top its fund-raising goal of $100,000 for cancer research. A prime beneficiary will be the NHL's Hockey Fights Cancer program, as well as Jam for Janice, the Valerie Fund, and the respective schools. At the insistence of New Jersey Devils co-owner and Delbarton grad Michael Gilfillan, there was some thought given to the Prudential Center hosting the game, but that plan proved unwieldy. Instead, Gilfillan used his NHL contacts to acquire a number of items for the game's online auction including signed jerseys from superstars Wayne Gretzky, Alex Ovechkin, Sidney Crosby, and Mario Lemieux—a cancer survivor himself. The MSG Network is on board to broadcast the game, which will be held at the 2,800-seat Mennen Arena, the original site of the championship match.<br /><br />"The great thing about playing at Mennen, is that the place was packed for our games," said Olsen of Delbarton's home rink. "It was a great experience being on the ice in front of those crowds, and now we have one more opportunity to do it."<br /><br />Of course, the prospect of a full house has players thinking they've got to put on a good show. Many skate regularly. Others are returning to the rink with a vengeance, touting new gear and a determination to recapture the fitness of their youth. All expect a good, clean game. "Some people are trying to portray this as a grudge match, and nothing could be further from the truth," said Ramsey. Pendy agreed. "There's bound to be some apprehension, but once the puck drops, I think everyone's going to have a good time with it and make it a class event."<br /><br />The modified rules will mirror an adult recreation league: Full checking is prohibited, though contact is allowed. John Lively, a forward on St. Joe's '89 team and now a lieutenant for the Mount Vernon, NY, fire department, confirmed that Juan DeCarlo, one of the original referees scheduled for the 1989 game, will officiate the April 3 match.<br /><br />"Hockey players are, by nature, competitive, and once the adrenaline gets pumping, that competitiveness is going to kick in," said Williams. "When we get on the ice, it's going to be us against the them."<br /><br />Both sides have also decided that the game can't end in a tie; there will be a winner on April 3, even if it means sudden-death overtime. "I don't think anybody would want that," said Blum, chuckling. "Other than the charity part, that would be defeating the purpose."<br /><br />There are no plans, however, to petition the NJSIAA to name the Frozen Flashback winner as the 1989 champion. "We kidded around about that, but I don't think it would be fair in terms of history," said Williams, laughing. "First, I don't think the state would go for it. And, at the end of the day, you can't have a title based on what happens 21 years later. Plus, the event has taken on such a larger cause."<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For details on the April 3 game, and the online auction, visit FrozenFlashback.com. </span>BrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-71422051660002831172010-03-23T14:03:00.005-04:002010-03-23T14:28:59.675-04:00Farewell to a fellow netminder<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S6kEioIlf8I/AAAAAAAAAVU/USnNHCx4oEY/s1600-h/ChickDeAngelis.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S6kEioIlf8I/AAAAAAAAAVU/USnNHCx4oEY/s400/ChickDeAngelis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451893816844189634" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, more rain<br /><br />Heard from a good friend today that Chick DeAngelis recently passed away. The news was hardly shocking, but saddened me just the same. Our local rinks lost a true character when they lost Chickie. DeAngelis spent some six decades between the pipes. He was a medical marvel, and an inspiration to many, not just old goalies, but hockey players of every stripe. The following is a profile I wrote about Chick for The Hockey Magazine in 2002. Seems like yesterday. RIP, Chick.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Golden-age Goalie</span><br /><br />So, you think you've had a bad day on the ice? Missed a few open passes, an open net, or a defensive assignment that led to a goal or two? Maybe got a little banged up?<br /><br />Now compare your bad day to the one Angelo "Chick" DeAngelis had on April 28, 1998. That was the day Chick's heart stopped. Cold. On the ice. Two days after his 68th birthday, playing in a stick practice with Bruins alumni at Hockeytown USA in Saugus, Mass., DeAngelis nearly dropped dead right in his goal crease.<br /><br />"It was just a pick-up game," says DeAngelis, an East Boston native. "I was out there playing, and next thing I remember, I was in a hospital bed, four days later. I was just looking around, and I asked a nurse, 'what am I doing here?' "<br /><br />According to retired State Sen. Robert Buell, who was also playing, State Trooper Dave O'Leary saved DeAngelis as stunned players, including Terry O'Reilly and Brad Park, looked on. Seconds after DeAngelis "collapsed on his face," Sgt. O'Leary rushed to his aid, recognizing the signs of a heart attack, started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and directed others to perform chest compressions, says Buell.<br /><br />Once breathing, DeAngelis was transferred to Melrose Wakefield Hospital. Longtime friend James "Jay" DeMarco recalls that DeAngelis was upset, not because his game ended with an ambulance ride, but because the emergency medical staff had to cut off his favorite jersey to resuscitate him. The thought that his hockey playing days might be over never entered his mind. "He didn't care about the heart attack," says DeMarco. "He just wanted to know when he could get back in the net."<br /><br />A week and a half later, doctors open up Chick's chest, and Roto-Rootered 60 years of heavy foods from his arteries during quadruple bypass surgery. "I asked them, 'If you're going to do surgery, I want to know if I'll be able to play hockey again. If not, then don't do it.' They told me 'You have to have the surgery. Your arteries are clogged. That's why you had the attack.' "<br /><br />Within three months, Chick strapped the pads back on, and was back between the pipes at Hockeytown. "The doctor said to me, 'Take your time. Do a little here and there, because this thing takes about a year to heal.' I said 'We'll see.' Two months later, I felt fine, so I figured I'd try it out on the ice."<br /><br />DeAngelis started slow - "only two or three times a week" - but was soon playing almost every weekday. "People were telling me my life would be over after the heart attack, to sit down and watch television the rest of my life," he says. "But that wasn't going to happen to me. I wasn't going to let the attack stop me. I was going to fight. And I beat it. And I'm still here."<br /><br />Even today, at 72, DeAngelis still plays three to five times a week (usually after putting in an early morning shift at his family's bakery) in Saugus, Stoneham and Peabody, patrolling the goal line, never backing down, never shying away from the puck or the action. If he's got extra energy at the end of the day, he'll head to a local gym to work out on the treadmill or exercise bike.<br /><br />"Chick is a legend," says Dave Fessenden, a regular at the noontime stick practice in Peabody, Mass.<br /><br />"What can you say about a guy who loves the sport so much?" says John Cluett, 55, another Peabody regular. "He plays the game with enthusiasm and a lot of gusto. He doesn't ask for any quarter, and he doesn't give any quarter. I've never seen him duck, never heard him ask anyone to ease up."<br /><br />A shade over five-feet tall, DeAngelis's head barely reaches above the crossbar. On that head you'll usually find a vintage Jacques Plante fiberglass mask, painted bright gold, tailored with custom padding (Chick's tried the newer, more popular cage/helmet combinations, but "I just can't get comfortable with them."). While the mask reminds some younger players of the homicidal Jason from the "Friday the 13th" horror movies, others, like Cluett, find themselves transported to another place and time.<br /><br />"The first time I saw the old-style mask, I was thinking, 'Damn, that was one of the first things I recall about hockey,' " says the 55-year-old from Gloucester. "It brought me back to the '60s, and my high school hockey days."<br /><br />Fessenden admits "I sat on the bench with him one day, and I said to him, just joking around, 'Chick, why don't you show these guys how tough you are and play without a mask.' And he said to me, 'I did that for 22 years.' That right there gives you some idea of the longevity he's had."<br /><br />DeAngelis began playing in the 1940s, during the war years. "Once I learned to skate, I found that goaltending fascinated me," he says. "It looked like such a challenging position. And I've been playing the position ever since, for more than 55 years."<br /><br />He's not particularly impressed with the current crop of pro goalies ("It's the equipment, it's a lot bigger. That's why these goalies are playing better."), but admits the game has gotten much quicker, even if players rely too much on the slap shot ("I try to tell kids to learn the wrist shot. The slap shot is much easier, one direct line - boom! But with the wrist shot, you don't know where it's going."). And his eyes still light up as he recalls the exploits of the great Glenn Hall, Turk Broda of the Maple Leafs, Bill Durnam of the Canadiens, and the Bruins' own Sugar Jim Henry and Frankie "Mr. Zero" Brimsek.<br /><br />"He still refers to Tony Esposito as 'the kid who gets beat upstairs,' " says DeMarco, another East Boston goalie, with a laugh. "Tony O is my hero, but Chick will just say 'He's excellent down low, but you can beat him up top.' "<br /><br />Which simply proves that DeAngelis not only loves to play, but he's a student of the game. ""He'll come to my games, and give me advice, like 'Jay, you're not cutting your angles down enough.' And I listen to every word he says, because it's backed up by 50 years of experience." That experience also provides a silver lining for the silver-haired set - the belief that they're never too old to play.<br /><br />"I started skating again 8-9 years ago, and I was feeling a little guilty, playing hockey with a bunch of kids," says Fessenden, now 53. "When Chick showed up, I started thinking, 'Maybe I can just play hockey because I love it.' And that's the inspiration that he's given me - he's out there at his age, playing the toughest position on the ice, the most dangerous one. The biggest joke with my wife is that Chick's extended my career at least 20 years."<br /><br />Others agree. "Just dragging all that gear through the door is an inspiration." says Cluett, with a smile.<br /><br />"Chickie is proof that if you stick to your dreams, if you believe in something with a passion, you'll always stay young," says DeMarco. "He inspires me to want to play until my last days. That's what he wants - he wants to die right in the net."<br /><br />Fortunately for those who've met DeAngelis during the past four years, his time didn't end on that fateful day in April, 1998.<br /><br />All the best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-74720487549580582962010-03-11T17:42:00.024-05:002010-03-30T07:09:54.819-04:00The annual physical<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S7HX601-Y9I/AAAAAAAAAWU/lrpO_VjnWyE/s1600/AnnualPhysical.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 223px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S7HX601-Y9I/AAAAAAAAAWU/lrpO_VjnWyE/s320/AnnualPhysical.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454378029339796434" border="0" /></a>CONSUMER WARNING: The following blog entry contains material of explicit nature, which some readers may find unsettling, or even disturbing!<br /><br />Boston, waiting for the storm<br /><br />There are few things in life more revealing, or more, um, invasive, than the annual physical. Not confession, not those heart-to-heart chats with my bride, not those long, soul-searching conversations with the man in the mirror. Nope, the annual physical exam takes the cake, because your body doesn't lie.<br /><br />This year, I shuffled into Dr. Taylor's office resigned to hear the worst. It hadn't been a good year, physically speaking, and my body was a veritable road map of inactivity. Between a banged up shoulder (the result of a nasty over-the-handlebars mountain bike spill) and a persistent groin injury, my cycling and hockey playing had been severely curtailed over the past 18 months. And the proof was hanging over my belt. I had packed on at least a good 20 pounds of lard, absolutely useless adipose tissue. I knew that wasn't going to go over well with Dr. Taylor, a straight-shooter who I've known for almost a quarter century now.<br /><br />A nurse in pajamas takes me through the rudimentary, baseline tests. I'm still a shade over 6-foot-2, which means I haven't started to shrink, vertically speaking. Horizontally, I continue to expand. My weight now hovers around 230. I'm tempted to toss off every last stitch of clothing, but I know that's not going to make much of a difference. The fact that the nurse says my weight "isn't bad" for someone my height and age (52 now) tells me all I need to know about the collective health of this country. She says the same for my pulse and blood pressure readings, which, if you charted on a graph for the past 15 years, would look like the front side of the Matterhorn. "OK," I tell myself, "you knew this wasn't going to be pretty."<br /><br />So the doc comes in and, patiently, listens to my concerns and my confessions (I always feel, somehow, that I've let him down when I've let myself go). Some things are a natural byproduct of age ... the fading eyesight and faulty hearing. Others -- primarily a waistline running amok and the loss of muscle tone and flexibility -- are self-imposed. Dr. Taylor nods and smiles, pokes and prods, and records all the salient points on his laptop. In his matter-of-fact style, he tells me what I already know: I'm woefully out of shape, and need to turn things around if I hope to keep pursing any kind of truly "active" lifestyle. Actually, he didn't say "woefully," but I know better.<br /><br />No physical, of course, is complete without "the exam." And Dr. Taylor, always the gentleman, always saves this indelicate test for last. I honestly don't mind the notorious digital exam. Not that it's pleasant, mind you, but it sure beats the alternative of not knowing if I might have prostate issues. Rarely can ignorance be more dangerous.<br /><br />But everything seems to check out OK this time around. I pull up my trousers, and think about pulling myself up by the bootstraps and getting back into a sensible, and serious, exercise routine. I owe it to Lauri and the girls. And I owe it to myself.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-49281052529925052622010-03-09T08:41:00.004-05:002010-03-09T08:57:50.875-05:00Skiing back through the years<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S5ZSZvTO49I/AAAAAAAAATs/cdqF0oPKnPs/s1600-h/HamSkiTow.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S5ZSZvTO49I/AAAAAAAAATs/cdqF0oPKnPs/s320/HamSkiTow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446631401498534866" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, another splitter day! Sweet!<br /><br />Skiing has such a rich history here in Northeast, and few places capture the lore as well as the New England Lost Ski Area Project, the brainchild of Massachusetts native Jeremy Davis. Just perusing the site, uncovering details of areas I'd been to, or heard about, of live nearby, such as Hamilton Ski Tow, pictured at right (I have no idea who that handsome character is), tugs at This Old Jock's nostalgic heart. This feature was written for the <a href="http://www.skijournal.com/">New England Ski Journal</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Lost but Not Forgotten</span><br /><br />There’s a distinct paradox at the intersection of Jeremy Davis’ vocation and his cherished pastime. At his “real” job, as a meteorologist for Weather Routing Incorporated in upstate New York, Davis forecasts the future, guiding tankers and cargo ships over the Seven Seas. But in his free time, Davis delves into the past, embracing his avocation — the New England Lost Ski Area Project (NELSAP).<br /><br />“I’ve always been fascinated by the way things change over time, how things evolve, through history,” says Davis from his home in Wilton, N.Y., outside Saratoga.<br /><br />Davis, a 32-year-old Massachusetts native who graduated from Lyndon State College in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, admits he’s stuck in a time warp. He launched the NELSAP website (nelsap.org) as a hobby during his junior year in 1998. The idea sprung from a childhood curiosity with defunct ski areas, such as Mount Whittier in New Hampshire or Mount Agamenticus in southern Maine, that his family discovered during summer travels. He started with six and expected to find another 100 or so. At the most, 200. Instead, he uncovered more than 400 in the first few years. What he also learned was that he wasn’t alone in his love of ski lore. The site unleashed a tidal wave of nostalgia among thousands of skiers, young and old alike, and particularly Baby Boomers now taking the time to look in their personal rear view mirror at the winters of their youth.<br /><br />“People like that lost Americana stuff, like lost diners, lost railroads and lost amusement parks,” says Davis. “This idea fits into that. It’s all fun, all positive memories. We’re representing the good times from the past for a lot of people.”<br /><br />Narrowly defined, Davis’ site now catalogues more than 600 “lost” ski areas, ranging from tiny backyard slopes to larger resorts. Many were cozy areas with a few lifts, typically rope tows, J-bars and T-bars, maybe a lodge, and about a half-dozen trails. Close to Boston, for example, there’s Boston Hills on Route 114 in North Andover (where you can still barely make out the ragged silhouettes of the trails). Or, in my backyard on Boston’s North Shore, there once was Hamilton Hills. (“I remember the rope tow there,” a friend who grew up here told me. “It used to rip your mittens right off your hands.”)<br /><br />But relegating NELSAP to narrow definitions is a disservice to Davis’ work. In reality, the NELSAP site is a vibrant, teeming community, a living history of a sport that, to many, is synonymous with New England winters. A decade after its launch, the site still averages 900 visitors a day, and the NELSAP discussion board rivals any on the web unrelated to the Las Vegas line. That’s because, with each ski area, the site captures a place and time capable of setting off a torrent of tales. Those memories are all the more prized because most of these areas no longer exist. NELSAP mends a frayed connection strained by the passing of decades — a cyber world where temperamental lifts run from sunrise to sunset and the snow flies forever.<br /><br />Glenn Parkinson, president of the New England Ski Museum in North Conway, N.H., understands the deep vein that Davis is mining. Parkinson coined the phrase “lost ski areas” in “First Tracks,” his book on Maine ski history. He added a final chapter on lost ski areas as an afterthought and was stunned by the response.<br /><br />“It really struck a chord and made ski history local and made it personal,” he says. “Jeremy’s taken it one step further by putting it on the Internet.<br /><br />“What Jeremy has done with NELSAP is tapped into people who are in their teens, 20s and 30s, as well as their 50s and 60s. It brings people in to see their own personal history, and that sparks an interest in the broader context of ski history.”<br /><br />Across the six-state region, particularly Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, today’s mega-resorts conjure images of graceful turns on groomed slopes. It’s easy to forget that alpine skiing as we know it, either as a sport or a livelihood, didn’t exist a century ago. But in those hundred short years, the sport has undergone an incredible transformation. Skiing captivated us. With the advent of rope tows and chairlifts, ski areas began popping up like drive-in theaters. Soon, ski trains started hauling well-heeled adventure-seekers from the urban centers of Boston and New York to northern outposts including Stowe, Vermont and North Conway, N.H.<br /><br />Local areas — true mom and pop operations — sprouted everywhere, creating new generations of skiers, and establishing a relatively inexpensive feeder system for the bigger resorts. I’m a product of those times, growing up in the 1960s just outside of New York City. My siblings and I admired legends including Jean-Claude Killy and Billy Kidd, and tried to imitate their exploits on any incline we could find. Often, those delusions of grandeur were played out on tiny, rough-cut hills near my grandparents’ home in Manchester, N.H.<br /><br />Most, sadly, have vanished. The 1970s were especially harsh on smaller slopes, when a confluence of high gas prices, a spike in insurance premiums and several severe snow droughts forced many to close. Often, a padlock was slapped on the lodge, and owners simply walked away. At others, equipment was auctioned off. All left behind spectral trails that grow more dim with each passing year.<br /><br />Still, like any history, evidence of these “lost areas” remains. There are photographs and illustrated trail maps, brochures and patches, newspaper accounts and magazine articles. Much of the proof is as ephemeral, and elusive, as memories, oral tales passed down through generations, recollections of those who braved Old Man Winter, donning leather boots and strapping on spring-loaded bindings and wooden boards.<br /><br />There also are tangible vestiges of these bygone slopes — base lodge foundations, warming huts, lift shacks and engines, tower stanchions, entire lifts. These remnants, distant cousins of the hand-built stone walls that lace old farms or fishing villages dating back to Revolutionary times, are cables connecting us to the past, a testament to skiing’s New England legacy.<br /><br />“You can almost see all the people having fun, the way things used to be,” says Davis, acknowledging that the kinship that once defined the sport is fading. “It’s definitely a different experience now, and a lot of these areas are catering to the upper-class vacationer, rather than the neighborhood kid.”<br /><br />Today, having recorded close to 600 lost areas in New England alone, and almost a hundred more elsewhere in the Northeast, Davis can barely keep pace with the free flow of photographs, memorabilia, written recollections and historical fact. Combined with technological advances, from satellite photography to digitized articles, Davis is awash in material for the site.<br /><br />“People are giving me more information than ever,” says Davis, who admits that his responsibilities as a full-time forecaster and homeowner have cut into the time once devoted to the website. “The floodgates are open. But the great thing about e-mails is that they never go away. I have all that information, and it’s all great stuff.”<br /><br />Davis also loves sleuthing lost areas year-round, on skis, on snowshoes or on foot, and often organizes NELSAP outings. What’s the attraction? “Why do you go to a ghost town?” Parkinson replies. “It’s the mystery.”<br /><br />For Davis, seeing these slopes in person brings them to life, strengthening that bond. “When I visit these areas, I always try to find pictures from newspapers or magazines, to see what they were like 20, 30, 40 years ago,” he says. “Then, when I’m looking up at an overgrown slope, with its broken-down lifts, I try to mentally picture everything that was going on. You can just use your imagination, like a Polaroid camera, to erase the trees, and eventually see the place as it looked back then.”<br /><br />However, there also is a sense of urgency about Davis’ efforts. Not only are the areas being lost to time’s inexorable march, but so are those who were so connected to the sport’s earlier days. “Time is running out to document a lot of the areas, particularly the more obscure ones,” he says. “They’re either being developed, or they’ve grown in so much that they’re totally indistinguishable.”<br /><br />At the ripe old age of 32, Davis has a renewed perspective with the realization that several areas he skied at as a youngster, such as King Ridge in New Hampshire, have shut down. There also is the human component. Memories fade, and older skiers, get, well, older. Many are now gone, taking their memories and stories with them.<br /><br />“We only have so many years before a lot of these older skiers unfortunately pass away,” says Davis. “We’re at an age when there are still people who remember skiing in the ’30s, but in another 10 years we’re not going to have that many people left.”<br /><br />For those of us who remain, NELSAP offers a welcomed run down Memory Lane, long after our favorite childhood areas have faded from the landscape.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For more information on the New England Lost Ski Area Project, or to purchase Davis’s new book, “Lost Ski Areas of the White Mountains,” visit nelsap.org.</span><br /><br />All the best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-26300897940014391982010-03-08T11:05:00.004-05:002010-03-08T12:20:09.678-05:00Ski Moguls<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S5UgrQy6y1I/AAAAAAAAATk/w7OfT1Dz4fM/s1600-h/MastersSkiers.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 316px; height: 210px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S5UgrQy6y1I/AAAAAAAAATk/w7OfT1Dz4fM/s400/MastersSkiers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446295251989482322" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, springtime!<br /><br />As long as I can remember, I've been inspired by ski racers. In my youth, Billy Kidd and Jean Claude Killy captured my imagination. Later, it was the Mahre brothers, Bill Johnson, Franz Klammer, or Hermann Maier (the Herminator!). This past weekend, the girls and I were up in northern New Hampshire at Cranmore, which was hosting a masters ski race. The atmosphere was tremendous -- good-natured competition interspersed with a lot of laughter and more than a few tall tales and stories of bygone days. The competitors ranged in age from late 20s up to 95! Those folks are my heroes. So are Carolyn Beckedorff and Jessie McAleer (above), two skiers I profiled for UNH's alumni magazine.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ski Moguls</span><br /><br />Two women, teammates on the University of New Hampshire ski team, one enduring common passion. The fact that Carolyn Beckedorff '89 and Jessie McAleer '93 still share a love of racing and an indomitable will to win guarantees that the two also share the same hill almost every winter weekend on New England's Sise Cup masters ski racing circuit. As a result, they also must share the limelight.<br /><br />Since 2001, when McAleer entered the masters ski racing ranks, either she or Beckedorff have taken home the season's top Sise Cup honors. The results are uncanny. In those nine seasons, McAleer has won five crowns, Beckedorff four. Each time McAleer has won, Beckedorff was second. McAleer has two second place finishes (having missed the 2008 season to injury).<br /><br />"I love the fact that Carolyn and I push each other," says McAleer, 39.<br /><br />"It's an amazing rivalry," echoes Beckedorff, 41. "I know if I want to win on any given day, Jessie's going to be coming after me. We both raise each other's game, and that's really neat."<br /><br />Last ski season is a perfect example. McAleer came back from total knee reconstruction with a vengeance, winning the overall 2009 Sise Cup title with Beckedorff, the 2008 champ, finishing a close second. However, at Sunday River in Maine last March, Beckedorff was able to defend the national masters slalom crown she won in 2008. McAleer, racing full out to make up an 18 one-hundredths of a second deficit to Beckedorff after the first heat, straddled a gate in her second run and was disqualified. The giant slalom followed the same scenario. The wins were sweet redemption for Beckedorff, who saw McAleer eclipse her combined time by 1 one-hundredth of a second in the 2006 slalom nationals.<br /><br />Still, the roads leading to this remarkable intersection are winding, even though they both ran through Durham. Though teammates on the Paul Burton-coached squads, McAleer and Beckedorff didn't share the same success. Beckedorff was star-crossed, with a litany of injuries, including a blown-out knee and broken tailbone. McAleer, three years Beckedorff's junior, eventually garnered All-East honors despite fracturing both her wrists her freshman year. "I was never that superstar, but I sure did love it," she says. "Being part of that ski team was one of the best experiences of my life."<br /><br />Beckedorff agrees. "The program at UNH is a lot of fun," she says. "They're very serious and they want to win, but I don't think they burn out a lot of people. They do a really good job of fostering a lifetime love for the sport."<br /><br />Off the hill, though, the two are very different people. Beckedorff is the lead trader for a Boston investment firm, a wife and a mother (son Harrison is 7 years old). McAleer is single and, after a 7-year stint on the pro ski-racing circuit, is now a recruiter for a Boston-based software company. "After I got out of school, the bug still had me," says McAleer on her pro career. "I'd been doing it for 20 years, and I felt like I had a lot more in me."<br /><br />Both returned to masters ski racing through coaching. Beckedorff answered the call from Burton to help with the program at Gunstock Ski Area, where she met her future husband, Tony DiGangi. McAleer, after a two-year hiatus from the sport, returned to the Mount Washington Valley ski program, and her former coach, Dave Gregory.<br /><br />In the gates, Beckedorff and McAleer take decidedly different approaches to achieve startlingly similar results. Beckedorff is more tactical, a superb technical skier who relies on precision to find the quickest line. McAleer, by her own admission, is more about raw power, and the rush. "I just love it. There's really no other place I'd rather be," says McAleer. "I'm going to give it 110 percent."<br /><br />"Physically I'm very strong," says McAleer. "But mentally, I'm not shaken by terrain or weather or other people. Actually, that stuff tends to jack me up and I get even more excited. It brings me to a different level."<br /><br />Neither has any intention of slowing down. Both remark how they admire the masters races who compete well into their 70s, 80s, and even 90s, yet are focused on the upcoming season. Beckedorff says she has "probably trained harder this spring, summer and fall than I ever have. I guess I am competitive in that way, because I want to bring my A game."<br /><br />McAleer, meanwhile, spent two weeks this summer skiing in Chili. "I think I skied the best slalom of my life down there," she says. "I had an epiphany. I felt really strong. So I'm feeling really, really good about this season."<br /><br />Which is good news for this unique rivalry, and bad news for anyone else aiming for the top spot on the Sise Cup podium.<br /><br />All the best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-29999825203559644582010-02-24T07:03:00.021-05:002010-02-24T18:48:24.608-05:00Where's the love ... ?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S4W1lFLOgaI/AAAAAAAAASA/qTJ9A4WgS_Y/s1600-h/clancy331hi7.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S4W1lFLOgaI/AAAAAAAAASA/qTJ9A4WgS_Y/s320/clancy331hi7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441955373396165026" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, a hard, hard rain<br /><br />This week, I finally got back on the ice for a skate with the guys after what was essentially a five-month hiatus (unless you count that two-week period in November when I thought, incorrectly, that my injured groin had healed sufficiently). I should have been ecstatic. Instead, I was the original surly boy. Why? Well, for starters, I stunk. I felt slower than ol' Francis Michael "King" Clancy, at right, and he's been dead for more than 20 years! (Actually, in his day, King Clancy -- all 5-foot-7 of him -- was one hell of a player, but that's another story. I just like the old-time sepia print!) Of course, in the rationale part of my mind, I knew that's exactly how it would happen. At 52, you don't take a half-year off anything and expect to jump right back without missing a beat. But hockey, like most athletic endeavors, isn't always a rationale exercise.<br /><br />I was really looking forward to playing again, if only to work off some of the pent-up, nervous energy that has been driving me (and my wife) batty during my recuperation. There was also some trepidation, since I knew the groin hadn't completely healed, and that it might even require surgery. My orthopedic guy wasn't sure if it was a sports hernia or not, and the specialist he recommended couldn't see me for five weeks. I figured, if surgery was in the cards, I might as well pull out all the stops beforehand. So I arrived at the rink with this odd mix of emotions, cautious excitement blended with some serious butterflies, knowing I wasn't in the best of shape. Worse, I even had a hard time remembering how to put the gear on. Getting on the ice didn't allay my concerns.<br /><br />For starters, I was playing defense, which isn't my forte (any skating I do outside the goalie crease is something of an adventure). But I like to think that I can play a serviceable D if the competition isn't a bunch of former college players. But on Monday, I felt like the Goodyear blimp surrounded by stunt planes zipping around me. The only consistency to my game was that I was continuously a step or two behind the play. It wasn't just my feet that were moving at a glacial pace. It was my mind. From the bench, I could follow the game fine. But on the ice, I felt clueless. And even when I did see the play developing, I couldn't get my legs moving fast enough to be a part of it. Which led to a real predicament ... While I love the game of hockey, I didn't especially like how it felt to be so far off the pace. I got burned on several plays, leading directly to goals for the bad guys, which led to me getting cranky. Really cranky. The guys on the bench were having fun, cracking wise like they always do, while I just sat there steaming.<br /><br />Which got me to thinking: If I care so much for the game, why am I having such a miserable time? It is, really, one of the great quandaries of being an older athlete. Our skills, or bodies, or both, erode ever so subtly (or not-so-subtly, in some instances), and suddenly we realize we can't do what we once could. Not even close. And that's pretty damned frustrating. The challenge, of course, is to find a way to keep the love strong, even as the game gets weak. I know (again, the rationale side) that I should just lower my expectations, but the emotional side isn't really on board with that. Shocking, huh?<br /><br />For the time being, I'm telling myself to be patient, and to rededicate myself to a fitness regimen that will, with luck and hard work, get me a little closer to the rest of the pack. But I've got a bad feeling this little dilemma isn't going away anytime soon! ;-)<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-71793081470797442462010-02-10T21:28:00.003-05:002010-02-10T21:38:37.823-05:00Big Stage, big shouldersBoston, snowing (but just a dusting) ...<br /><br />If Monday night's Beanpot, the 58th rendition of this historic tournament, taught us anything, it's that hockey is a sport that requires big shoulders and big heart. Wimps need not apply! Here is my game sidebar, written for the Boston Globe.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Quite the experience for freshmen</span><br /><br />The Beanpot Tournament is an undeniable draw for college hockey recruiters in Boston, and freshmen often talk about playing in early February at the Banknorth Garden in revered tones. For those fortunate enough to win the prized pot in their first try, it can be a glorious stage.<br /><br />BC's John Muse has breathed that rarefied air as a freshman two years ago, edging Harvard 6-5 in overtime. Last night, Muse's teammate Chris Kreider got a taste as well, finishing a dazzling rush that gave his Eagles a commanding 3-1 lead on the way to BC's 4-3 title victory.<br /><br />"The pressure is huge, especially for someone growing up near Boston, watching the Beanpot," said Muse. "But all of our freshmen dealt with it unbelievably. Kreider's goal was just unbelievable."<br /><br />That's the dream, of course, to score in your Beanpot debut, and Kreider was still giddy afterward. "That's not something I'd normally do," said the Boxford native of his lightning quick shift across the slot, adding the last time he tried a similar move he suffered a concussion. "I usually go wide."<br /><br />But the Beanpot's big stage can also be brutally unkind, as newcomers from both teams learned last night. In the first period, BC freshman defender Philip Samuelsson sent a lazy outlet pass from behind his net that Terrier captain Kevin Shattenkirk intercepted, rifling the puck over Muse's right shoulder for a 1-0 BU lead.<br /><br />On Kreider's breathtaking rush, he turned BU freshman Max Nicastro inside out before slipping a nifty backhander past Terrier goaltender Keiran Millan, who won the trophy last year as a freshman. But the most gut-wrenching moments were reserved for BU's Sean Escobedo. The BU defenseman from Bayside, NY, was the last player to touch the puck on BC's first two goals, deflecting shots from Steve Whitney and Carl Sneep past Millan.<br /><br />However, if hockey teaches anything, it's the ability to get back up once you've been knocked down. And BU's captain said he wasn't concerned that the two freshmen would bounce back.<br /><br />"I think that could have easily happened to any one of us," said Shattenkirk. "When it happens to a freshmen, it's tough, because it can really shatter their confidence. I think they rebounded really well. Our older guys did a great job of going forward and just helping them forget about it and get ready for their next shift."<br /><br />BU coach Jack Parker agreed, saying both Escobedo and Nicastro had proven their grit before the Beanpot, and he wasn’t about to worry about either of them moving forward. "They've both been great," said Parker. "Max Nicastro has had a fabulous freshman year, and he's going to be a star in this league."<br /><br />BC coach Jerry York acknowledged that his young squad, featuring 14 freshmen and sophomores, was tense in the locker room beforehand, but was confident that they would find their stride. By building a three-goal lead with four unanswered tallies, and then withstanding a furious BU comeback bid, York said his young squad took another step to becoming a championship contender. "That was a real catalyst for our club," he said.<br /><br />"The pressure is what we want to put on the other team," he said. "Once you feel the piano on your back, you can't play. We just wanted our players to get after it."<br /><br />Which is exactly what the Eagles did, said Muse. "We may have played at "Fenway [on Jan. 8], but it's another thing altogether to play in the Beanpot. We may have been a little tentative in the beginning, but once we shook that off, we really started rolling."<br /><br />In all likelihood, Nicastro and Escobedo will shake off last night's disappointment, as their coach predicted. But if nothing else, the 58th annual tournament proved that the road to Beanpot glory is not always a smooth one, especially for the uninitiated.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-82529910576724081102010-01-08T11:30:00.024-05:002011-01-03T11:25:53.932-05:00Frozen in time ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S7QR_BCevdI/AAAAAAAAAW8/PjfEYbYSF2A/s1600/BrionAtFenway3.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/S7QR_BCevdI/AAAAAAAAAW8/PjfEYbYSF2A/s320/BrionAtFenway3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455004822960782802" border="0" /></a><br />Boston, light snow.<br /><br />The first thing I notice about Boston's Fenway Park, driving into the city at night in January, is the enormous banks of lights that loom over the century-old stadium. In winter, with the city covered by a dirt-splattered comforter of snow that is not quite white, the ballpark lights seem totally incongruous with their surroundings. Yet here I am, standing outside the park, my 50-something heart racing with the excitement of a grade-school student.<br /><br />I had all but resigned myself to having to pass up the opportunity to skate at Fenway Park, thanks to a lingering groin injury that simply refused to heal. The invitation came by way of Joe Bertagna, a good friend and the Hockey East commissioner who I've known for almost 10 years now. When the NHL selected Boston to host the Winter Classic on New Year's Day, Bertagna, along with BU coach Jack Parker and BC coach Jerry York, quickly jumped on board, organizing a college hockey double-header the following Friday.<br /><br />During the week in between, the ice at Fenway was rented out, and a number of high-rollers didn't blink at the $10,000-an-hour asking price. That meant roughly $250 per player, and though I had a few inquiries, the price was a bit too rich for me. Then came the invite from Bertagna, who got an hour compliments of the Red Sox brass.<br /><br />Tempting as it was, I almost didn't go. I've been struggling with a persistent groin pull for the better part of four months, and I simply wasn't ready to get back on the ice. I'd been patient, and really didn't want to screw up what was left of the winter season by playing prematurely. I thought that made perfect sense, especially since it put the game before the venue. So I told Joe "Thanks, but no thanks."<br /><br />Still, the more I talked to friends, the more I began to have doubts about my reasoning. Essentially, most responded by saying, in short: "You're nuts if you don't go!" Eventually, I came to the same conclusion. There were going to be four goalies, so even if I reaggravated the injury, I could gracefully bow out, and just enjoy the game from a front-row seat on the bench. More importantly, I realized that, no matter how bad my injury, it would heal before they brought ice back to Fenway. It was truly shaping up to be a "once in a lifetime" opportunity.<br /><br />So I quickly backtracked, fired Joe an email, asking back in. Fortunately, he hadn't filled my spot, and I was back on the roster. That afternoon was a mix of excitement and trepidation. I hadn't put the pads on in a month, so I was concerned not only about the injury, but being woefully out of game shape and playing poorly. I've always jitters before playing, but this was especially acute. I drove down with a friend and fellow goalie, Andrew Huntoon, and he was keen to discuss our game plan. Game plan? I just wanted to take it all in, and get though the skate relatively unscathed.<br /><br />As we pulled off Storrow Drive, I could see the banks of lights perched high above the park’s façade, and my pulse started racing. We entered Fenway underneath the stands, the bowels of the ballpark adorned with concrete and red brick. Nothing fancy there. That all changed the moment I walked up a short runway, though a large, hanging tarp, and out into stands.<br /><br />The setting was, in all honesty, a bit surreal. It looked more like a giant Hollywood movie set than the grand old ballpark that I cherished. I had been on the field twice before, the first time in 1999 to take 15 swings as part of a fund-raiser for the Jimmy Fund and a story for Continental Airlines (<a href="http://www.inspiredink.com/article.asp?ID=26">see here</a>). The second time, I stopped in to chat with a few Red Sox stars, including Jason Varitek and David "Big Papi" Ortiz for a story on The Players Trust. Both those visits came during the daytime, mid-summer, during baseball season.<br /><br />This time, it was the dead of winter, barely 25 degrees outside, and at night.<br /><br />There was the rink, seemingly suspended in the middle of the field, a large patch of white ice where I've only seen beautifully maintained green lawn and a manicured dirt infield. The left field wall – the famed Green Monster – was festooned with enormous banners announcing the upcoming Frozen Fenway college doubleheader. Other players started filtering in, including a number from the Over-50 Tuesday night league that Joe and I play in. The mood was light and fun, just like every Tuesday night at HockeyTown in Saugus. There were no locker rooms, so after putting on my undergarments and pads, I grabbed the rest of my gear and hobbled down the aisles on the third-base side and parked myself in a folding chair beside the rink. I kept peeking at my surrounding, shaking my head, laughing to myself; "How lucky am I?"<br /><br />But once the game got under way, it was, just as Jack Parker predicted, "a hockey game." And, as much as I love Fenway, my affections for the park pale in comparison to the game. While I was happy to steal the occasional glimpse at the looming stands beyond the rink, pinching myself the entire time, I made it a priority to focus on the action in front of me. My breathing was labored and my movements stiff. Clearly, once past the half-century mark, the body doesn't respond well to a month of inactivity. So I tried to get by on my wits and experience. It quickly became obvious that this would be a Fenway version of the NHL All-Star game, where defense is nothing but an afterthought.<br /><br />Our squad took an early lead, but soon the Bad Guys were buzzing my net. They tied the game when an old friend, Scott Donnelly, zipped a cross-crease pass to an unmarked forward, who calmly potted the puck behind me. Even though I anticipated the pass, I couldn't get anywhere close to the puck. So much for being game ready.<br /><br />But the groin held together, so I couldn't complain. I dug the puck out of the net, and got on with the game. I managed one ridiculously lucky save, reaching back with my glove hand to steal a shot bound for a wide open net (left vacant because I had fallen, and couldn't get back up). And I even managed to stuff young Mr. Donnelly on a breakaway (captured in the photo above). However, Scott got the better of me during several scrums in front, slipping in a couple of garbage goals. He was quick to remind me, with a broad smile, that in hockey, the goals don't have to be pretty, they just have to cross the line.<br /><br />When the hour came to a close, I'm pretty sure we had "lost," but no one seemed to care. Everyone lined up, shook hands, slapped a few backs, shared a few more laughs, and made plans to meet at the Game On pub around the corner (where our Peter Pan celebration would last another 90 minutes or so). No one was in a rush to leave the field, least of all me.<br /><br />As most of the players slipped on their skate guards and clomped back underneath the stands, I slowly peeled off my pads and skates. Just as I was about to zip up my bag, the lights suddenly went dark, and I chuckled to myself: "Party's over." Except for a couple of Fenway security guards, I was the last one off the field. A bright winter moon cast a ghostly glow over the field. I tossed my bag over my shoulder, and shuffled toward the exit.<br /><br />At the padded infield wall, I stopped to take one last look around. I want to sear the moonlit panorama into my mind's eye. It was, just as friends had predicted, a memory to last a lifetime. I'm grateful.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-35423066819544449402009-12-24T08:12:00.028-05:002009-12-25T19:33:21.143-05:00Joyeux Noel!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/SzTKxxtUuUI/AAAAAAAAAPg/vlxMuxF00eM/s1600-h/ZinnXmas08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_UaehA9Z76nQ/SzTKxxtUuUI/AAAAAAAAAPg/vlxMuxF00eM/s400/ZinnXmas08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419179208139389250" border="0" /></a>Boston, Christmas Eve!<br /><br />I've lost count of the number of times my youngest, Brynne, has asked: "Dad, what do you want for Christmas?" The answer never changes. "I just want to spend the day with my family, and know that everyone is healthy and happy." Apparently, that's not enough of an answer for a soon-to-be 11-year-old whose Wish List for Santa is twice as long as my typical blog entry. But it's a truthful answer, uncharacteristically (for me) short and sweet. If I can wake up Christmas morning in a warm home, my wife by my side, knowing that Brynne and Maddi are eagerly awaiting our arrival in the family room, then I'm a supremely happy man. Not carefree, but certainly happy and content.<br /><br />Obviously, some of the "big" things I could ask for, like consistent employment and maybe that new addition on our cozy cottage here in Hamilton, are out of the realm of Christmas wishes. This has been a difficult year for many, and we didn't dodge the economic bullet either. Both Lauri and I seem to be working harder for less, but we're working, and we still love what we do (most of the time, anyway). And we still love being with each each other, and with our girls (I should probably include the knucklehound, True, and the two new kittens, Izzy and Molly, into that mix). In that regard, we're truly wealthy.<br /><br />Tonight we ran off to Bolton, Massachusetts, for Christmas Eve with the in-laws. Maddi and Brynne's Grandmom and Granddad Zinn flew in from Kansas the night before, so there was no reason not to get a head start on the weekend's festivities at my brother in-law Rob's house, along with his beautiful wife Kate and two precocious youngsters, my nieces Emma and Olivia. Tomorrow, we'll be New Hampshire bound, to my sister in-law Jenni's place in Pelham, with almost the entire Zinn clan in tow (the accompanying photo above is from last year's Christmas Day at the Woodheads' home, with all the Zinn grandchildren!). Then, on Sunday, it's back to New Hampshire (Concord this time), to spend an afternoon with my siblings MaryEllen, Chris and Sean, their spouses, and all the nieces and nephews (in a neat twist, Maddi and Brynne are the youngest kids on my side of the family, but the oldest on Lauri's side). With luck, the girls' Grampy and my Uncle Art will join us as well, No doubt the Colorado boys, Matt and Mike, will phone in to say "Merry, merry!" along with their brides, Laura and Brenda, and maybe Uncle Bill and the Pare clan will check in from Maryland. Sure hope so, anyway.<br /><br />These gatherings are a special events, traditions we carry on in the spirit of our parents and grandparents, a reminder of the things that are truly important. The atmosphere of camaraderie is unrivaled, the sense of belonging unquestioned. The laughter and the heartfelt conversation flow freely. I pray that Mom and Dad are able to look down from their perch high above us, and enjoy the sights of their children, and grandchildren, sharing these family-affirming moments. It's all but impossible to stop my mind from reeling back through the years, to the snow-covered mornings in New Jersey and New Hampshire, or wherever our holiday travels took us. There are instances when the nostalgia is almost overwhelming.<br /><br />Still, Christmas, even more than New Year's, is also a time for me to reflect. I know how lucky I am to be part of not one, but two large caring and loving families. I think of the multitude of friends that Lauri and I are so fortunate to have, including those long-lost pals we've reconnected with via FaceBook (during our somewhat haphazard sojourn into social media). We live in a terrific neighborhood, with thoughtful neighbors. No, last year wasn't always a walk in the park, but that's why it helps to have a memory as selective as mine. I can't look back on 2009 without smiling, without feeling blessed. And that, I truly believe, is no accident.<br /><br />I hope and pray that the holidays hold the same small-but-significant miracles for each and every one of you. Joyeux Noel, and a very Happy New Year!<br /><br />Warm regards,<br />-Brynne, MaryAlyssa, Lauri & BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1181968641304058908.post-45571211914610061652009-12-23T06:45:00.015-05:002009-12-24T07:17:00.787-05:00Getting after it ...Boston, with Christmas around the corner!<br /><br />Despite having played sports most of my life, those sublime moments when it all came together, when my mind and body fused seamlessly, when I was "in the zone," were rare. I guess that makes it easier to remember them -- hockey games when the puck looked more like a beach ball, soccer games when every touch of the ball was spot on, epic mountain bike rides, endless powder days atop my snowboard, nailing my first shortboard gybe -- but I still wish they happened more often. It's what we strive for as athletes ... not only to compete, but to attain a certain surreal sense of accomplishment and skill. Those moments happen even less often in coaching. But they do happen.<br /><br />Monday night I was in a cranky mood. I had deadlines up the wazoo, and the words weren't exactly flying off my fingertips. My daughter Brynne's Squirt hockey team was schedule to play on a school night, which never sits well with me (another testament that, while the Valley League likes to "say" that it's all about the kids, its "actions" indicate that it's all about the money). A 6 p.m. start time meant driving 40 minutes into the teeth of rush hour traffic, and there was a good chance we wouldn't have enough bodies. Sure enough, one by one, I started getting email messages saying this player and that player couldn't make it. Then our goalie's mom called, and that's never a good thing. So, I emailed another parent to recruit his son to tend the nets, and made arrangements to pick up the goalie gear. All the while, my disposition was getting more and more sullen. Making matters worse, we were playing a team from Arlington, and the kids from Spy Pond always come to play.<br /><br />Brynne and I were among the first to the rink, along with two other players and their parents. Other players started filtering in, everyone except Ned, our goalie for the night. His mom called, saying they were stuck in traffic. I started growling. I went to Brynne, who made it clear she wasn't thrilled about the prospects of playing goal. I told her it was one of those times when it stinks to be the coach's kid. "Sure does, " she said. I conferred with Jere, my co-coach, and we decided to simply start the game without a goalie, putting a regular player in goal until Ned could get ready. And this is when my night started to turn around. We only had nine position players, which meant we had two full lines at forward and three defensemen, who would have to rotate (playing two shifts on, one off). I asked one of them, Nick, to start in goal, and he didn't hesitate. "Sure thing, Coach," he said, with an eagerness that caught my attention and made me smile.<br /><br />So I launched into my pre-game chat, telling the kids to skate as hard as they could when they had a chance to get the puck, but to also try to conserve their energy for a full game. I told my three defensemen -- Nick, Gracie and Callen -- that that I'd be expecting a lot of them. Same for our two centers, Tookie and Mayo, since I needed them to backcheck relentlessly. And I asked my wings -- Timmy, Jack, Christian and Brynne, to take the pressure off Ned and the D by forechecking like banshees. I told them that Arlington kids always skated with a purpose, and we would really have to rely on one another to stay in the game.<br /><br />Things didn't look encouraging when we got on the ice. The Arlington squad seemed to have twice as many kids, and I muttered to myself "That team has its priorities straight." Still, Ned made it out of the locker room just as the game got under way, and I figured Jere and I would just play it by ear. That's when something magical happened. Our kids got after it from the first drop of the puck, and never once stopped as long as they were on the ice. They would come to the bench flush, chests heaving. They'd sit, gulp down some water, and then get ready for their next shift. And when they hit the ice, they were moving. I was stunned. Mayo, our best stickhandler, put us up 1-0, and then Brynne doubled the margin when her centering pass ricocheted off a defenseman and into the net. "That was embarrassing," she said afterward. "They all count, honey," I replied.<br /><br />Meanwhile, my defensive trio were playing like demons, rarely letting Arlington anywhere near our goal. Our kids battle for every 50/50 puck, and won most of them. Ned kicked out any shots that came his way, though his technique was a bit more unorthodox than I'd like. During one excruciating moment, the puck sat between his skates as he spun around, looking for it. Sure enough, though, our defenders cleared it away. Between periods, I told our kids not to change anything. I wanted them to keep skating, but to stay within themselves. But they continued to exceed every expectation. In the second period, Arlington got one past Ned, but Timmy buried a pair to give us a 4-1 lead. I kept waiting for the roof to cave in during the third period, but it never happened. Each time I asked a player if he or she were ready to go, the answer was an emphatic "Yes, Coach." Nick was literally jumping over the boards. Tookie jammed in our fifth goal, and we left the ice with a hard-earned 5-1 win. The Arlington coach was incredibly gracious: "How do you get your kids to get after the puck like that," he asked, clearly impressed with the effort our kids gave. I shrugged. I can't repeat exactly what Jere told me after the final whistle, but the family version was: "That was awesome!"<br /><br />In the locker room, the kids were exhausted but happy. I told them they deserved to be both. I could not have been more proud of them, and I told them that too. As hockey players, they couldn't have asked for a better Christmas present. And it was a present they got to share with their teammates, making it all the more sweeter. It all came together for them, and I wanted them to remember that it was hard work and teamwork and will power that made it happen. I hope it happens again.<br /><br />Best,<br />-BrionBrionO'Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00681965091014372305noreply@blogger.com0