This Old Jock

My Life as a Horse

2011-09-16T05:03:00.003-04:00

A doppelganger for This Old Jock?

Hi all,

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.

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!

My Life as a Horse
Coming to terms with size, cycling and the term "Clydesdale"

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?"

"Excuse me?" I blurted out, unsure if I was just insulted.

"Clydesdale," she repeated, with a grandmotherly smile. "You know, the heavyweight division."

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.

I say "quasi-official" because not every event recognizes the big-boned category.

However, there are several ruling bodies that oversee this division, including the USA Clydesdale & Filly Racing Federation and the international Team Clydesdale, and even blogs, like SuperClydesdale. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

(This article originally appeared in the now-defunct GeezerJock magazine. RIP)

The Truth and Tyler

2011-05-22T20:26:00.017-04:00

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.

Anyone who happen to watch tonight's 60 Minutes 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.

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.

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 au natural.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

"You have to believe me," Hamilton told us. "I didn't do it."

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.

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.

Tonight, Hamilton told 60 Minutes, 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.

###

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. -B

The Water-Method Man ...

2011-03-30T12:52:00.014-04:00

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.

You see, I'm now The Water-Method Man. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!" ... ?

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.

The Long Haul ...

2010-11-26T17:57:00.004-05:00

Now the hard part starts.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

“OK,” I replied. “I’ll take the good news first.”

“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.”

Good news indeed, I thought. “And the bad news?”

“Better repairs means a longer rehab. You’re going to have to be patient.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But I’ll take those odds. What choice do I have? Plus, it’s time to stop wondering, and time to get to work.

Pay up!

2010-09-24T10:00:00.017-04:00

Boston, breezy and cool!

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

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.

"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.

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.

Best,
-Brion

Luck of the draw ...

2010-09-11T08:43:00.014-04:00

Boston, beautiful

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.

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 my 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Best,
-Brion

The Sketch King rides again!

2010-09-06T11:34:00.017-04:00

Boston, a splendid Labor Day

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Best,
-B

The dream season ...

2010-06-14T13:00:00.018-04:00

Boston, overcast ...

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)

But, in all those years, I've never been part of an undefeated team, until now.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Best,
-Brion

Let the games begin!

2010-06-11T09:30:00.006-04:00

Boston, overcast

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 Four Seasons 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 ...

Ten best reasons to watch the World Cup

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.

One. 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.

Two. 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).

Three. 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.

Four. 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.

Five. 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.

Six. 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.

Seven. 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?

Eight. 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.

Nine. 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.

Ten: 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.

I know I'll be watching! ;-)
-Brion

The Tool

2010-06-10T07:41:00.008-04:00

Boston, with a side of rain

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.

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 the lock-out 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Best,
-Brion

Soccer is for hard men, Part 3

2010-06-09T08:50:00.006-04:00

A splitter day in Beantown!

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.

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.

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 Masters Athlete). Just another piece of evidence that soccer is, indeed, a contact sport.

It only hurts when it hurts

“How the heck do you hurt your hand playing soccer,” asks my older brother, the orthopedic surgeon, obviously amused. “Aren’t you supposed to use your feet?”

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?”

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.

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.

I immediately knew I was hurt, but had no idea how bad. A teammate rushed up, asking: "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," I answered. "My hand is messed up."

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.

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).

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.

"At least you're out there," she replied without hesitation. "That’s the important thing."

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.

Best,
-Brion

The Divot

2010-05-14T06:21:00.032-04:00

Boston, allergy season

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?"

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.

The Divot

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Best,
-Brion

Escape from Causeway Street ...

2010-05-11T12:19:00.013-04:00

Boston, beautiful

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.

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.

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).

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.

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!!!"

Who could blame him?

Best,
-B

Denial

2010-04-12T10:20:00.018-04:00

Boston, with spring in full bloom

"Or are we just holding onto the things we don't have anymore?"
-Jack Johnson

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Best,
-Brion

The most solitary position in sports ...

2010-04-02T10:52:00.003-04:00

Boston, beautiful!!!

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 here).

Net gain
A 40-something goaltender tries to recapture his glory days

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

"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.

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.

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.

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!"

The inference, I trust, is crystal clear - goaltenders, whether young or aging, are by definition a bit off-center. We all survive - barely.

"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."

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."

"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!"

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.

Best,
-Brion

Unfinished business ...

2010-03-31T09:28:00.007-04:00

Boston, overcast

I absolutely love this story, as it gets to the core of what This Old Jock is all about. I wrote two quick hits, one for the New York Times (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.

Frozen in time
1989 teams reconnect to play canceled championship game

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.

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.

"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."

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.

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."

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.

"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."

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.

Williams, a defenseman on the '89 St. Joe's team, saw parallels between the lost final and The Best of Times, 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 Slap Shot – 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.

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.

"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."

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."

"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."

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."

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.

"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."

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."

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.

"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."

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."

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."

For details on the April 3 game, and the online auction, visit FrozenFlashback.com.

Farewell to a fellow netminder

2010-03-23T14:03:00.005-04:00

Boston, more rain

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.

The Golden-age Goalie

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?

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.

"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?' "

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.

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."

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.' "

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."

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."

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.

"Chick is a legend," says Dave Fessenden, a regular at the noontime stick practice in Peabody, Mass.

"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."

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.

"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."

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."

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."

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.

"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.' "

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.

"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."

Others agree. "Just dragging all that gear through the door is an inspiration." says Cluett, with a smile.

"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."

Fortunately for those who've met DeAngelis during the past four years, his time didn't end on that fateful day in April, 1998.

All the best,
-Brion

The annual physical

2010-03-11T17:42:00.024-05:00

CONSUMER WARNING: The following blog entry contains material of explicit nature, which some readers may find unsettling, or even disturbing!

Boston, waiting for the storm

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

Best,
-Brion

Skiing back through the years

2010-03-09T08:41:00.004-05:00

Boston, another splitter day! Sweet!

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 New England Ski Journal.

Lost but Not Forgotten

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).

“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.

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.

“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.”

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.”)

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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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.”

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.”

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.”

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

All the best,
-Brion

Ski Moguls

2010-03-08T11:05:00.004-05:00

Boston, springtime!

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.

Ski Moguls

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.

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).

"I love the fact that Carolyn and I push each other," says McAleer, 39.

"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."

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.

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."

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."

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."

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.

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."

"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."

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."

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."

Which is good news for this unique rivalry, and bad news for anyone else aiming for the top spot on the Sise Cup podium.

All the best,
-Brion

Where's the love ... ?

2010-02-24T07:03:00.021-05:00

Boston, a hard, hard rain

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.

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.

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.

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?

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! ;-)

Best,
-Brion

Big Stage, big shoulders

2010-02-10T21:28:00.003-05:00

Boston, snowing (but just a dusting) ...

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.

Quite the experience for freshmen

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.

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.

"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."

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."

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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."

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.

"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."

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."

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.

Best,
-Brion

Frozen in time ...

2010-01-08T11:30:00.024-05:00

Boston, light snow.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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 (see here). 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.

This time, it was the dead of winter, barely 25 degrees outside, and at night.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Best,
-Brion

Joyeux Noel!

2009-12-24T08:12:00.028-05:00

Boston, Christmas Eve!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Warm regards,
-Brynne, MaryAlyssa, Lauri & Brion

Getting after it ...

2009-12-23T06:45:00.015-05:00

Boston, with Christmas around the corner!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

Best,
-Brion

The greatest outdoor game ...

2009-12-13T10:03:00.032-05:00

Boston, chilly & bright!

Late last week, I was doing some homework for a really fun story on pond hockey for ESPN, as told by some of the giants of the college game, namely Jerry York of Boston College and Jack Parker of Boston University (for that story, click here). These are men who have reached the heights of their professions, having coached three national champions each, including each of the last two years. But when the subject turns to pond hockey -- the hockey of their youth -- these men sounded a lot more like young boys. Even though our interviews were conducted by phone, I could sense a wistful, faraway tone in their voices as they talked longingly about long days spent on the frozen ponds that dotted the Greater Boston area. And I understood completely.

The accompanying photo is from1973, meaning I was all of 15 at the time. That's me on the right, resplendent in my vintage 1970s-style Toronto Maple Leafs jersey and goalie gear, rubbing elbows with my older brother, Sean. Obviously, stepping back 36 years in the Way Back Machine will shade your memories, but fortunately for me, all the recollections are good. Growing up in New Jersey, necessity dictated that if we were going to play hockey often, we'd be playing mostly on the streets. But in wintertime, I'd be salivating over the prospects of getting on the ice. I honestly don't have a treasure trove of memories from this time -- my gift for recall about as sketchy as thin ice -- but the ones I have stand out like beacons. I remember peering out our kitchen window at 555 Nordhoff Drive at night, eying the thermometer outside, praying the mercury would dip below the magical 32 degrees Fahrenheit. It didn't matter if it was borderline, or that Mom correctly told me that the ice would be marginal at best; I hoped for some miracle of physics, which would allow water to freeze as long as the temperature "was in the ball park."

I remember Dad's old drab, olive green duffel. The heavy Army-surplus canvas bag wasn't fancy, but I could stuff all my goalie gear into it, the same gear I bought with my own paper route money. I remember trying to negotiate with the knuckleheads at the Town of Leonia recreation department to allow at least some portion of the flooded basketball courts at Overpeck Park to be used for hockey (even in the 1970s, civil litigation was a thriving business in the New York Metropolitan Belt, and town officials were scared silly, convinced that hockey was a euphemism for "potential lawsuit"). So we had to pretty much get to the courts first thing in the morning, before any figure skaters got out of bed. Those crack-of-dawn treks to the park, with all our gear slung over our young-but-sturdy shoulders, were invigorating. The day this photo was snapped was just about ideal -- mail-order blue skies, with crisp, cold temperatures making for rock solid, smooth ice.

There were a couple of ponds scattered around town too, and I recall playing shinny hockey occasionally, without all the fancy gear and jerseys we were sporting above. One spot, Crystal Lake, down off Grand Avenue, even had a big bonfire. Nothing felt, or smelled, better than inching up to the flames, letting that natural furnace drive the cold from our bones. But the best, the absolute pinnacle of pond hockey perfection, was going to Dorr's Pond in Manchester, NH. This was one of the great rewards for the long drive north to visit Grandmere and Grandpere. The pond, beside Livingston Park, was a short walk from our grandparents' house on Pickering Street. In the '70s, before "global warming" became an ingrained part of our lexicon, my siblings and I would bundle up, grab our skates and sticks and a few coins for a hot chocolate, and shuffle down to the pond.

There, the city had a warming hut dividing the pond and an actual rink (with boards and lights!). The rink was the domain of the older kids, and young men, but we were able to sneak on every now and then, typically playing a smaller, cross-ice game. I don't think anything made Grandpere (a native of Quebec) happier than seeing his small army of grandchildren mucking around on the ice. In later years, after our clan moved to New Hampshire, my brothers and I (and friends) would still frequent Door's Pond, or other frozen bodies. One day in particular stands out, when my brother Chris and I and two friends, Tom Duval and Matt Sopel, found some black ice up by Lake Massabesic that I swear was smoother than glass. God help us if we missed a pass, because the puck would slide for just about forever! Naturally, we'd argue about who was responsible -- the passer or the passee -- for skating after it! And, I'm sure, we had little appreciation for just how magical, and how fleeting, these days were.

Today, pond hockey stills calls to me, though not as often, due to the scarcity of good ice. And I'm a bit more leery of its siren's song. Those pressure cracks in the ice were once just a minor inconvenience because they interrupted the smooth path of the puck, making it jump unpredictably. Now, those cracks look like a bad injury waiting to happen. I can just envision my blades getting caught, and one of my knees coming apart like a cheap suit. So I err on the side of caution, slipping on some elbow and knee pads, "just in case." Because when my girls say they want to skate, I can't say "No."

Best,
-Brion

Reasons to be cheerful (and thankful) ...

2009-11-25T09:00:00.006-05:00

Boston, drizzling ...

Having just wrapped up a few stories for the New England Ski Journal, I got to thinking about one of my favorite ski tales (which, by the way, are almost as good as fish tales, depending on how much alcohol is flowing apres ski). A few years back, I was on a ski press trip to Utah along with Maddi, who was all of 8 at the time. On this particular day, she was in the ski school at Park City, and I was freeskiing this superb resort, grabbing as many turns as I could. Then it all turned bad (No, that's not me in the accompanying photo -- it's actually from Vail -- but I've always wanted to use it! Plus, I think it's safe to say that, had I seen this photo before my Park City adventure, I'm not sure I would have ever gathered the nerve to jump!) ...

Lift hucking in the Wasatch

The bright light of day was already beginning to relent to the peach and pink hues of late afternoon when I curled into the Silverlode lift line at Park City, Utah. I was pushing my luck, having roamed far from the Park City's sprawling base village, where my 8-year-old daughter Maddi would be waiting for me after her ski lessons. But I couldn't help myself – it had been an glorious Utah day at a world-class resort, and I was going to squeeze every run out of it I could.

A large, no-nonsense lift attendant herded me onto the Silverlode high-speed "six-pack," along with five other powder hounds. She didn't crack a smile when I quipped, "Beautiful day, eh?" Maybe she didn't like the look of the dark shadows that were rolling in. Her loss, I thought (though she could have learned a lesson or two from my friends back at Sugarloaf). The six of us plopped onto the padded seats, the chair clamped onto the high-speed cable, and we were off. For about 12 seconds.

I'd barely had a chance to say "Hi!" to the snowboarder on my left when a loud "Bang!" shot from deep inside the lift building. The lift jerked to a halt, and then started swaying up and down. We all instinctively grabbed the safety bar, trying to settle our nerves and our stomachs. "That didn't sound too good," said my new snowboarder friend, in a deep, Arnold Schwarzenegger-style Austrian accent. Once the waves in my gut subsided, I looked over the front of the lift and saw that we were suspended about 15 feet over a fresh patch of untracked powder. "Doesn't look too bad," said Ah-nold with a big, toothy grin. "I'm not so sure," I replied with a shaky laugh, the thought of flinging my 40-something body off a lift not sitting well at all. Being from New England, I'd seen what lurks beneath the lifts – sheared tree trunks, jagged rocks, and other assorted hazards, both natural and man-made.

So as the lift rocked gently in the breeze, we made ourselves comfortable. To my right was a Wall Street type, who immediately pulled out his Blackberry and started multi-tasking, not saying a word to anyone. To his right were a mother and daughter, the latter wearing a helmet festooned with one of those ridiculous polar fleece ornaments that made her look like a court jester. She was chit-chatting non-stop, in a high-pitched Valley Girl voice, convincing me that if the lift didn’t start soon, I'd be forced to jump just to save my sanity. I was certain the poor, ordinary looking character sitting next to them on the far right felt the same.

Five, then 10 minutes passed. Anyone who's been stuck on a lift knows what an eternity that seems like. Even Mr. Wall Street started getting agitated, after he apparently ran out of things he could do on his Blackberry. Finally, Mom thought to call the resort from her cell phone. She explained that she was sitting on the Silverlode chair, and it hadn't moved for 15 minutes. After nodding her head a few times, she blurted out "Thanks," closed her flip phone, and sighed. "Well, they’re sending someone over, " she said, exasperated. "It appears they’ve blown a piston or something."

"That's it, I'm out of here," announced Ah-nold abruptly. "You go, I go," I stammered, though unsure where the words were coming from. The irony is that, during my first forays into skiing as a youngster, I had an annoying penchant for falling off lifts, much to my Dad’s consternation. But that was a long, long time ago, when my body was much more pliable. Plus, I don't think I ever fell more than five feet, max. This time, I’m looking at a good 15-foot drop, with a body that’s unaccustomed to hucking off of high places.

Undeterred, Ah-nold quickly unfastened his board, tossed it aside, took a deep breath and pushed off, hitting the snow in a soundless burst of powder. "It's good … very good," said my Austrian shredder, beaming. And with that, he collected his board and post-holed his way into the nearby woods (apparently to avoid prosecution).

Without giving myself time to allow another doubt to creep into my grey matter, I threw my poles into the divot created by Ah-nold’s landing and reached forward to pop off my skis. I ignored the surly demands of the barking lift attendant, who, I learned later, had every right to insist that we stay on the lifts, since it's illegal to jump off them in Utah. Better I didn't know. My only thought was that it was late, and getting later, with little to no hope of getting off the lift and getting back to Maddi before sundown. Other than jumping.

I jettisoned my skis as well, watching them spin in a perfect arch before hitting the snow, like a twisting diver off the high platform. One stuck the landing, sinking past the bindings, which told me I had at least three feet of fluff to cushion my 215 pounds. Rushing to prevent thinking, I bid Mr. Wall Street, Mom and Daughter, and Joe Average a quick adieu, slid my butt to the edge of the seat, and launched myself. I’m fairly certain I didn’t look as graceful as my skis, especially on impact. My feet hit first, but my forward momentum drove my face into the powder, filling my mouth, nose and ears. And it felt wonderful.

With blood and adrenaline thumping through my veins, I spun to give my chair mates a quick thumbs up, before gathering my gear and tracing Ah-nold’s footprints into the woods. Only then did I hear the cheers of other skiers stranded in chairs further up the line. Taking one last glance behind me, I watched as the daughter, hanging full-stretch from the chair, plopped down with a yelp! I kicked off the packed snow on the underside of my boots, snapped in, looked around for any vigilante lift attendants, and skied off to find Maddi.

Best,
-Brion

Running the Baja ...

2009-11-23T07:35:00.008-05:00

Boston, early Monday ...

In honor of that wacky, reckless (though not without wrecks) ode to internal combustion -- the Baja 1000 -- held every November along Mexico's rugged western coastline, Men's Fitness asked me to do a story on my own four-day white-knuckle ride with the gang at Maverick Business Adventures and Wide Open Baja. You can check it out, with a slew of photos, in the November issue, or read it online here. The unedited version is below.

Dust to glory

I've got the gas pedal pegged to the floor. My co-driver Rich Bellofatto, a finance guy from Long Island, is screaming above the din of the high-torque 240-horsepower engine: "Punch it! Punch it!" Our 3000-pound Baja racer jerks into the tracks of the fine Mexican silt like a spastic slot car. My chest slams into a five-point harness that keeps me from getting jettisoned, while the steering wheel threatens to tear away from my grip. Finally, we lurch out the other side of this talcum pit, our rig covered in what our guide describes as "liquid dirt." My heart is pounding like a jackhammer. Bellofatto flashes a mega-watt smile. "Nicely done," he says.

This, in the world of Wide Open Baja, is what passes for a day at the office. And that office is found right along the route of the famed Baja 1000 race. Legendary racer Rufus "Parnelli" Jones once described this south-of-the-border demolition derby, held every November, as a "24-hour plane crash." Jones, a two-time Baja 1000 winner, wasn't kidding. This crazed mix of high-octane fuel, rubber and corrugated dirt roads through one of the world's most diverse desert environments is an eye-popping experience. And it's no "reality show" – it's real.

"Wide Open Baja is the only company I've worked with that gives you enough rope to hang yourself," says guide Andrea Tomba, warning against overconfidence. "It's easy to go from really fun to really wrong at 60 miles an hour. Baja is the temptress. She'll seduce you, and then she'll spurn you."

Seduction comes easily behind the wheel of a full-blown Baja racer boasting almost two feet of suspension per wheel. But unlike schools based on NASCAR or even drag racing, we're motoring along public roads (though the term "road" is applied rather loosely), not a racetrack. The terrain is spectacular but rugged, with hidden dangers, ranging from precipitous ravines and toe-curling switchbacks to suicide cattle, lurking around each corner or rise. We even took these burly buggies on the highways, and into cities like La Paz (when "ordinary" vehicles were forced to stop at speed bumps, our 20-inches of suspension allowed us to hit them at 40 mph). As Tomba said: "There aren't many places that will let a bunch of lunatics like us drive on public roads in race cars."

Talk about immersion. After a brief walk-through of the cockpit, I slid into the driver's seat, not with an instructor beside me, but with another Baja neophyte. In short, the driver is immediately and completely accountable for a $120,000 racing rig (each accident – flat tire, ruined transmission, dead cow – comes with a $3000 deductible). The co-pilot is no idle passenger, but a vested partner. The race cars are equipped with GPS units and radios, and the co-pilot is responsible, when he's not hanging on for dear life, for alerting the car behind about upcoming hazards (which have been sent down from the lead, or guide, car). It's a high-stakes version of the old telephone game, where incorrect instructions can send cars hurtling off the road. Key facts must be conveyed precisely and quickly. It doesn't take long to learn who in the group is a good communicator, and who can get you hurt, says Todd Clement, Wide Open's founder and a Baja veteran.

The driver, meanwhile, is trying to process all this information while keeping a 3,000-pound beast under control barreling along at breakneck speed. The most comical comment, in hindsight, was Tomba telling us: "It's not a race. We'll see some beautiful areas. Look around. Enjoy it." Those words came back to me again and again as I desperately tried to keep up with the wicked pace set by Tomba, especially after several mechanical problems put our group behind schedule. One leisurely glance to take in the surroundings could have been disastrous.

Still, once comfortable with the pitch and sway that comes with plenty of suspension on these washed-out "roads," you can really open up these rigs. Chasing the car in front of us, Bellofatto and I spent as much time in the air as we did on terra firma. "You just can't describe the feeling you get while you're screaming through the desert at 80 miles an hour, surrounded by walls of killer cactus 15 feet high, and hitting jumps that would crack a Hummer in half," says Mike Dillard of Austin, TX.

The next day we all jabbed the gas pedal a bit harder, trusting the cars to do what they were designed to do. At the end of Day Two, when we motored into Scorpion Bay under the cover of darkness, I was spent. My helmet and clothes sported a thick layer of grime. My shoulders throbbed from smashing against the harness, and my right knee had a big purple welt where it repeatedly smacked a T-bar handle designed to provide the co-pilot some stability. My midsection was battered. No, this is not a pastime for the faint of heart, or faint of wallet (tour prices vary; plan on spending $1,000 per day). But the price of admission, whether financial or physical, is well worth it. When a Wide Open staffer handed me an ice-cold Pacifico, I was grinning like a kid.

For details on Wide Open Baja, visit wideopenbaja.com or call 949-635-2292.

Saddle up!

2009-11-16T07:32:00.020-05:00

Boston, promising!

My daughter Brynne is possessed. I suppose, if I were to be completely truthful, I always suspected there was a chance of this happening. But I, like so many parents, turned a blind eye toward my child's true passion and hoped, instead, that horses would just be a passing phase for my youngest. I should have known better.

After all, this is the girl who, at the ripe old age of six, came up to me one day with a determined look in her eye and asked me if I'd take her over to Myopia, an old-moneyed hunt-and-polo club that abuts our neighborhood. "Why?" I asked, thinking I'd already guessed the answer. "Because I want to see if they'll give me a job, so I can ride the horses," Brynne replied, obviously having thought this plan through. I was caught completely off guard.

For a second, I was speechless, probably because my heart had lodged in my throat. This earnest young girl of mine wasn't asking for riding lessons, wasn't asking for a horse. She was asking for the opportunity -- at 6! -- to earn her riding time. "Oh, honey," I said, not knowing in the least the Pandora's Box I was prying open, "if you want it that bad, Mommy and I will find a way to make it happen."

And we have. Brynne started taking lessons within the month, with a gentlemen recommended by a friend who happens to belong to Myopia. For Brynne, it was love at fist ride. She took to it naturally, looking calm and composed from the get-go. Then we got really lucky. When Patrick confided that work commitments would prevent him from continuing with Brynne, he recommended Karla Parnell.

Brynne has been with Karla ever since, riding once a week (sometimes twice a week in the summer, when Lauri and I can scrape together a few extra bucks) from nearby Looking Glass Farms, atop Penny or Cricket or Dabble or Eagle. Lauri and I love Karla's no-nonsense approach, and Karla has really taken a shine to Brynne because she doesn't want to just show up and ride. She wants to immerse herself in the experience. Brynne arrives early, tacks up the horses, and stays late, brushing them down afterward. I swear, I sometimes think there's nothing she'd rather be doing than mucking out stalls. Nothing except riding, that is. And, without fail, every time I watch her saunter off with Karla, my heart stutters.

At home, Brynne's room is a shrine to equitation. She has horsey blankets and pajamas and jackets and calendars and books and portraits and statues. On the door is a sign that says, simply, "Brynne's Stable." Her favorite stuffed sleeping buddy is a handsome chestnut named Sampson. Thanks to Brynne, our DVR is overflowing with episodes of "The Saddle Club." Her Christmas list is copied directly from Dover Saddlery. She is, without a doubt, in deep. The first photo above is from Christmas two or three years ago, during a visit to my brother in-law's house. In classic class-clown fashion (Brynne is the second child, after all), she's horsing around on her cousin Olivia's new hobby horse

But this past fall, during the annual Myopia Hunter Pace, my daughter's favorite pastime really hit home. I watched as Brynne, in full riding regalia (a second-hand outfit neatly tailored by Lauri, I should add), came trotting out of the woods aboard Cricket and cleared the final jump. It was beautiful beyond words. My little girl, now 10, didn't look so little anymore (the second photo was snapped a moment later). She was a young and talented equestrian, confident and radiant. Her smile was as brilliant as it was priceless.

While I love the fact that Brynne plays hockey, I've never once allowed myself to think -- not for a moment -- that her deepest affections lie with my chosen sport. Brynne likes the rink, but she loves the stable. It's as simple as that. She's always been a young lady who knows what she wants, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Best,
-Brion

What price freedom?

2009-11-10T10:38:00.009-05:00

Boston, overcast.

I find it somehow fitting that the skies are shrouded with sad, gray clouds this morning, given the disrespectful behavior of two local institutions regarding Veterans Day. An exclusive local private school (Shore Country Day) and my daughter's hockey league (the Valley League) both have decided that Veteran's Day is not a holiday worth recognizing. I'm sure they're not the only two; just ask any veteran who is being told he or she has to work on Wednesday. But this is not a holiday that should ever be taken lightly, or considered "optional."

I never served in the armed forces, fortunate to have slipped into that comfortable little crease between the end of the Vietnam War and the ensuing rise of the Gulf War battles (which, incredibly, we're still embroiled in to this day). And, I can honestly say that, had I been drafted during the Vietnam War, I'm not sure I would have gone, given my deep-seated disenchantment with the decisions that led to our involvement in those hostilities. But I've always had great respect for those who answered the call, and especially for those who, unlike me, put their country ahead of any personal beliefs. That kind of courage and commitment is the very definition of allegiance (a definition that our political leaders would do well to adopt).

Both my father and his father were doctors in the Army. My stepfather, Don Morin, served for three years in the European theater during World War II, a foot soldier in some of the most brutal and bloodiest battle zones known to man. Today, still ram-rod straight at 89, Don rarely talks about those days, which is not uncommon. Many of Lauri's patients are older men who served in World War II or, more often these days, the Korea War (I refuse to call it a "conflict"). She says that most take a quiet pride in their service -- there was a job to do, and they did it. They didn't "play" war. It wasn't simulated combat on Xbox or PlayStation. It was real life, and far too many lost their lives. Many more carried debilitating scars -- physical, mental and emotional -- the rest of their days. The least we can do is take two days out of the year -- Veterans Day and Memorial Day -- and let these brave men and women know how grateful we are.

That's the root of my disappointment today, on the eve of this essential holiday. So many people, including those who run Shore Country Day and the Valley League, have lost sight of how important it is that we honor those who sacrificed so much so that we can enjoy the lifestyle we have. In my most jaded moments, I think that Shore Country Day parents aren't concerned because they know their precious youngsters will never have to take up arms to protect this country. Cynical? I suppose, but it's hardly a state secret that those at the lower end of the socio-economic ladder typically put their lives on the line for those who profit most from war. It's been that way for centuries.

There was a time when most everyone served, regardless of social status or financial wherewithal. I live in a wealthy community, and I've taken time to visit the war memorial in front of Hamilton's Town Hall. The names etched in those granite blocks come from well-to-do and blue-collar families alike. Would that still hold true today? I have my doubts. This is a town where General George Patton settled, and his son (another General George Patton; note he was not spared military service) lived until his death. We have a Patton Park in the middle of town, complete with a Sherman tank, artillery, and two stone pillars, a gift from France for the efforts of Patton's infantry to liberate that country from Nazi rule. How many children are taught the true human toll that came with the deployment of those weapons?

I'm not saying I'm a proponent of a universal draft, or that everyone must play some part in this country's military-industrial complex (I always thought Muhammed Ali was railroaded for his refusal to be drafted). But I do believe we should have a universal appreciation for those who were willing to risk everything. That's what Veteran's Day is supposed to be. I find it both disheartening and discouraging that so many now apparently take those sacrifices for granted.

Best,
-Brion

An uncommon, heartfelt apology ...

2009-11-03T15:41:00.018-05:00

Boston, with winter on the way!

As a youth hockey coach, I get to see, up close and personal, the entire spectrum of human behavior, from kids to parents to grandparents. Much of it, frankly, isn't very pretty. And I suppose some think of me and my Old School ways in the same vein. I take the "iron hand, warm heart" approach to coaching. I don't cut the kids much slack. I want them to enjoy sports, but also want them to respect the game. They need to know that games aren't created for their entertainment; the games exist to challenge them, to help them learn and grow. The enjoyment comes from mastering a skill, from learning that extra effort is always repaid in full, and from sharing a unique camaraderie with teammates.

Still, I oftentimes think most parents don't get this approach. My bride once coined the phrase "soccer day care," and I think that probably applies to youth hockey as well. At least town-sponsored programs. Don't get me wrong; I'm not a fan of the over-the-top, win-at-all-costs approach either. But sports, really, are about challenging yourself, getting knocked on your butt and getting back up, and repeating the process until you succeed. It's not about being pampered, or about the nice gear your well-heeled folks can buy for you. In sports, it's about what YOU can do on the ice. No excuses (despite the fact that we live in an area where parents will make every excuse, no matter how preposterous, for their child!).

But every now and then a moment happens to remind me why I do this. It might be an exhausted smile, a rare "thank you," a spark of recognition that what you're preaching is getting through. Last weekend our Squirt 2 team had a game (at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m., at a rink an hour away) against a squad from Haverhill. Unfortunately for Haverhill, their goalie didn't show, which meant some poor kid without the proper equipment had to stand between the pipes. By late in the second period, with our squad winning 5-0, my assistant coach and I implemented a "three-pass minimum" in the offensive zone (like I said, the other team didn't have a goaltender, and we had no intention of running up the score). We re-emphasized that rule between periods. It was, we said, not only the right thing to do from a sportsmanship perspective, but our players needed work on their passing.

In the third period, one of my defensemen, a burly, likable kid (we'll call him "Bobby," in the interests of anonymity), intercepted a clearing attempt and took a shot from the point without the requisite three passes. My assistant and I immediately agreed to take him off the ice. This is where it gets interesting. I asked Bobby if he understood why I pulled him, and he sheepishly admitted he knew he should have passed. I emphasized that there are times when you have to resist doing what you want to do, and instead do what's right (in this case, pass, so we could be good sportsmen). The boy nodded. A moment later, he mumbled something behind me. When I asked him to repeat it, he said: "I'm sorry, Coach." It was incredibly sincere.

The next time I looked at him, he had tears running down his cheeks. I was really moved ... this young man really cares about the game, and really cares about doing the right thing. I was proud of him. "It's OK, Bobby," I told him. "We're good, right?" He quietly said "yes," and I knew we were.

Best,
-B

My bride

2009-11-02T08:00:00.016-05:00

Boston, pristine!

Today is my bride's birthday. She gets one day to celebrate every year. I get 365, because I was lucky enough to have her say "Yes" when I proposed 16 years ago (on my birthday, no less ... how's that for the present of a lifetime?!). Lauri Zinn O'Connor is a rare and special woman, not only because she puts up with this crusty old Irishman, but because she does so with such grace and quiet understanding. Living with a self-employed freelance writer (or at least this self-employed writer) is no walk in the park, but Lauri somehow makes every day special. That is her gift, and that's why I'm one of the most fortunate men on this planet.

Lauri typically handles all my idiosyncrasies -- and I admit I have more than my fair share -- with her natural good humor and a finely honed sense of convenient amnesia. We have our flare-ups (what couple doesn't?), but even at the worst moments, there is no one I'd rather be with. Her laugh is absolute music to my ears, with a voice to match (my brother Sean once said, in a complimentary nod to Lauri: "Marry someone with a voice you like, because you'll be hearing a lot of it."). She even indulges me in my Mitty-esque flights of fancy regarding my athletic pursuits, whether its cycling, hockey, soccer, skiing, or something else. In fact, if I'm sitting around moping, due to this injury or that, she's the one who will shake me out of my doldrums and get me back on the flow train.

Lauri's also an incredible mom to our two precocious daughters (who, fortunately, get their good looks from the Zinn side of the family!), and the indisputable head of our little household. She keeps our Hamilton cottage neat as a pin (at least by my standards; I'm sure she'll disagree), inside and out. But, as my Mom liked to say, there's a world of difference between a house and a home. Lauri makes our house a home. She's the glue that keeps us together, and I want her to know how much I appreciate and adore her. That goes double for the girls, I'm certain.

Yes, I may have my shortcomings, but at least I have the good sense to know I've got it good. Check that. I've got one of the best! Thanks, beautiful!

Hugs and kisses,
-B

Wow, what a goal!

2009-10-15T08:28:00.008-04:00

Boston, brrrrrr!

Every now and then I'm lucky enough to get to see something that makes even This Old Jock sit up and take notice. Check out this video. The shooter is Oliver Wahlstrom, who plays for the Portland Junior Pirates in Maine. The setting is NESN's Mini 1-on-1, which airs between periods of the Bruins games. The shot is simply amazing, and the goalie's reaction -- "What the heck just happened?" -- is absolutely classic.

The video was making the rounds like wildfire this morning, especially among hockey circles. The general consensus was, "Get that kid on the Bruins." One of the more clever posts said "The Bruins just traded him to Toronto!" Unfortunately, what was equally incredible was the number of people who felt it necessary to post comments on the Boston.com web site, criticizing young Oliver for having the skill and cajones to make such a move. Here's just a short sampling:

Just about as dumb as doing a triple axle then scoring. Any defender with a brain would take 2 steps and end this kid as he turned to the net. The people on this post obviously never played the sport.

The only thing missing is the goalie coming after shooter with his stick, shaking off gloves and having the two pound away at each other.

Very talented kid, but he needs to learn that someday he won't be the big fish in the small pond and he will get his lunch handed to him if he does that to the wrong opponent.

The showboating is the kid chose to embarrass his opponent with a very high-skilled manuever that should not be allowed in a competition like this. If it were a H-O-R-S-E like game, fine, knock your socks off, but this kid chose to embarrass the goalie, not just put the puck by him.

Huh? Have these people lost their minds? Is this what youth sports have come to? I'm a goalie, for crying out loud, and I can appreciate the remarkable skill required to make this move (and to put it in the net). Plus, the kid had to have ice water in his veins to pull it off in competition.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all for sportsmanship, as any of the players on my Squirt hockey team, not to mention their parents, will tell you. But there's a time and a place to really let loose, and I can't think of a better place than some made-for-TV competition. Plus, I didn't see Oliver "show up" the goalie with an exaggerated fist pump or any other histrionics! He simply raised his arms, the traditional salute for a goal scored. Plus, he's just a kid! I congratulate him, not only for his skill, but for the hours and hours of practice he must have put in to be able to pull off such a difficult move. Best of luck, Oliver. You're going places in this great sport!

And for anyone who thinks this skill is useless in a game, just go to YouTube and search for Michigan's Mike Legg and his fantastic goal against Minnesota in the 1996 West Regional final, scooping the puck up behind the net and depositing over the unsuspecting goalie's shoulder. Brilliant, and ballsy!

Best,
-Brion

My daughter, the teenager ...

2009-10-14T08:03:00.013-04:00

Boston, beautiful & brisk.

On Friday, I will become the father of a teenager! How is that possible? My life forever changed on Oct. 16, 1996, when MaryAylssa Diane "Maddi" O'Connor made her grand entrance into the world. And, if I remember correctly (sleep deprived as I may have been), she entered eyes wide open, with a pair of lungs to match! I became not only a father, but a husband in a much, much more profound sense than I ever could have imagine, being with Lauri throughout her labor.

The fact that I was in that hospital room, helping as much as any fumbling husband really can at that moment, was a testament to the seismic shift my life had taken in the previous 16 months. At age 36, the guy who my Mom said was her "confirmed bachelor," got married. Part of that deal, I knew, was children, if we were lucky enough. I've never met a woman -- or maybe I should say I never dated a women -- with such a strong maternal drive as Lauri, and she made it clear that if we were going to get hitched, then fatherhood was in my future.

Of course, being a guy, I spent our first year of marriage blissfully unaware, carrying on like I always had, running off to play hockey and hoops, riding my bike, going windsurfing. Lauri and I were young professionals, settling into a new house, all fancy free and open to a world of possibilities. But Lauri was setting up a "home," building the foundation. After all, it was my bride who, when she first saw our neighborhood, commented: "What a great place this will be to raise kids." She got us a cat -- a great, entertaining feline we named Marley -- to help me get adjusted to the concept of responsibility. Then, shortly after Valentine's Day, we learned we were in the "family way."

We signed up for parenting classes, and Lauri got busy with fixing up the new bedroom, buying cloths (a late ultrasound revealed we were having a girl!), and reading, reading, always reading. Me? I just stayed out of the way. We really enjoyed picking out the name, and settled on MaryAlyssa Diane O'Connor. The name is a playful combination of my sister's (MaryEllen), Lauri's mom (Diane), and a name we both really loved, Alyssa. Plus, her initials gave her the instant nickname of Maddi, which we joked would come in handy once our eldest became a teenager and decided she hated her name!

Now that moment is at hand, and I can't believe what a blur the last 13 years have been. Of course, everyone tells you it will pass like a freight train. Intellectually, you understand that. But emotionally, you want nothing more than to have a life DVR, something that allows you to pause, capture, or even rewind all the good parts. And there have been so, so many "good parts" watching Maddi on her journey through childhood. She's always had that dazzling smile, those twinkling eyes. She's grown straight and strong, built so much like her beautiful mom. Like most children, Maddi has been a challenge and a joy. An early daycare teacher -- Miss Marcia -- once called Maddi a "gentle soul," and in all the years that have passed since, I don't think anyone has described Maddi more succinctly or more accurately. The girl's got a heart of gold, which is something I really try to remember during all those maddening parent-child flare-ups that inevitably happen between generations. Life has an annoying way of letting all the niggling details -- the small stuff -- wear on our patience and hamper our ability to see the big picture. Again, I'm so grateful for Lauri, and the yin & yang of our partnership that allows us to council one another when one of us is spinning out of control. It's reassuring to have that rock, one that isn't bashful about reminding me just how super our kids are.

Perhaps the greatest compliment I can offer Maddi, and her mom, as well as younger sister Brynne, is letting them know that there is no place, no place, I'd rather be at any moment in time than with them. Though I'm a writer who once lived for adventure travel, I find I have, at most, a 48-hour window while away before I start missing my girls something fierce. I've discovered depths of emotion I never knew existed, fired by Lauri and stoked, constantly, by Maddi and Brynne. I realized that I could never return to the newspaper field, where human tragedy is the daily fodder of the business. I just don't have the stomach for it anymore.

Some of my new-found traits, I admit, are less-than-admirable, like the inevitable Papa Bear reaction to any perceived sleight suffered by my child. Still, always the reporter (and Libra, I suppose), I try to be fair and impartial when Maddi goes through a rough patch, whether it's a falling out among friends or a squabble at home. Often she bears some responsibility, and it's my job as a parent to make sure she understands how her actions impact others. Those lessons haven't always been easy. When she aches, I ache. Like a good friend once told me when Lauri and I were first expecting, there's no greater sense of helplessness than when your child is hurting, and you can't take that pain away.

All that said, we have been incredibly fortunate. We've had a few scares, such as the time Maddi, only two, was rushed to the hospital with an unknown viral infection. But, taking the past 13 years as a whole, we have to count our blessings. We have a small, cozy cottage here in Hamilton, which means that, more often than not, the four of us are tripping all over each other (in addition to the two cats and True, our knucklehound). For the most part, I absolutely love it. Though it would be nice to have a bigger house (just ask Lauri), I can't imagine enjoying the distance that would come between us. Maybe that will change, as Maddi, and then Brynne, burrow deeper into the unsettling arena of adolescence. I hope not. My Mom used to counsel that you prepared kids the best you could, and then you have to let them find their own way. I see Maddi, on the cusp of her teenage years, and I just hope and pray that the adventure is a rich and rewarding one. And I pray the Good Lord lets me be a part of it.

Best,
-Brion

Kind words from an author ...

2009-10-13T12:31:00.015-04:00

Boston, raining & cold.

It's not often that my colleagues and I in the freelance writing biz get a thoughtful response to what we publish. Much of our craft takes place in a vacuum, which I guess is a good and a bad thing. We're typically insulated from criticism, but rarely hear praise, other than the kind words of our editors (which, I'll add, are always appreciated, probably more than they know!).

This past Sunday, I had a book review published in the Boston Globe. The book - Heart of the Game - was one of the most powerful I'd read in years. The review, however, languished in a holding pattern at the Globe for months, the victim of ever-shrinking editorial real estate. It wasn't anybody's fault, really ... there just wasn't any space. Last week, however, came the word that the review would run. I was relieved, not only because it meant a paycheck, but also because I felt strongly that S.L. Price's superb work deserved the ink. I struggled mightily writing the review, because I wanted to do the book justice. It touched me on a personal and emotional level, and it's never easy to write about those feelings without sounding self-absorbed. But I was pleased with the final result, and grateful that the review would see the light of day.

Then, on Monday, I received a note from the author, one that made all the extra effort worthwhile. It read, in part: "I can't tell you how much your review means to me: in some ways, you actually explain some of what I was trying to do better than I could ever articulate. It's rare to feel that something you've written has been met, even exceeded, by the understanding of the reader. That happened here, with your thoughtful, well-written, essay."

I let Price's words rattle around inside my head for a while, sitting in my cramped office, a sense of contentment warming me. I've always said that I enjoy writing because it gives me a wonderful opportunity to connect with others. And I was happy to know that two people who don't know one another, two fathers who both cherish sports and the lessons they teach us, connected because of this fine book.

Here is the review, which ran with the accompanying photograph of Tino Sanchez, sitting beside Mike Coolbaugh's jersey. It probably goes without saying that I highly recommend Heart of the Game, whether your a sports fan, or just a fan of the human race.

Death and life in baseball's minor leagues

Judging a book by its cover is the cardinal sin for a reviewer. But the photograph that adorns “Heart of the Game’’ is riveting. It shows Mike Coolbaugh, a long-time minor league baseball player, his uniform-clad back to the camera. In his arms are his two young sons, Joey and Jake, each with a hand on their father’s broad shoulders. Knowing he’s gone, killed in one of baseball’s most freakish accidents, brought me to the edge of tears.

Yet this is where veteran Sports Illustrated writer S.L. Price weaves his magic. Genuine and raw, “Heart of the Game’’ is a heartfelt work of despair, triumph, and redemption. Price presents the lives of two minor league “lifers’’ - Coolbaugh and Tino Sanchez - on a cataclysmic collision course with the unerring eye of a superb journalist and the grounded sensitivity of a poet. True, there is a sense of dread permeating Price’s book, but his prose never turns maudlin. We know the ending isn’t happy. But to stop reading would be far worse, tantamount to quitting on a man who never quit himself.

“Mike kept playing after his dream died because he had a family to feed,’’ writes Price, describing Sanchez’s first impressions of Coolbaugh. “Mike has a passion tempered - inflamed, even - by rejection and pain.’’

Essentially, Price takes a sound-bite tragedy and begins digging, dissecting it. The short story is this: Coolbaugh’s life was cut short on a warm July night in 2007 in a pristine new ballpark in North Little Rock, Ark. At 35, he was less than month into a new coaching career after struggling for 17 years in professional baseball, mostly in the minors. He had been appointed hitting coach for the Double-A Tulsa Drillers (a Colorado Rockies affiliate), and was still getting comfortable in this new environment, serving as first base coach that star-crossed night. Then, lightning struck. With a swing of his bat, Sanchez sent a foul ball rocketing 90 feet down the first base line. It struck Coolbaugh flush in the neck, just behind his left ear. “Its report was muffled, moist, like an ax sinking hard into a patch of rotten timber,’’ writes Price.

Coolbaugh was killed instantly. The moments, days, and weeks that follow are absolutely gut wrenching. Sanchez, a native of Puerto Rico who had hoped to get the coaching job won by Coolbaugh, reached him first, even before the first baseman or the first-base umpire. Back home in Texas, Mandy Coolbaugh was pregnant with the couple’s third child, a daughter. In the hills of Yauco, Puerto Rico, Sanchez’s wife Annie was also expecting a daughter.

Throughout, Price is respectful but never fawning. It’s clear that, while he may have approached the project as a journalist, he developed an admiration and deep respect for those whose lives were irrevocably altered that July evening. He describes Coolbaugh’s taskmaster father, the spirited sibling rivalry with older brother Scott, the seismic shift in his family’s faith and foundations, and the reverberations felt through the entire Colorado Rockies organization (Red Sox fans will recall the sweep of the Rockies in 2007; what they don’t know is that the Colorado players unselfishly voted Coolbaugh a full $233,505 share).

Price delights in exposing the inequities of minor league ball, as if hoping to balance those scales of injustice. While the general consensus is that our national pastime is as wholesome as Grandma’s apple pie, Price torches the myth and rips open the game’s seedy underside. “Minor league baseball is an endless winnowing process,’’ he writes. “Cast for months into a confined space where people are promoted, demoted, traded, and released every day, where today’s teammate is tomorrow’s memory, players literally live with rejection. No one can truly relax; even the most secure prospects sense the insidious thrum of fear.’’

But in these players, and many of the long-time coaches and scouts, Price finds many admirable qualities: perseverance, integrity, humility, grit, patience, compassion, and, yes, even love. “There are so many clichés I could rattle off,’’ says Matt Miller, the Drillers left fielder who heard Mike’s last words. “But what I’ve taken away is: You’ve just got to respect what you do. Mike obviously loved baseball, and if he wasn’t a baseball player he could’ve done something else and been just as passionate. That’s important. That’s what I want to incorporate in my life. Whatever you want to do, go after it with passion. Just don’t quit.’’

The role of faith, or fate, or any celestial connection in Coolbaugh’s life and death, of course, remains a mystery. “God had a plan for Mike,’’ Mandy says, “and there was nothing we could do to stop it.’’

The challenge is to keep reading through the tears and the inevitable swell of sorrow. But you will. Like Coolbaugh, like his family, like Sanchez, you won’t quit. You’ll finish it. And afterwards, there’s a very good chance that you’ll look at your own world a bit differently, with more appreciation. As strange as it might seem, given the tragic nature of Coolbaugh’s story, you’ll feel better for having allowed Price to share it with you.

Best,
-Brion

Patience? What patience ... ?

2009-10-07T16:29:00.007-04:00

"You know
That you're over the hill
When your mind makes a promise
That your body can't fill."
Fat Man in the Bathtub
-Lowell George & Little Feat

Boston, torrential ...

No, that's not me in the accompanying photo, but I wish it was (OK, I'm not that good looking, but I do have more hair!). There's nothing I need more right about now than a good, long soak in a hot tub. Maybe that would be the salve for this nagging groin strain. Not to mention my decrepit lower back, piano wire hamstrings, and crunchy scapula. Then again, maybe not. Which is why I'm pretty much figuratively climbing the walls of my 10-by-8 home office.

Injuries are a fact of life for any athlete, from pro to weekend warrior. If you're going to continue to play, especially after all the growth plates have set and the testosterone levels start to dip, then its a mere eventuality that you'll get hurt. I can accept that. The problem for me isn't so much getting hurt, but the required recovery time, and the reality that it takes longer and longer and longer for my body to heal. I strained my groin more than a month ago. I knew immediately it meant at least two weeks on the Injured Reserved, but when two weeks stretched to three, and now five, I started getting pretty antsy. Actually, "antsy" is being much too mild. I'm now empathizing with Jack Nicholson's "all work and no play" character in The Shining (minus the homicidal rage, thankfully). I've been behaving, too, doing little more than ride my bike -- road spins only -- and skating lightly with my daughter's Squirt hockey team, which I coach.

Still, the strain lingers. Lauri, my bride, has recommended treating it with moist heat and light stretching, which I've finally agreed to do this week (a sure sign of just how desperate I am!). With luck, I'll get back on the ice net week, before I atrophy any more than I already have this past month (hence the "fat man in the bathtub" reference). But the mind-numbing wait, and the eroding patience, is brutal. And that's probably because I know all too well that there are far fewer games ahead of me than behind.

Injuries make us think of our own mortality, not just the end of the road of our athletic endeavors, but the end of the road that lies beyond. I, like most guys, am pretty good about denial (though I have yet to raise it to an art form). As long as there are older colleagues in there mucking it up with me, whether playing hockey or soccer, or spinning the pedals, I can make the argument that I've got a couple of years left in the tank. And, maybe even more importantly, as long as I have a place to play, I can continue pretending to be a kid. Injuries give us pause, a chance to reflect on whether we ought to keep tilting at the windmills. I'm not sure that's a good thing.

Recently, I was interviewing Jessie McAleer, the reigning New England masters ski racing champ, for a story. McAleer is 39, but she's got no intention of giving up the sport she loves. When I asked her how long she planned to keep racing, she laughed and said: "Forever. At nationals, you should see some of the older folks who get up there. One guy was like 92. He was part of the 10th Mountain Division. He gets up there on the podium, and he's shaped like a question mark. And he's got this gold medal hanging off his chest. I'm like, Oh yeah! Ski racing is scary sometimes. It's scary 'cause you don't want to get hurt, it's scary 'cause it's asking a lot to push yourself like that. You've got to mentally jack yourself up to get in the gate and do the best you can. Physically, you get banged up. To do that year after year, and when you're 89, slipping on a GS suit on, getting yourself mentally and physically prepared, driving four hours to the ski area, tuning your skis, getting up at 7 a.m. to get on the hill, that's the type of stuff that keeps you alive. "

What's difficult to convey is the sheer energy and admiration in McAleer's voice. There's no doubt in my mind that McAleer, like that 10th Mountain veteran, will keep racing as long as she's able to drag herself to the hill. I'm glad I got Jessie's interview on tape. Because, when I'm bumming about this injury or that, feeling like the fat man in the bathtub, I can give it a listen and get my thinking right. And then I can figure out a way to get back in the game.

Best,
-Brion

Saying goodbye to Fred ...

2009-09-25T11:50:00.017-04:00

Boston, autumn in full bloom.

Under glorious blue skies late last week, I drove to Newburyport to pay my last respects to a friend and a mentor. Stepping out of my car, a cool, capricious breeze set the aging leaves shaking. It was, I thought, a perfect day for reflection. More so, it was a day that Fred Pearson would have absolutely loved.

Inside a comfortable, quiet Episcopal church on High Street, we bid our adieus to Frederick Gordon Neil Pearson, who passed away at the age of 86 earlier this month. The photo that adorned the memorial pamphlet was classic Fred: Sport coat and bow tie, cocktail in hand, the ocean in the background and an impish grin creasing his worldly face. This Yale man was always the epitome of Ivy League sophistication off the ice. On the ice was another matter entirely, and it was on the ice that I knew Fred Pearson best.

Hockey was in Fred Pearson's blood. It coursed through every fiber of his being. Born in Beverly, he would walk from his house on the hill where Beverly Hospital now stands down to Kelleher's Ice Pond, building the stamina that served him so well over eight decades. He was schooled in Canada before prepping at Hotchkiss and eventually matriculating at Yale. There, in early January of 1946, Pearson's Yale team pulled off a stunning upset, snapping Dartmouth's 45-game winning streak, 6-4. Fred Pearson scored twice to lead the Elis. In 1948, he was tabbed to represent the United States at the Winter Olympic Games in St. Moritz, Switzerland. Afterward, he continued to play, even throughout his long professional career as an advertising executive with Channel 38.

Fred played football. He played rugby. He cycled. He sailed. He flew. The man, it seemed, never stopped. Never. And he never stopped talking about his exploits, though not in a boastful way. He was a storyteller, and each tale was dressed up with his trademark twinkle. I knew Fred for almost a quarter century through our time together with the North Shore Skating Association. This loosely-knit group of hockey lifers was first formed roughly 30 years ago, and featured some of the most distinguished residents on the North Shore, including Caleb Loring, the Clarks of Hamilton, Dick Villa of Manchester-by-the-Sea, Robert Buell of Boxford, and many others. We first played at the old outdoor rink behind Gordon College in Wenham, and then moved to the Johnson Rink at the Pingree School in Hamilton. It was a classic collection of puck-lovers, with white-collar finance guys rubbing elbows with blue-collared craftsmen and laborers. Outside the rink, Mercedes and Lexuses and Escalades were parked alongside Buicks, Subarus and pick-up trucks.

Inside, though, all those trappings of wealth or social standing were stripped away. All that matter was how you played. Fred Pearson, even in his 80s, played with a fire and energy that few could match. In that sense, he was a constant inspiration, to me and to everyone else who stepped on the ice. He never once instructed me how to play; he simply led by example. I thought of that often during Fred's memorial service. As I surveyed the small crowd, I was encouraged to see that so many of Fred's hockey buddies from the N.S.S.A. had made the effort to pay their last respects. Many were wearing the reversible black and yellow jerseys of the N.S.S.A. brotherhood.

It struck me, sitting in that pew, that I would never again walk into a Pingree locker room (not on this earth, anyway) when Fred Pearson was holding court. It was much like my Dad's funeral. The finality of Dad's death didn't hit me until I saw the casket. And then I just melted, an inconsolable child of 13 consumed by raw emotion. Now, almost 40 years later, I felt many of those same stirrings deep in my gut. Sometimes death has a funny way of opening our eyes, and I understood just how much I cared for Fred Pearson.

Part of me couldn't help but think that Fred would be embarrassed by all this attention. Another part felt equally as strong that the man would be genuinely touched to know that so many cared so deeply. As a writer, I always wanted to tell the story about Fred's many adventures, but he wanted no part of it. I only asked once, and his terse refusal short-circuited any future requests. I had no choice but to respect Fred's wishes. The cynical journalist in me often suspected he didn't want any tall tales held up to the light of day. More likely the truth was that Fred Pearson considered the locker room bond sacred. The tales told there were for this inner circle only, and not public consumption.

Memorial services, however, are a different venue. So I stood up, and asked for the microphone. I turned to face the majority of the attendees, and admitted that when it came to capturing the essence of a man like Fred Pearson, the mind just reeled. I mentioned that my wife likes to tease me that the terms "Over 50" and "hockey" should be mutually exclusive, to which I typically respond that Fred Pearson only has 34 years on me. I spoke about coaching my daughter's Agawam Squirt hockey team, and how I preach that this beautiful game accentuates all that is good about competition. It teaches us perseverance, integrity, grit, honesty. More than any other sport, I believe, hockey rewards those who give the greatest effort. It celebrates teamwork above individual play, and does not suffer fools or slackers kindly. Fred Pearson, I said, embodied the great traits of the game better than anyone I knew.

Last, I reminded the N.S.S.A. players, and the general audience, that we all had an obligation to honor Fred's legacy by striving to live life fully, each day. I heard my voice breaking, and quietly returned the microphone to the minister.

Of course, there were far too many stories to tell in such a brief address. I forgot to mention that, as a goaltender, I had a special relationship with Fred. When Fred was on my team, I never saw him, as he had a particular disdain for back checking ("He was conserving his energy," quipped Scott Brown, another N.S.S.A. regular). But when Fred was playing for the opposing team, there was no avoiding him. Other speakers mentioned Fred's tenacity, and heavy stick, but opposing goalies got to feel it on a regular basis. Any loose puck near the crease was fair game. If Fred got to it first, it often meant a goal. If the goalie got the puck, he would usually get the business end of Fred's blade across the back of the glove. And as much as I would yell at Fred on the rare occasion when I was the recipient of one of those patented Pearson slashes, I admired the man's passion.

Don Pasquarello, an emergency room doctor at Beverly Hospital, spoke of how he would cringe whenever Fred would slam into a player twice his size, and inevitably go crashing to the ice. What he didn't mention is how angry Fred got if he suspected any one was going easy on him, out of respect for his advanced years. Fred Pearson played the game the right way, hard-nosed and straightforward, until his last shift.

There is another great story that Todd Lampert, owner of Todd's Sporting Goods in Beverly, tells. One night at Pingree, Fred, then in his early 80s, was getting ready for another whirl around the ice with his N.S.S.A. gang. Lampert, who was on the ice beforehand with the Beverly High hockey team, brought him into the Panthers' locker room, and said, "I want you to meet Fred Pearson. Mr. Pearson played for the United States at the 1948 Winter Olympics. And you can watch him, because he's going out to play right now." The kids' response stunned Lampert. They stood and applauded.

In this day and age of sports overload, where sports radio rules the airwaves with a bunch of belligerent fans and know-it-all announcers, where once-proud sports magazines give undo coverage to "fantasy" games, and where our youth find themselves in the midst of an obesity epidemic, Fred Pearson reminded us that the true joy of sports comes not from watching, but from participating. It was clear, listening to others sing Fred's praises, that this was not a man for idle chatter. He was a man of action. While many of us talk about doing things, Fred's raison d'etre was in the "doing."

Leaving the church, walking into a perfect fall afternoon, I stopped to chat with John Fiske, another of the N.S.S.A. brethren. He relayed that Fred, following a devastating car accident, had told him emphatically last May that "I'll be back." Like the rest of us, John never had a reason to doubt such bravado, because Fred always backed up his words. John then sadly shrugged his shoulders in that unmistakable what-are-you-going-to-do way. As we said goodbye, John reminded me of Fred's opt-repeated salute as he left the rink: "Good night, fellow warriors." Fred Pearson was a warrior, in the truest sense of the word. Brave, noble, decisive, honorable, loyal. He will be greatly missed, both on and off the ice.

Best,
-Brion

One pedal stroke ahead of Father Time

2009-09-23T18:24:00.010-04:00

Boston, threatening rain.

This morning brought a sobering reality. While working on this cyclocross article for the Boston Globe, I was interviewing Paul Boudreau, a longtime Essex County Velo teammate and race director for the upcoming Gran Prix of Gloucester event. I asked when the first race was held. "Eleven years ago," answered Paul. I was stunned. Could that possibly be right? Could it really have been that long ago? See the skinny guy above? That's me, competing in the second ECV cyclocross race at Stage Fort Park in Gloucester (check out this link for the original story ... after all this time, it's still one of my all-time favorites).

Ten years gone by, and about 20 extra pounds packed on. To think that my youngest, Brynne, wasn't even a year old when I first did this race is a bit mind-boggling. But I guess that's why we, as older athletes, keep soldiering on. Our bodies age, but our minds practice a rose-colored deception, focusing on our physical heyday and conveniently erasing the ensuing years. I'm almost 52, and although I've got the scars and nagging aches and pains to prove it, I don't like giving in so easily to Father Time. I'd much rather go down swinging. Which is exactly why I'm going to bring this entry to a quick close. I'm going to walk downstairs, squeeze into that same ECV kit (thank god for Spandex!), and head out for a spin. I'm sure Father Time will be right on my wheels, but I'm going to try like all hell to pedal away from him ...

Best,
-Brion

Letting go ...

2009-09-11T18:25:00.008-04:00

Boston, overcast but pleasant.

Brynne went bobbing across Route 1A, her golden blond locks sprouting from beneath her cycling helmet, her trusty two-wheeler by her side. I hovered over the crosswalk like some surly gargoyle. With her over-stuffed backpack sagging off her shoulders, Brynne swung a leg over the saddle, and started pedaling down the sidewalk.

"I love you," I shouted. "Be careful."

"Love you too, Daddy," said my 10-year-old with a wave of her hand. And she was gone.

I was a wreck. Brynne's elementary school is only a mile away, and there's a police officer at the far crosswalk. This is not a high-risk operation. Yet my stomach was in knots as I walked back home. The juxtaposition between Brynne's joy at her unfettered freedom and my own fretful misery was jarring.

Brynne is my baby, though she would cringe at that description. She's always had a healthy-if-inflated sense of her abilities (the morning she tried cooking omelets when she was all of 5-years-old springs to mind), and sometimes gets in over her head. She's our daredevil. MaryAlyssa, her older sister, is more cautious. Brynne often acts first, thinks second. It's a trait that gives parents gray hair, quickly.

My wife, Lauri, always wanted kids. Never a doubt, and I admired that kind of raw, primitive drive. I, on the other hand, needed convincing. In part, I feared parenthood because I feared this moment. It is the fear of letting go, letting my child loose into the world. I'm not sure where that sense of dread comes from, to be honest. Maybe from losing my dad before I became a teenager, or maybe it's the freshly unearthed memories of my own reckless youth. I remember pedaling through a stop sign., having too much fun going too fast, and forcing some poor, startled woman in a huge station wagon to slam on the brakes. I can still see her face, her eyes practically popping out of their sockets. Maybe my reticence is the result from too many years as a newspaper reporter, when tragedy was part of our daily milieu.

This moment, I knew, was a pristine example of why my mom relied so heavily on her faith. Mom, widowed at 40, raised six of us, and our childish indiscretions must have weighed heavily on her. She knew that parenting, from conception forward, is a constant leap of faith. She often told me: "You let your children go as they grow, but you never stop being a parent."

You prepare your progeny as best you can, and then you bid them adieu, sharing in their bliss as well as their sorrow. Watching Brynne ride off without me was just another reminder.

Best,
-Brion

PS ... A special "Thanks!" to our young neighborhood paparazzi, Charlotte Goodwin, for this wonderful portrait of my Brynne!

A man's man ...

2009-09-09T21:16:00.017-04:00

Boston, twilight.

My heart is heavy tonight, because I just learned that a good, good friend is at death's door. Death will take Fred Pearson, as it will eventually take all of us. But I believe, deep in my heart, that Death will take no satisfaction in taking Fred Pearson from us.

Fred Pearson is one of my heroes. Period. Don't be fooled by the accompanying photo, taken on Fred's 83rd birthday a few years back. Sure, it looks randy, but it speaks more to the sophomoric humor that hockey players like to employ to shield how much they really do care about the other guys in the locker room. And, to be perfectly honest, Fred was truly embarrassed by all the fuss, not to mention the "special guest" we plopped in his lap. Fred, frankly, loved everything about hockey, except maybe the Neanderthal humor. He was an Ivy man, through and through. His Yale teams were stuff of legend, and he went on the play in the Olympic Games in St. Mortiz in 1948 (one of the more bizarre chapters of Winter Olympic lore, when the United States actually sent two teams from competing amateur associations). He was a test pilot in the armed forces, and a long-time ad executive for Channel 38 here in Boston. He never married, though we all suspected that he was never lacking for companionship. Fred was also an avid cyclist, and following his retirement, could often be seen pedaling all over Cape Ann and points beyond. When he wasn't playing hockey, that is.

If Frederick Gordon Neil Pearson had one enduring love in his life, it was this beautiful, ephemeral game. He played it with passion, with spit and vinegar, with joy. He roamed the left wing on the North Shore Skating Association skates on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday for just about as long as I can remember, resplendent in his bright yellow Swedish jersey. I have trouble getting my head around the notion that when I first met Fred, some two decades ago, he was already in his 60s, a good 10 years older than I am now. We had our share of "goal-crease discussions," when Fred insisted on taking one last whack at the puck (dammit, I know the guy was my senior by 30 years, but he was still strong enough to break a few fingers if I didn't remind him to keep the lumber in check!). But I love the guy's spirit, that indomitable spirit, and his willingness to always go into the corner and do the dirty work to get the puck.

I'm not one bit afraid to say how much I loved spending time with Fred Pearson. For the 20-some-odd years that I knew Fred, he would regale us with locker room tales of this game or that, stretching all the way back to his Ivy career at Yale, and the fact that it was his team that snapped Dartmouth's legendary 45-game winning steak in January of 1946. He scored two goals in Yale's epic 6-4 win. Typical Fred; right in the thick of things. Yet whenever I would pester Fred about a possible story about his exploits, he would demure. "Who would want to read about an old codger like me?" was his standard reply.

A few years ago, Joe Bertagna, the Hockey East commissioner and erstwhile scribe, penned a terrific two-part series on hockey legend Jack Riley, a Dartmouth great who felt the sting of Fred Pearson's tenacity in that famous 6-4 Yale victory. Bertagna recalled meeting Pearson for lunch at the 99 Restaurant, and that Fred arrived wearing a tie and sport coat, "not because he was coming from work, but because he was meeting someone for dinner. It just spoke of a different time and place, a different set of values."

However, Bertagna's most telling quote was his next. "When you saw Fred, despite the fact that he was older, you couldn't help but feel like you were looking at a much younger man. He had such a twinkle in his eyes."

Fred Pearson was, in my eyes, forever young, someone who embodied a "joie de vivre" that is so uncommon these days. He was truly a man's man, and I will miss him dearly. Death can go to Hell; Fred won't.

Best,
-Brion

A nasty split

2009-09-03T08:46:00.013-04:00

Boston, with autumn in the air.

There is something so remarkably humbling about athletic endeavors, and sports specifically, that I sometimes wonder why they have such an inexorable pull on me. Like the mountain biker who starts feeling cocky, riding the flow train, before getting jettisoned over the handlebars when his front wheel augers into a divot in the trail (yes, that would be me). Or the golfer who, coasting along in a brilliant round shooting several strokes under par, suddenly sends a ball careening deep into the woods, or the drink (that's definitely NOT me, as I've never shot a "brilliant" round in my life!). Or the basketball player who, after a night when every shot hit nothing but net, can't throw the rock in the ocean. No doubt Sisyphus, the Greek god damned to roll a giant rock up a hill for all eternity, would be a sports nut.

Last night was another example, with an "old age" twist. I was in goal, playing with my Monday-Wednesday hockey crew that routinely takes to the ice at the Pingree School. In the past few months, I felt my "game" coming back together, following a long litany of injuries over the past two years. Not that I was always stopping the puck, mind you. But my body was feeling better and better, moving more comfortably. I was tracking the puck, getting into better position, feeling more balanced in my stance, lining up on my angles. I just "felt" right, even if the puck was still getting behind me more often then I'd like.

Finally, last night it all seemed to come together. After giving up an early tally, which was more of a fluke after the forward mishit the puck, I started stopping almost everything that came my way. My feet were underneath me, I was reading the play and moving well to the puck. I wasn't just in the game, I was on top of it (which, believe me, doesn't happen all that often these days!). It's even better when your teammates notice, and start commenting on how well you're playing. That ratchets up the confidence level, and my game almost always follows suit.

And then, an hour into the skate, it all came apart with one mad scramble in front of the net. More specifically, my right groin came apart. I knew immediately that I had hurt it bad (35 years experience gives you a pretty good read on your body). I tried stretching it out, but that only hurt more. I tried soldiering on, because there's nothing worse for a hockey game than playing without a goalie. But my right leg started feeling like a useless appendage, dragging behind me whenever I moved. Once I dropped into the butterfly - on my knees - I had as much mobility as a beached whale. Twice I tried to recover using my right leg, and twice I yelped like a beaten dog. The skate couldn't end fast enough. Finally, my good buddy Paul Erhard, who was playing for the "other guys" on this night, slipped two quick wrist shots past my right leg. After the second, I had to call it quits, knowing I was risking severe damage if I kept playing. And, as the old adage goes, we all "have to go to work in the morning."

So I slumped onto the bench in the locker room. The guys had no idea how bad I was hurt, and I suppose that's a point of pride ... There's no crying in hockey. We may complain ad nauseum, but when you're hurt, you're expected to suck it up. It's one of the game's many unwritten rules that I admire. But I knew full well that I'd have to take at least two weeks off. That might be a tad over-optimistic, but my leagues start in mid-September, and I hope to be ready. I already have a somewhat checkered medical history (though hardly shocking for any Over-50 hockey player), and don't want to give the naysayers any more ammunition. I nursed a beer while I got changed, and then headed straight home for an ice pack. Of course, few things look more ridiculous than a middle-age athlete in his favorite leather recliner, sporting a bag of ice on his groin. But Lauri, my bride, knows her husband well enough not to make any off-color jokes. She know when I'm hurt, and she knows how much I hate it. And she understands how frustrated I get when my body doesn't cooperate with all my unrealistic demands. Plus, she didn't want to add insult to injury. She knew I felt partly responsible, since I don't work enough on my flexibility, which is akin to asking for an injury.

Thirty minutes later, after the groin - and all its neighboring body parts - were sufficiently chilled, I pried myself out of the recliner, popped an Ibuprofen, and shuffled off to bed. The groin will heal, eventually. But not nearly quick enough for my liking.

Best,
-Brion

The Coaching Conundrum, Part II

2009-08-07T06:44:00.012-04:00

Boston, nice!

I have this theory that patience, like a fossil fuel, is a finite resource. You can usually find more, if you dig deep enough, but sometimes certain wells run dry. And I'm beginning to wonder if my "coaching" reserves are running dangerously low.

This past week, I spent more than 12 hours inside a hockey rink (a nice respite from the summer sun), coaching young goaltenders the tricks of the trade. I've been working with Bertagna Goaltending for the better part of eight years now, and have branched out to help with Brian Daccord's Stop It Goaltending, as well as a few private coaching gigs. I started coaching, in part, to repay a debt to a game I truly love. I stuck with it because I found I really enjoy working with kids, for the most part. It was a classic example of "give something back, get something back." Plus, I genuinely look forward to the camaraderie of the other coaches; the locker room banter before and after our camp sessions is a real, if somewhat ribald, treat (especially for someone like me who works from home).

Last week, however, was a turning point of sorts. For the first time, I felt the majority of the kids were just going through the motions. Now, I understand there can be dozens of reasons why a kid might seem disinterested, but I was struck the sheer number of youngsters who didn't want to be there. That idea is so foreign to me, I have trouble getting my head around it. When I discovered hockey, I fell head over heels for the sport. Street hockey, floor hockey, roller hockey, ice hockey ... it was all good, and I couldn't get enough of it. But growing up in New Jersey in the late 1960s and early '70s, there was precious little opportunity to play organized ice hockey. We grabbed any ice we could find, any time. That meant schlepping across town to an outdoor rink, bags of gear slung over our shoulders, praying that the water had frozen overnight. Trips to our grandparents in New Hampshire were always special, but even more so in winter, when the promise of natural ice was more predictable. Once we got into high school, Mom signed us up for a league, but there weren't any instructional camps (or none that I knew of, anyway).

So my brothers and I and our friends got by with whatever ice Mother Nature (and our prayers) provided, or we played on the streets or in our basement. The point is, I would have given anything to attend a camp, and to have real instruction. It just wasn't in the cards, and I don't think any of us suffered egregiously as a result. However, it is one of the reasons that I've made a commitment to coaching, despite my own shortcomings.

I'm not a natural teacher (I don't think), but I've got a lot of passion for the game, and I try my best to convey that. It's common for me to lose my voice by the end of the second session of a five-day camp. My only stipulation is that the kids bring a certain level of passion of their own to the rink. That emotional investment is key. I remember reading once that the reason hockey is such a special sport is because it's hard. It builds character. The sport means early wake-up calls, late nights, cold feet and cold hands and cold faces (particularly if you play outdoors). Plus, you've really got to work at it to be any good. The flip side is that the game doubly rewards the effort put into it. Simply, it's the best game on earth, combining skill and speed and finesse and raw power unlike any other.

So here's why I nearly lost it during camp last week. In our younger session, we had a bunch of kids who appeared convinced that just because their folks had plunked down some serious coin to outfit them, they should be able to play. They dogged it through warm-ups, and then they dogged it through the drills. All week long. I was absolutely stunned. We typically get one or two kids that might fit that description, but never as many as this past session. And my patience, I'm afraid, suffered some weird inverse phenomenon. The less the kids tried, the less patience I had. Finally, afraid that I might really offend somebody, I simply stopped trying to coach the malcontents, and focused instead on the kids who really wanted to be there. Those kids - the go-getters - always make the effort worthwhile. The others should do their parents, and their parents' bank accounts, a favor, and quit. They should just waddle back home to their overstuffed couches and their X-Boxes and PlayStations. Hockey has no patience for anyone who wants accolades handed to them just because they show up. And neither do I.

Best,
-B

The Tour's denouement ...

2009-07-28T23:56:00.007-04:00

Boston, clear skies.

Just wondering if I was the only one who found the Tour de France's final dash into Paris a bit disappointing. Not the race itself, mind you. I always love a good sprint, and Team Columbia's ability to bring Brit Mark Cavendish to the line is simply awe-inspiring. The man, and his support squad, always seem to get it right. And it was great to see Big George Hincapie leading the Columbia train right up to the final bend.

But the Tour's denouement (it is, traditionally, a formality) brought to a close one of the least dramatic Tour's of recent memory. Though the Versus team of Phil Liggett, Paul Sherwin, Bob Roll and some pretty boy (Something Hummer) tried their best to create suspense, there really wasn't much. I don't know if that was the fault of the race organizers, who may have erred in their calculation that the climb up Ventoux in the penultimate stage might break the race open, or the racers themselves. Clearly, the biggest story line was the Astana cat fight between Alberto Contador and Lance Amstrong (that Texas-size ego of our favorite alpha dog had some obvious problems with being the second-best rider on his own squad). But team infighting, as intriguing as it might be for some, didn't translate to drama on the race course.

Instead, spectators were treated to a pedestrian race that had only three (maybe four) legimate challengers to the crown, and those characters were relegated to marking one another up the Alps, limiting any time gains. It was, in a word, boring. God, what I wouldn't have given to see an Eddie Merkxx or Bernard Hinault-style attack in those last few stages! Contador did pull out a superb final time trial, and was clearly the strongest rider in the race. So, in that sense, it was nice to see "the best man" win. But, really, was it the "epic" race that Versus was constantly advertising? Hardly. Not by a long shot ...

So here's hoping that Contador and Armstrong, destined for opposing teams, plus Andy Schleck and a renewed Cadel Evans (and maybe even Levi Leipheimer, Carlos Sastre, and - dare I say it? - Floyd Landis) will add a fair amount of sizzle to next year's Tour. It desperately needs it.

Best,
-Brion

The Beast of Provence ...

2009-07-25T18:45:00.005-04:00

Boston, gorgeous!

As I watched the penultimate stage of the Tour de France today, I was struck by the similarity of Mount Ventoux - the Beast of Provence, to the right - and New Hampshire's own Mount Washington. Right down to the howling winds and the weather station that occupies an otherwise barren summit (though the French version is much more, shall we say, erect). Phil Liggett's spot-on description of Ventoux above treeline (a "moonscape") works just as well for The Rockpile above Pinkham Notch, New Hampshire.

So what is it, exactly, that draws cyclists to these brutal, windswept places? Clearly, the climbing stages of Le Tour were among the most popular (probably because someone not named Mark Cavendish had a chance to win). I can understand the attraction for spectators. After all, pain and suffering always make for great theater. And nobody digs deeper than the Tour's mountain climbers, mountain goats like Contador, Schleck and Armstrong. But for the participants, an assault on the Ventoux or Mount Washington promises only misery, topped with a dollop of achievement once the task is completed. I guess that dollop makes all the agony worthwhile.

How else can I explain why I keep returning to Mount Washington in August for the Auto Road Hillclimb? It takes me twice as long to reach the summit compared to the winners, and I often pay for those two hours in the saddle for weeks afterwards. Still, the sheer exhilaration upon crossing the finish line is just about impossible to describe. Last year, I was cold - probably hypothermia - and bonking as bad as I ever have. Totally wasted. I barely unclipped from my pedals (narrowly avoiding an embarrassing pratfall) before tossing my bike aside and rushing to the weather station to seek refuge. Actually, rushing isn't the correct word .. "stumbling" is much more apt. Yet, by the time my good buddy Scott Millimet and I made it back down to the foot of the mountain, I was already talking about this year's race.

Weird, huh? Wish I had a better explanation ...

Best,
-Brion

The Armstrong enigma ...

2009-07-21T07:06:00.009-04:00

Boston, and more rain.

Lance Armstrong has been on my mind a fair amount this past week or so, primarily because I'm a cycling fan, and a Tour de France fan, and you can't watch the Tour coverage without being inundated with Lance images and interviews. Obviously, judging from the responses I've received from my few blog and FaceBook postings regarding Lance, no one is ambivalent about our country's premier cyclist/cancer crusader. The man is a strong personality, and he elicits strong emotions. Being a seven-time Tour champion, a World Champion, and a cancer survivor almost guarantees that Armstrong demands an audience. Sometimes he welcomes the attention, and sometimes he doesn't. It's all part of the man's very complex make-up.

So yesterday, as I was collecting my thoughts between sessions of a goaltending camp I've been working, I found myself absent-mindedly playing with the two rubber bracelets that I wear on my right wrist. There's a pink one, in honor of my Mom, which states "Breast Cancer Awareness" and "Find a Cure." The second is in honor of my Dad. It is a yellow "LiveStrong" bracelet, made famous by Lance and by Nike. Some people who know my reservations about Lance are surprised that I wear this bracelet. Instead, I think it reveals the quandary I face regarding Armstrong. He is a remarkable person: driven, intelligent, charismatic, aloof, funny, and fierce. He defies easy definition (granted, most people are more complicated than advertised, but Armstrong more so than most). As I've stated on numerous occasions, I admire the man's many accomplishments, not the least of which is overcoming cancer's death sentence and creating the Lance Armstrong Foundation. I believe in his message. I just wish I liked "the man" a little more.

I've never been an "ends justify the means" kind of guy. Many people willingly (or unwittingly) look past Armstrong's foibles (and there are many) because he's a great cyclist, and because he's raised millions of dollars for cancer research. Again, those are laudable achievements. I just have trouble separating the man's less desirable traits. Which leaves me a bit conflicted, and even a tad disappointed. See, I want to like Armstrong more than I do. I want him to be a true hero, somebody truly worthy of the deluge of praise. But his arrogance, and especially his vindictiveness, make that an all-but-impossible task.

If actions truly speak louder than words, then Armstrong supporters and detractors both have plenty of ammunition. In the much-debated 14th stage of this year's Tour, Lance's Team Astana clearly helped prevent longtime Armstrong friend and lieutenant George Hincapie from capturing the yellow jersey. It would have been a nice tribute for a man who has worked so hard for so many riders over his long and honorable career. And, like Armstrong, it was a multi-faceted bit of racing, and there was plenty of responsibility to go around when Hincapie fell five seconds short of his goal. But the fact that Astana took up the chase early and consistently speaks for itself, despite Armstrong's assertions to the contrary. Was I calling Armstrong a liar? Not really. I simply didn't believe him. I understand there's a certain level of gamesmanship that comes with the territory of big-time bike racing, and Lance is the peloton's best practitioner of that subtle art.

Anyway, I think the whole episode just goes to show how complicated people, and life, can be. That's why, despite my misgivings about Armstrong the person, I still wear his LiveStrong band. I have my flaws, God knows, and I'd be disappointed if anyone judged me solely on those. Armstrong has done great things in his 37 years, and reached levels of success I can't even dream of. I just wish his track record wasn't quite so checkered.

Best,
-Brion

Lance's true colors ...

2009-07-18T13:59:00.013-04:00

Boston, bright and sunny.

People who know me know I have my reservations about Lance Armstrong. I've always acknowledged and admired him as a great winner, but not a great champion. The word "champion" carries far more weight and responsibility, and Lance has fallen far short of those standards. The man is absolutely ruthless, a cold-hearted killer who doesn't care who he tramples on in his quest for personal (and it is personal) glory. If you want proof of just how cut-throat Lance can be, all you need to do is look at the results from today's 14th stage of the Tour de France.

American George Hincapie is about as loyal a lieutenant and friend as any team leader could ask for. He worked his tail off for each of Armstrong's seven Tour victories, sacrificing personal accomplishments for the good of Lance and their dominating Postal Service/Discovery team. After Armstrong retired, following his 7th Tour crown, and Discovery opted to leave the sport, Hincapie shopped his services, and found a home with another American-based group, Team Columbia-High Road. At 36, Hincapie is racing in his 14th Tour de France, and is still an invaluable member of his team, even though he's only won a single stage in all those years. He is one of the most respected and admired riders in the pro peloton. None of this matters to Armstrong, apparently.

How does Lance repay Hincapie for all those years of loyal service? By ordering his Astana team to effectively reel in the breakaway that Hincapie was in today. For some four hours, Hincapie was the virtual leader of the Tour, on the road. He had to finish 5 minutes and 40 seconds ahead of the current race leader Rinaldo Nocentini of Team AG2R to don the famed Maillot Jaune. And Lance wasn't going to let that happen. Here's the important thing to remember: Neither Hincapie nor Italy's Nocentini are a threat to win the overall title. No matter who was wearing the yellow jersey tonight, they would undoubtedly relinquish it tomorrow during the first serious incline of the Alps stages.

Clearly, though, the thought of a day in yellow for Hincapie was too much for Armstrong to stomach. He decided that another American wasn't going to enjoy that moment, not even for 24 hours. Forget the years of tireless effort as a domestique, and the seven Tour crowns Hincapie helped Lance win. That's the past, and it counts for nothing. Instead, Armstrong ordered his powerhouse Astana to ride a strong tempo to keep the breakaway close. And make no mistake about it ... this was Armstrong's decision. He is the straw that stirs the Astana drink (good luck to Alberto Contador!). Armstrong wanted Nocentini in yellow, plain and simple, because then Lance doesn't need to share the limelight back home.

Here's an ironic twist. Armstrong wants Americans to be bigger fans of cycling. He wants cycling to be big in the United States (actually, HE wants to be big, and I suspect he resents, in Texas-size portions, any other USA rider who might challenge his supremacy in the American marketplace). But armed with better knowledge of the sport, well-versed American cycling fans are able to pierce that velvety, charismatic veneer that Armstrong wants to present publicly. They understand race tactics, and can see through Lance's sham. Armstrong's intentions today were clear and direct, and loathsome. This is the true measure of the man. Even more insulting, he tried to throw another American squad - Team Garmin - under the bus, saying he really did want Hincapie in yellow, and figured it was some personal feud between those two squads. I don't believe it. In Lance's world, there's only room in the American mindset for one American cyclist, and that rider is Armstrong. Every one else is cannon fodder. Had Armstrong not ordered the original Astana chase, Hincapie would be in yellow this evening.

Seems Lance's first book title was dead on. It's not about the bike. It's about Lance. Always. I wish George Hincapie well. He showed great restraint in his post-race interview, only saying how mystified he was by Astana's tactics. His disappointment was evident, and the sting of Armstrong's betrayal was palpable. Hincapie is the true class of the peloton. Sadly, the same can't be said for Armstrong. Even if Lance wins Title No. 8, it will always be tarnished, at least in my mind. Does Armstrong care? Not one bit. Because he knows Americans don't care either. They won't dig deep enough to see his true colors. But Hincapie (just like Tyler Hamilton and Floyd Landis and Kevin Livingston and others before him) know better. And I'd much rather side with those guys.

Best,
-Brion

The Verizon charade ...

2009-07-16T12:00:00.005-04:00

Boston. Indecisive.

Oh, I feel a good rant coming on! One of the many things that really frosts my butt is how big companies can make just about any outlandish claim they want, knowing full well that most folks don't have the time, inclination or financial wherewithal to challenge such bogus statements. At the top of my list is Verizon. I've been a Verizon customer for a long time now, and for the most part I've been pretty pleased with my FiOS bundle. But the ads for their cell service irritate me to no end. Here's why. We live on the North Shore of Boston. Not some remote outpost of the country, like the Badlands of North Dakota or some God-forsaken desert in the Southwest or murky swampland in the Southeast. We are smack dab on the northern tip of the greatest metropolitan belt known to man, from DC through the Big Apple to Beantown. If you check out those cool satellite photos of North America at night, the New York Metropolitan Belt is lit up like a Christmas tree, and Boston is the bright star at the top. But do you think I can get cell service in my house? Not a chance. My house happens to reside in one of those quaint Verizon "black holes," the same black holes that don't exist according to Verizon's latest ad campaigns.

And we're not the only ones. If I'm driving through the toney suburbs of Topsfield, Boxford, North Andover, there's no guarantee that whatever signal I might have will disappear at a moment's notice cutting off any conversation I might be having in mid-sentence. Now, I understand the limitations of cell phones. I have no problem with those. It's when the company - in this case Verizon - pretends there are no limitations that I get my dander up.

If you temporarily lost your mind and actually believed the far-fetched ads that Verizon foists on us nowadays, you'd think that there are absolutely no "dead zones." None. Nada. Summiting Mount Everest? Share the experience with everyone on your Friends and Family plan. I love the seedy motel ad, when some Norman Bates lookalike threatens some poor, unsuspecting businessman with tales of his last room, a "dead zone." The businessman points to his accompanying Verizon armada, and says "but I've got the network." And the lunatic clerk quickly capitulates. Ah, if only it were like that in real life!

Lauri and I have often joked that if we ever met up with the obnoxious, geeky Verizon guy (you know, the "Can you hear me now?" clown), we'd pummel him on the spot. Clearly, we're not the only ones ... Check out this hilarious news story spoof on the Verizon guy getting his just desserts! But Verizon can easily brush aside these vents because they have gobs of money and, well, that pretty much gives them license to say and do anything they want. You want "truth in advertising?" Look elsewhere. But for corporate arrogance, you can't do mush better. You might be able to hear what the Verizon talking heads are saying, but I wouldn't believe a word of it.

Best,
-Brion

Coming to the mountain ...

2009-07-13T11:42:00.006-04:00

Boston, simply beautiful.

This has been a good news/bad news day. The good news? It's a stunner of a day, and I'm planning to take some time early afternoon to grab a quick spin on the road bike. The bad news is that a quick spin is about all I can manage these days. I've had an old mountain biking injury come back to haunt me, and it's been a long while since I've been able to ride pain free. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

It was an incredibly clear, sunny day (much like today) just about two years ago when two buddies and I went out for a fat-tire spin through the sinewy singletrack of Bradley Palmer State Park. Since Lauri and the girls were visiting Grandmom and Granddad in Kansas (well, Lauri was actually in the air, but more on that later), I had a nice chunk of the afternoon to myself. So when Norbert and Mark came calling to saddle up the mountain bikes, I was more than game. Given the bright sun, I opted for dark sunglasses, which would prove to be a mistake. About 90 minutes into our spin, I realized I needed to get home quick, in order to run into Boston to pick up my bride at the airport. In our haste to get back, the Nobernator suggested a "short cut." And that's where my sunglasses led to my undoing.

I was racing along on Norbert's back wheel. We dipped into a shaded chute, maintaining pretty good speed. The problem (for me) was that I didn't know the trail, and my dark sunglasses hampered my vision. When Norbert swerved quickly to avoid a wash-out section, I wasn't able to react quick enough. My front wheel buried into the soft sand, sending me flying over the handlebars. I remember hearing an audible "Snap!" when I hit the ground, and was convinced I'd broken my collarbone. The pain was excruciating. I was lying flat on my back, looking up through the canopy of trees, trying to breathe and trying not to move. There's an old adage in mountain biking that you don't have to worry about a post-crash rider if his or her first words are: "How's my bike?" I didn't ask about my bike.

No one had cell phones, but fortunately a passing walker did. We called Mark's wife (who was only eight months pregnant at the time), and she drove down to the park's back entrance to pick me up. Norbert pedaled home, and called Lauri, leaving her a message that he would pick her up at the airport (I'm sure that didn't worry her too much!). Mark, after switching cars, drove me to the ER for X-rays. The good news was I didn't fracture my collarbone. The bad news was that I had a serious shoulder sprain, which effectively knocked me out of the Mount Washington Auto Road Hillclimb, a week later.

Mother Nature, however, decided to keep everyone off The Rockpile that Saturday in August, 2007. I was still there, riding support for a couple of buddies also doing the race. But freezing rains and insane winds forced organizers to cancel the event. In an odd way, I felt I'd dodged a bullet. Not that 2008 provided any relief. Lower back spasms resulted in my worst finish in three tries on Mount Washington, and I vowed I'd give it one more go in 2009. And that's when the shoulder injury returned with a vengeance. Whether its old age, or my own propensity for ignoring injuries, the condition of my right shoulder only got worse and worse during the spring. Every time I tried to ride, the muscles in my shoulder, below the shoulder blade, would knot in pain, and my right arm would go numb. Last fall, I had gone to see a couple of specialists, and had an MRI done of my neck. Nothing conclusive came from it. So this spring, with my shoulder deteriorating, Lauri convinced me to see my favorite orthopedic doc (after my brother Sean). Dr. John Boyle recommended physical therapy, and it was another good news/bad news scenario.

I went to see the therapist for an evaluation this week. The good news? The shoulder, while a mess, appears to be a worthwhile reclamation project. Surgery doesn't appear necessary, at least not yet. The bad news? Mount Washington will have to wait another year. Given my current state of fitness, maybe that's not such bad news after all.

Best,
-Brion

Guilt by association ...

2009-07-11T09:30:00.012-04:00

Boston. Gorgeous.

Damn! I tweaked my left knee during my BBHC skate on Friday morning. Sadly, these days, that's not an unusual occurrence (I'm buried somewhere underneath that pile-up in the accompanying photo!). Goaltending is tough on anyone's joints, and even more so on a pair of 51-year-old knees. And a 51-year-old goalie trying to play a butterfly style automatically doubles the odds of knee trouble.

I started playing more of a butterfly style (employing a wider, inverted-V stance, and dropping quickly to my knees to take away the lower part of the net) over the past decade primarily because it was more effective. As Father Time started to mess around with my eyesight and my reflexes, the butterfly allowed me to take advantage of my 6-foot-2 frame. The butterfly is commonly referred to as a "blocking" style as opposed to a "reacting" style, and my bulk provided a pretty good blocking surface. Plus, recent advances in goalie gear gave me a new-found courage (Translation? I don't think I'd ever use the "blocking" style with the thin, leather-and-felt body "armor" of my high school and college days!).

The downside to the butterfly - as I'm always telling my students at goalie camp - is that it really requires a fair amount of athleticism. Dropping to make a save is fine, but recovering, and being able to move quickly along the ice, is essential for a butterfly goalie. That requires hard work, and it's hard on the joints, particularly the knees and hips. I find more and more, as I get on, that I'm still making the first save, but trying to react to rebounds is becoming my own private hell. I've had more than one "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up" moment, and in truth they're happening with more and more frequency. Which is why I know that, if I want to keep playing goalie, and playing with a butterfly style, I need to hit the weight room to build up the muscles that support my joints, and I need to make a commitment to a stretching and yoga regimen. Have I started? Of course not.

All of which brings me to my recent Friday morning skate. I stretched just a wee bit too far while making a left pad save, and knew immediately the moment I got up that I had strained my medial collateral ligament in my left knee. So, after I got home, I drop a note to my friend Matt Cann, who was holding onto my GameReady rapid-recovery machine. Matt had knee surgery not long ago, and I had lent him this amazing machine to help speed his rehab (essentially, the GameReady takes the RICE concept - Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation - to the next level, using ice water and compression cuffs). I apologized to Matt for having to grab the machine back, and that I would return it once my knee felt better.

"This whole 'getting old' thing is way over-rated," I wrote.

"We're not old," Matt replied. "Our knees are."

Now, I know what Matt's getting at. We're still young at heart, and in our minds we can still do most anything we want. Until our body betrays us. Then I thought of another great line, told to me by Larry Abbott, a former Boston University hockey player and owner of the HockeyTown rink where I got hurt on Friday. Larry once said, succinctly, "We don't come with any spare parts." And, with the possible exception of new hips, Larry's right.

So I replied to Matt, saying simply, "Guilt by association." For good or ill, I'm stuck with this old body. And I better start treating it with a little more respect if I plan to extend my hockey career. ;-)

Best,
-Brion

What a racket ...

2009-07-07T10:44:00.006-04:00

Boston, and the return of the rain!

Yesterday, during the one sunny day we've enjoyed here this summer, my daughters asked me if I'd take them down to Patton Park to knock around a few tennis balls. This is one of the great joys of working from home ... Admittedly, I could probably be making a few dollars more by putting on a suit and heading into to city every morning, but you can't put a price on being able to walk away from the computer for an hour to play some tennis with two of the cutest girls in Hamilton. So I said "Sure!" But when Maddi came upstairs with the tennis racket that my Mom had given her two years ago, she absolutely stopped me in my tracks.

Grammy's racket is much more than a collection of composite materials and cat-gut (not that cat-gut is even used anymore). It is a symbol of all the things Mom represented for me - her skill and tenacity as an athlete, and her skill and tenacity as a parent. She loved playing tennis, and she played it with a passion. I'm sure the sport provided her a welcomed escape many, many times during those trying years when Mom was singlehandedly raising her six kids (including five teenagers!). But she also played to win. She was a competitor, and had little patience for partners who didn't share her fire.

I felt the heat of that fire on more than a few occasions. Though I was a decent player when I was young, I was rarely a match for Mom. We played often, but I don't remember winning more than a few games. I couldn't match Mom's intensity or steely resolve. I played a power game, which played right into Mom's hands. She calmly, coolly, returned just about everything I could serve up. And while I would rant and rave, my game unraveled. Just like Mom knew it would. She wasn't imparting tennis lessons; she was providing life lessons.

Two years ago, Maddi was telling her Grammy how she had started playing tennis, and how much she enjoyed it. That's when Grammy did something special. At the time, Mom was 76, and had resumed a long-running battle with breast cancer. One of the more devastating fall-outs of that battle was that Mom had given up tennis. Her body simply wasn't going to allow her to play at the level she demanded of herself. So on this day, much to my surprise, Mom gave Maddi her racket. Knowing my daughter, she was tickled with the gift (it is, after all, a very nice racket). But there's no way that Maddi could fully comprehend what was happening. Mom was passing the torch, acknowledging that she wouldn't ever play the game again. I was dumbstruck. Mom didn't make frivolous gestures. This was something she had obviously given considerable thought to. Part of me (and I'm sure part of Mom) didn't want to accept that her playing days were done. Clearly, Mom knew better.

Driving home that day, I put a pin in Maddi's balloon. I told her that, even though Grammy had given her the racket, she wouldn't be using it any time soon. Instead, she had to earn the right to play with it. Maddi is a happy-go-lucky kid, which I love about her, but sometime she fails to grasp the Big Picture. I wanted her to understand that the racket would stay in its cover until the day when it was as special to her as it was to me.

Last year, in late June, we lost Mom. It was just weeks before her favorite tournament, Wimbledon. But cancer doesn't care about such things. For my siblings and me, there was some sense of relief, that Mom's suffering was put to an end. But we miss her dearly, sometimes more than we realize. One of those moments snuck up on me when Maddi brought Mom's racket up from the basement. Just holding it in my hands unleashed a flood of memories, and I felt the tears swelling up in my eyes. Maddi looked at me, and asked if I was OK. I told her yes, and tried to convey how much that racket meant to me. Maddi will be playing with it soon enough. But not just yet.

Best,
-Brion

Time for Lance to "man up" ...

2009-07-04T19:37:00.014-04:00

Boston, beautiful (for a change!) ...

OK, let me get this right out front. I'm in the minority regarding my opinion of Lance Armstrong. I think the guy is a peerless bicycle racer (the best of his generation), and an inspiration to thousands, if not millions, of cancer survivors. I get all that, and I admire Armstrong's myriad accomplishments. The guy is an absolute stud, and I still enjoy watching his Tour de France and World Championship wins. I've interviewed him on a number of occasions, and found him to be charming, clever, charismatic, articulate, and incredibly bright. But that's not enough.

In this day and age, we don't have to settle for athletes who tell us: "Hey, I get it done between the lines." Sorry, but that doesn't completely justify the multi-million pay days that these men and women are collecting. Lance has earned a gazillion dollars through his hard-earned cycling victories and multiple endorsement deals. He's given hope to millions of cancer victims through his Lance Armstrong Foundation. Kudos to him. I don't begrudge him the money, or the acclaim he deserves for his cancer work. Just don't ask me to ignore what a putz he can be, and has been, to friends, teammates, fans, and loved ones.

I always got a kick out of Charles Barkley's "I'm not a role model" commercial for Nike. That's because the message was clear and straightforward: Don't expect sports stars to raise your kids. I get that, and I'm OK with it. The difference with Lance is that he wants it both ways. He wants to be the role model, and collect the ducats and accolades that come with it. But he only wants the celebrity on his terms. Lance is always talking about others having to do "the right thing" (like raising more money for cancer research), yet he doesn't hold himself to the same standards, and he lashes out when people expect that of him. Lance doesn't want people to pry. If anyone - friends, media, fans - does cross him, he'll cut them off at the knees without a second thought. That's just the way the guy is wired.

One of my favorite writers, Roger Angell, once said that athletes "are what they do." I believe that. But when a guy (or woman) is pulling down a hefty seven- or eight-figure salary for his or her athletic feats, we're allowed to expect more. We have every right to judge the entire body of work, not just what Nike or Madison Avenue decide to spoon-feed us. When former Boston slugger Manny Ramirez body-slammed the Red Sox's elderly traveling secretary for not doing his bidding, I was happy to see his steroid-enhanced butt shipped out of town. And when Lance dumps the girlfriend who nurtured him through chemo, dumps the wife who gave birth to his kids, or dumps the celebrity singer/significant other the moment she was diagnosed with breast cancer, we have a right to weigh in on those actions as well. Which is why I've repeatedly said that I'm a fan of Armstrong the cyclist, but not necessarily Armstrong the man.

Am I being judgmental? Without a doubt. Do I have the right? I suppose that's debatable. But I choose to consider the entire package. Lance, as great an athlete and ambassador for cancer research as he is, shouldn't be given a free pass for his shortcomings. Not in my book, anyway ...

Best,
-Brion

The greatest hockey video ever!

2009-07-04T09:20:00.008-04:00

Boston. Sun, at long last!

I've been thinking about the Red Wings Chris Chelios a lot lately. The fact that the guy is only four years my junior (he's 47, I'm 51), but is still playing hockey in the best league in the world, on one of the best teams in the NHL, simply blows me away.

Today's post-lockout NHL is a young man's game, with its emphasis on speed and skill (as opposed to the clutch-and-grab tactics of the pre-lockout game). Yet Chelios can still compete, employing the veteran wiles amassed over the past two decades (for reference, the Penguins captain, Sidney Crosby, hadn't even been born when Chelios broke into the league!). And though I've never been a big fan of Chelios the player - my favorite Chelios moment is when Flyers goalie Ron Hextall pummeled him after Chelios, as a member of the Canadiens, had cheap-shot Brian Propp during the 1989 playoffs - you've got to admire the man's longevity. The guy's got guts and durability. Heck, I rarely get through my hour-long beer league games or 90-minute pick-up skates without getting bruised and battered, either mentally or emotionally. And that's "no check" hockey! (On the other hand, I probably have a few more post-game beverages!)

Still, I can't think of Chelios without my all-time favorite hockey video coming to mind. While Slap Shot is the uncontested king of hockey movies (and one of the best sports movies ever made), this clip of Chris Chelios waxing nostalgic about childhood coach Jules Winfield (Samuel L. Jackson, reprising his Pulp Fiction hitman character) is absolutely priceless. The goalie sequence is a classic - I may play like the Gimp these days, but I still like to employ a little Billy Smith-style frontier justice every now and then. Plus, I grew up next door to Englewood, New Jersey, so the "Englewood Jack" tactic stirs some fond memories too.

Without a doubt, the clip scores on a number of levels for this old jock. Enjoy! And don't forget to check out Hextall performing the Englewood Jack, flawlessly, on Chelios! ;-)

Best,
-Brion

No hope on the Island ...

2009-07-02T19:27:00.016-04:00

Boston. The ark is almost finished ...

Some friends of mine (well, actually only one) have been blathering on and on about how the NHL's only minor league franchise - the stumbling, bumbling New York Islanders - ought to take junior scoring sensation John Tavares in the annual draft. And that's exactly what GM-in-training Garth Snow did. Now, on paper, that seems like a reasonable enough game plan. But what my friend - Tony "Stale Blog" Davenport - refuses to accept is that Long Island is hockey's version of Purgatory. There is no hope, no future, out in Nassau County. Or, to quote the great Gertrude Stien, "there is no there there." This is where supposedly great players go to have their careers die.

Clearly, Al Arbour made some Faustian pact with Lucifer back in the 1970s. In exchange for a handful of hall of Fame players and four straight Stanley Cup victories in the early 1980s, Coach Al agreed to relegate the franchise to NHL backwater status for the ensuing four decades (if not all of eternity). How bad are the Islanders? They even make their neighbors in Manhattan - the dysfunctional New York Rangers - look like perennial Cup contenders.

Of course, the discriminating hockey fan will want proof of my hypothesis. Well, I haven't been able to confirm reports that Tavares was met by a sign stating "Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here" above the front door of the crumbling Colosseum. But I think the accompanying three photos pretty much say it all. Obviously, the Islanders are incapable of finding Ice Girls who are even borderline attractive (seriously, not even push-up bras and plunging necklines can help these coyotes). But worse (for Tavares), I'm willing to bet that the moment these she-beasts get their fangs into fresh-meat Johnny T., he'll be running home to Momma in Ottawa, crying like one of Michael Jackson's playmates.

Really, how can the NHL, in good conscience, stand by idly while it entrusts one of the game's great young talents to an organization that can't even find a dozen Ice Girls who don't look like a bunch of extras from some Grade-B Bela Lugosii flick? (Maybe the Islander Ice Girls should think about sporting the same paper-bag head gear that the team's fans, other than Tony, have been wearing for years!) Of course, when you make a deal with the Devil, the consequences can last forever.

Too bad local (Boston) good-guy Scott Gordon has to make something of this mess. I wouldn't want his job!

;-)

Best,
-Brion

The Legend of Wilf Cude ...

2009-06-30T20:21:00.009-04:00

Boston, still no sign of summer!

Today I dragged my tired old carcass out of bed at 5 a.m., in order to drive 40 minutes to Phillips Andover and subject myself to a barrage of pucks during 60 minutes of pick-up hockey. My legs were still sore from traipsing all over the hills of Pittsfield, Vermont, this past weekend, but I felt like I needed the workout. Unfortunately, there weren't enough other guys who felt the same way, as only 11 skaters showed for the session. That meant a single sub, and as luck would have it, he wasn't on my side. The results of these skates are pretty predictable ... Everyone wants to conserve energy, which translates into a shooting gallery for the goaltenders. Playing defense requires effort, and if there aren't any subs to bail you out, you're not going to be playing much D. Simple as that. So I spent the better part of the hour flipping and flopping and generally getting beat up pretty good. I decided early on not to keep score, in order to keep my sanity, so don't even ask.

But the juxtaposition of sanity and goaltending got me thinking about one of the most memorable stories I ever read about hockey goaltenders. I remember first hearing about Wilf Cude when I was just a kid, enamored with hockey, and hungry for any tales I could get my paws on. Born July 4, 1910 in South Wales, Cude played in 301 NHL games between 1930-41 for five teams, including the Detroit Red Wings and the Montreal Canadiens. At 135 pounds, Cude was likely the smallest man to ever tend goal as a professional, and was used as a spare throughout his career, loaned to whichever one-netminder team was suddenly in need of a goalie. He managed to play in two All-Star games but lost both, 6-5 and 5-2, though it's unlikely they factored into his unique way of deciding when it was time to retire.

Legend has it that Cude was sitting to a post-game dinner with his wife, his nerves more raw than his steak. Suddenly, and without warning, he picked up the slab of beef and flung it across the room, barely missing Mrs. Cude. The steak plastered against the wall, almost defying gravity. Reportedly, Cude told his wife: "If the steak comes down, I’m through." Cude was an ex-goalie an instant later when the sirloin hit the linoleum.

These days, goalies aren't quite as eccentric as Wilf Cude. Much of that has to do with the protection now available to netminders (Cude, for example, never wore a mask, and his "body armor" was nothing more than felt covered with leather). And although Cude was never forced to deal with slap shots or compositie sticks, it's safe to say that his physical (and emotional) well-being was subjected to near-constant assault. Conversely, goalies today have great gear, and it's been a long time since a puck did any serious damage to me (that's not to say I haven't had my share of hockey-related injuries, but those are more attributable to my lack of flexibility than anything else). Still, the position still brings certain emotional risks, including the inevitable bout of getting shell-shocked and subsequent post-traumatic stress disorder. Forwards and defensemen can screw up without culpability, but a goalie doesn't have that luxury. If we mess up, the puck usually winds up in the back of the net. That, my friends, is pressure. And pressure can do weird things to people.

That probably explains why I'm pretty vocal when I play, and I don't mind getting on my teammates if they aren't putting in the effort. I'll take ownership of the goals I should have stopped (and there are plenty), but I also need to vent -- my own pressure-release valve -- when my teammates are dogging it. After all, it's still a team sport, and defense shouldn't be an afterthought. Plus, the last thing I need, as an old jock, is to come home and start tossing perfectly good steaks at my bride!

Best,
-Brion

The Material World ...

2009-06-26T10:30:00.004-04:00

Boston, sun and thunderstorms ... Go figure!

The guiding mantra in real estate, we all know, is "location, location, location." But Lauri and I didn't plan to buy a home in Hamilton. Our Beverly apartment was sold out from under us shortly after we got engaged. We started canvassing the entire North Shore, and happened upon a quaint cottage on a quiet circle in this bucolic hamlet. We were sold.

Lauri was the visionary. She saw the potential in the neighborhood for raising a family – lots of young couples, a safe street, schools with good reputations. What we didn't foresee was the demands that living in a wealthy town would place on us, and our kids.

Hamilton is an affluent community. That's just a fact. Our neighborhood abuts the Myopia Hunt & Polo Club (the baying hounds kept me awake until dawn our first night, and I thought we'd made a catastrophic mistake). Beneath the veneer comes subtle and sometimes exasperating baggage. Once, a good friend's son, with the unregulated honesty of a 9-year-old, asked during a visit: "Dad, why is their house so small?" My friend was apologetic, but I laughed it off. "It's true," I told him.

But this materialistic "arms race" got trickier once our girls came along. When she was in 3rd grade, Mary, our eldest, began dropping hints about getting a swimming pool. When I finally asked why a pool suddenly became so important, especially when we had access to several in the neighborhood, she spilled the beans. Apparently, a friend told her: "Why would I want a play date at your house? You don't have a pool."

It's only gotten more challenging. While carpooling to hockey or soccer, I've overheard kids brag about many toys they have to how gigantic their houses are. I know that's natural, and most of it is good-natured. This is what kids do. I keep reminding Mary and Brynne that there will always be those with more, and those with less. It's not the size of the house that matters, I tell them, but how much love is found inside those four walls. Our girls will never have every bauble. Now 12 and 10, they don't have Wii or X-Box or Play-Station or cell phones (though Mary finally got an iPod this past Christmas). They don't have their own TV, or their own computer. They share a room, with bunk beds.

That's OK with Lauri and me. We believe it's a good life lesson. I'm a freelance writer, and admittedly that's not the fast track to "Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous." Mom works too. But we both love what we do, and try to impart that philosophy on the girls. Mary and Brynne have never had to worry about having good cloths, good food, plenty of after-school activities, and a warm home filled with big hugs. And we're always here for them.

Best,
-Brion

USA? Yes!!!

2009-06-24T17:00:00.007-04:00

Boston. What? More rain? No way ...

Now THAT, my friends, is how you shake US Soccer Nation right out of its collective doldrums! All but left for dead, the United States national team rallied in South Africa today to pull off one of the great upsets of modern-day soccer, slipping past mighty Spain, the world's No. 1 team, in the semifinals of the Confederations Cup, 2-0. What a great result for the boys in red, white and blue. Even better, I called it. OK, my guess was a 2-1 margin, but that still would have rocked the oddsmakers from London to Vegas, and probably would have set up a nice retirement account, if I had the guts to put a few bucks on the Yanks. I didn't.

Still, what a great result, and what a great game to watch. The USA squad scratched and clawed and willed themselves to this win. This was not a dominating performance by any stretch. Spain, which rolled through the preliminary round without conceding a goal, controlled the ball for two-thirds of the game. They were clearly the more talented side (as their 35-game undefeated streak and 15 straight wins would attest to). But this game was decided by heart, a few lucky bounces, and an immense performance by goalkeeper Tim Howard. The Everton goalie, who was tagged for six goals in two previous games against Italy and Brazil, was under siege much of the game, but proved impenetrable. Meanwhile, teenager Jozy Altidore scored a sublime goal in the 27th minute, shielding the ball from his Spanish defender before ripping a shot off Spain's Iker Casillas, nipping the inside of the right post.

For the next 50 minutes, it was the Tim Howard Show, as the American goalie collected eight saves, many spectacular. Then, against the run of play, American Clint Dempsey converted a mangled feed from Landon Donovan (see photo, above) and the US was up, remarkably, 2-0 with 15 minutes to go. It was, in all likelihood, the longest and most nerve-wracking 15 minutes ever played by this group of 11. The Spaniards would not go quietly, and they repeatedly pounded the ball into the box. The Americans proved equal to the task, however, clearing every dangerous cross and shot. And when the final whistle blew, the joy on the American side was palpable. It was sweet indeed!

Best,
-Brion

The USA's magic act ...

2009-06-23T16:57:00.009-04:00

Boston, the Seattle of the East.

The United States soccer team is starting to remind me of my golf game. I keep playing that maddening game because, every once in a blue moon, I hit the ball perfectly -- right in the sweet spot -- and that one improbable moment keeps me coming back to the links. Likewise, Uncle Sam's squad can completely stink out the joint, like it did against Italy and Brazil last week. Collectively, the gang resembled my typical round of 18 -- unpredictable, uninspired, unconvincing, unable to finish. Then, everything changed with one thoroughly unexpected effort against a resilient Egypt team on Sunday. The Yanks won, 3-0, and coupled with Brazil's 3-0 dismantling of Italy, found themselves propelled into the semifinals of the Confederation Cup.

How crazy was that? Italy is the reigning World Cup champion. Although they looked old and tired against Brazil, they are still a formidable squad, having pasted the Americans 3-1 in the opening round. The real undoing for the Azzuri was a subsequent 1-0 loss to the Pharoahs, who summoned the will and tenacity to keep a clean sheet against the potent Italians (after losing a wild 4-3 affair to Brazil). Unfortunately for Egypt, it appeared the Pharaohs didn't have any bullets left in the chamber when they met the USA in the final game of the knock-out round.

The pride of Manchester, NH, Charles Davies, got the USA on the board in the first half with a never-say-die effort, eventually outmuscling three Egyptians to tuck the ball in the net (see accompanying photo, above). In the second half, the US went up 2-0 on a strike by Michael Bradley (not a bad Father's Day gift for the USA coach, Bob Bradley), and appeared to have the game well in control. Still, if they held the Yanks to two goals or fewer, Egypt would have gone through to the final round. But a tremendous header by maligned US forward Clint Dempsey (a former favorite during his New England Revolution days) dashed Egypt's hopes and dreams and jettisoned the Yanks into the semifinals.

The reward awaiting the Yanks is a date with Spain, the world's No. 1 ranked team, on Wednesday. Not only has Spain set a record for consecutive undefeated matches (35), they're also riding a current 15-game winning streak (unheard of on the international stage). Translation? Things don't look promising for the good ol' US of A. But as several pundits have pointed out in the past few days, that's exactly why the games are played on the field, and not on paper. And I vividly remember the United States' "Miracle on Ice" victory over the Soviet Union at the 1980 Olympics in Lake Placid. I'm not sure a result against Spain would resonate quite the same, but it sure would be cool. Should be fun; at least as much fun as a good walk spoiled on the links.

Best,
-Brion

Thinking of Dad ...

2009-06-21T11:55:00.015-04:00

Boston, more rain ...

Today, on Father's Day, I find myself torn between generations. On one hand, I'm looking ahead to the coming challenges I face as a dad (my girls are 10 and 12; life is unlikely to get any easier in the foreseeable future). On the other, I'm thinking of my own Dad. It's been almost four decades since we lost Dad, a victim of a smoking habit he just couldn't break. I say "we" because, by all accounts, Dr. John Joseph O'Connor Jr. was an immensely popular man. That was doubly true under his own roof, with a beautiful wife and six kids who adored him. He finally succumbed to his Camel-induced cancer in the summer of 1971, just before I began 8th grade. I can't begin to describe the upheaval that loss caused, in part because I probably never fully dealt with it. We O'Connors are pretty crafty when it comes to compartmentalizing our feelings, though some are better than others.

Now that I'm past my own half-century mark, my own memories of Dad are somewhat faded, like the edges of an antique, sepia-toned photograph (similar to the one above, of Mom and Dad on an early date in New York City). I remember watching the ambulance leaving our driveway, not understanding that I'd never see Dad again. And I remember bawling my eyes out at the funeral, when the stark sight of his casket brought home the full impact of our new-found reality: Dad was gone, and gone for good.

The years that followed brought a rough-and-tumble road of highs and lows. Mom, a truly remarkable woman, managed to keep our clan together when a number of her kids – myself included – threatened to veer out of control. Later in life, after I began my career, it slowly dawned on me that Mom had been both a mother and father to all of us. The burden must have been immense, yet Mom never flinched (or, if she did, she never let on to us). So I suppose that, on this day, she deserves credit as well. But she had help. Just before Dad went in for exploratory surgery in January, 1971, he wrote us a letter, parting words of wisdom from a man who knew full well that no one is guaranteed to wake up from the operating table. Mom saved the letter, and made sure we each got a copy after Dad passed away. I wish I could say Dad's words always kept me on the straight and narrow, but I've made too many mistakes. But those are mine, not his.

Still, for a man who understood that he might be looking the Grim Reaper straight in the eye, his words were kind, supportive, almost soothing. Here's an excerpt:

"As for loving and helping each other, this is the greatest gift you can give me. Sometimes it's hard, I know, but it can be done, and once done is a great and warm feeling and a wonderful thing. And you bigger children, watch over and guide Pooken especially – he's awfully little and will need all of you.

"Always stand straight and honest – work hard, hurt no one, enjoy the really good things in life. Look at trees and the sky and flowers and really see them as God's gift to us. Be fair in all your dealings with people. Try to see and understand their side. Don't get into arguments over unimportant things – rise above that – but be strong and steady in your principles. If you have to stand all alone for what you believe to be right, do it! And somehow know I'll be beside you always. "

Over the ensuing 38 years, the simple, straightforward 400 words in Dad's letter have buoyed me, nurtured me, and sustained me. They've comforted me, and motivated me. I still cannot read his line about being beside me without my eyes watering. Clearly, the words don't replace the man, but they've kept his legacy alive. There was no better proof of that than the spring of 2008, as my Mom was in the final stages of her own struggle with cancer, and my five siblings and I gathered in Manchester, NH. Our spouses later commented on just how moving it was to see the bond that the six of us have, how close we are, how much we care for one another. This, again, is part of Dad's legacy. He would have been proud, I'm sure.

For the longest time, I was convinced that I'd never have children of my own, due in part to my own fears of what the future might hold, and the possibility of leaving them prematurely. Then I met an amazing woman, one who had maternal instincts in spades. Fatherhood no longer seemed so daunting, not as long as I had Lauri to share the load. We've been blessed with two terrific daughters, Maddi and Brynne. Neither are perfect, but given the fact that I'm their dad, that would be an unfair expectation.

I've now lived longer than my Dad, though my girls are younger than I was when he died. That responsibility sometimes scares the daylights out of me, even now. In those moments of doubt, I still talk to Dad (and Mom), asking for advice, and for patience. I know they're both beside me. More than anything else, they taught me that family come first, no matter what pitfalls life throws in our path. But I also need to find the strength to avoid disappointing them. That's not a burden. It's a blessing.

Best,
-Brion

Red, white, and BLUE ...

2009-06-18T16:59:00.009-04:00

Boston, still not summer ...

Growing up in soccer-mad New Jersey in the late 1960s and early '70s, I harbored typical childhood dreams of one day suiting up for the United States national team. At the time, the US of A was a perennial doormat in international competition, and it didn't seem that far-fetched that someone with my passion for the game could make the squad. Not even a 15-2 thumping from a visiting German side when I was 12 could dampen my enthusiasm. Unfortunately, my foot speed (or lack thereof), a somewhat limited skill set, and eventual injuries all conspired to curtail any hopes I might have entertained about playing soccer professionally. I just didn't have the wheels -- from either a quickness or a durability standpoint -- to play at a high collegiate level. But my love for the game never waned, and I was rewarded with a chance to watch the USA team as it blossomed over the ensuing three decades into a legitimate international contender. Not top-tier, perhaps, but a contender nonetheless.

In 1994, the United States hosted the World Cup, and though they weren't a legitimate threat, they didn't embarrass themselves either. They had a great run in the Korea World Cup in 2002, and most recently, they tied Italy, 1-1, the only blemish on the record of the eventual champs in the 2006 World Cup. They had a string a superb goaltenders, from Tony Meola to Brad Friedel (still my favorite) to Kasey Keller and Tim Howard. The old guard of Alexi Lalas, Thomas Dooley, Tab Ramos, John Harkes, Brian McBride and Claudio Reyna gave way to promising new stars, including Clint Dempsey, Landon Donovan, Brian Ching, and Demarcus Beaseley. With the addition of young studs like Michael Parkhurst (please put him on the team! Now!), Jose Altidore, Oguchi Onyewu, Benny Feilhaber, Sacha Kljestan, and even Freddy Adu, things looked bright indeed ...

All of which helps explain why I'm so feeling so depressed today about Uncle Sam's boys. After getting throttled by Italy, 3-1, on Monday (with a New Jersey-born striker burying two for the Azzuri, just to add insult to injury), the US squad looked utterly outclassed today by Brazil. The Samba Boys appeared to toy with the Americans, and the final score could easily have been 5-0, even 6-0, had the Brazilians not taken their foot off the gas. This match definitely had the look of the varsity taking on the JV, as Brazil gave the US upstarts a good spanking. The fact that the Americans needed a result to have any hope of advancing to the Confederation Cup semifinals, following Monday's debacle against Italy, added to the sense of absolute resignation. When Kljestan got a straight red card for a ticky-tack foul in the second half, he barely put up a fight. He just turned away, resigned, and walked off the pitch. It was a microcosm of the USA's game. Making matters worse, Egypt -- hardly a doormat but no powerhouse either -- edged the Italians later in the day, 1-0, essentially ending any hope that the USA would advance. USA fans expecting the national 11 to have any success on Sunday against the Pharaohs, who played with poise and passion (they put three shots past Brazil on Monday), are kidding themselves.

The United States are still second-class citizens on soccer's world stage. Until they start showing a little more fire, and start stringing together a few results against futbol's big boys, that's all they'll be. Which, for the fans back home, is a shame ...

Best,
-Brion

What I missed 15 years ago, thanks to OJ ...

2009-06-17T18:44:00.013-04:00

Boston, another glorious day ...

Tonight, ESPN's SportsCenter is dedicating a segment on what else was happening in the world of sport when OJ Simpson and his buddy took off in a white Ford Bronco and went on a little joy ride around Los Angeles exactly 15 years ago. The teasers was, "What you missed" while OJ was huddled in the back seat, gun to his head. Things like the opening of the first futbol World Cup on United States soil, the New York Rangers victory parade celebrating the team's first Stanley Cup in 45 years, and an NBA playoff game between the New York Knicks and the Houston Rockets.

I'll tell you what I missed out on. That Friday should have been one of the best nights of my life. It was my bachelor weekend, and my brother Sean had collected a tremendous group of guys to celebrate with us in the hills of southern Vermont, at Mount Snow, which was hosting a World Cup mountain bike weekend. I was in fat-tire heaven. Instead of strippers, we got to oogle some of the finest and fittest female athletes in the world (such as the sultry and statuesque Italian Paola Pezzo; be still my heart!). We pedaled a good part of the day, watched some amazing racing when we took a break from riding, and were gearing up for a night on the town when the TV got clicked on in the condo. And there, for all the world to see, was OJ on the run ...

I feel the same way today that I felt 15 years ago. I was begging -- pleading -- for OJ to end the quintessential Hollywood soap opera by putting a bullet in his head. That's what everyone was watching to see happen anyway, and that was the only thing that was going to pull my posse away from the Boob Tube. OJ's "slow speed" chase along the LA highways, with a gaggle of police cruisers in tow, was a made-for-TV melodrama that proved riveting to everyone, it seemed, but me. I was stoked for some serious partying (well, as serious as parties can get in southern Vermont in early summer). Instead, we had a bunch of guys hovering over the TV, with me in the background, by the door, screaming "Pull the trigger, OJ! Do it now, for God's sake! Please!"

Nevermind the fact that Simpson would have saved the city of Los Angeles millions of dollars -- and saved the rest of us from having to put up with the constant regurgitation of of his trial (only the single biggest travesty known to jurisprudence, with the possible exception of Enron and George W. Bush's election) by simply applying a little pressure on the trigger that night. Of course, he was too much of a coward to do that. And, please, don't insult me with any lame arguments about how he was never convicted (Yeah, OJ, how's that search for the "real killer" going?). Simpson was guilty as sin, plain and simple. At least the civil case jury got it right. But, just like so many high-profile cases, this was about money, not justice. It's just like Kobe Bryant's little "romantic interlude" in Colorado a few years back, or Donte Stallworth's 30-day sentence for killing a man while driving drunk this past winter (to Stallworth's unending credit, he immediately owned up to his culpability; something that Simpson and Bryant, not to mention George W., are clearly unable to do).

I've always had a major hair across my butt regarding the Cult of Personality in this country in this day and age. Sadly, it's only getting worse, especially in the Wide World of Sports. I can usually ignore it. But when it interferes with my bachelor party, well, then it's personal! ;-)

Best,
-Brion

The Ballad of "Knuckles" O'Connor ...

2009-06-16T20:59:00.008-04:00

Boston, beautiful.

I got a call recently from the adjustment counselor at my youngest daughter's elementary school. Brynne, my 10-year-old got into a "skirmish" of sorts, and the counselor wanted to make sure I was aware of it. Seems there was some argument about a place in line for the transfer bus after chorus, and the debate quickly turned to blows. Things escalated, said the counselor, when other kids started chanting: "Fight! Fight!"

The counselor expressed "shock" to hear my daughter was involved, which is understandable. Brynne has a mischievous twinkle in her sky-blue eyes and an infectious giggle. She's pretty even-tempered, and makes friends easily. Still, my wife and I weren't surprised. Brynne, now nicknamed "Knuckles," can be pugnacious. This is the same kid who, at age 6, confronted a friend of her older sister (two years her senior) to explain, in no uncertain terms, that she didn't like how her sister was being treated at school. I remember watching the bus-stop melodrama unfold, mildly irritated that Brynne ignored our instructions that she should let her sister deal with the issue in her own way. On the other hand, I won't deny the pride I felt, knowing this munchkin was willing to take on a kid almost a foot taller in defense of her sibling (the other child, admittedly, showed great restraint, unsure of what to do about this ankle-biter getting up in her grill).

The first question I asked the counselor was, "Do you know who threw the first punch?" Brynne, though feisty, is unfailingly honest, with a keen sense of right and wrong. She told the counselor she was defending herself. The other girl, a year older, apparently has "anger issues" and might have tried to intimidate Brynne. If that's the case, I told the counselor, I'm glad my daughter didn't back down.

Now, I'm not making light of our daughter's schoolyard scrap. I've seen young girls in action, especially with our eldest (who has a much more passive personality), and know how mean-spirited they can be. Lauri and I don't advocate fighting as a model for conflict resolution. I suggested Brynne use her strong voice (and she's got pipes) to tell any bully to "Back off!" But I also told her that if she was being picked on, and wasn't the aggressor, then she had every right to stand up for herself. The counselor didn't entirely concur with my position. The schools, she said, would rather have Brynne find a few supportive friends, and gently extricate herself from the situation. She floated the idea of a "mutual apology."

I disagreed. Bullies attack any weakness, real or imagined. Brynne is not weak. By showing a willingness to protect herself, she's telling any potential bully, "You've got the wrong girl." And I've got her back. She would not be apologizing, I politely told the counselor.

I certainly don't want my girls starting fights. But I don't mind if they finish them.

Best,
-Brion

Running in the rain ...

2009-06-14T12:24:00.012-04:00

Boston, finally clearing ...

After yesterday's brilliant spring day, I was holding out hope that sunshine would grace our Over-40 soccer finale this morning. What I got was even better ... rain. Lots and lots of rain. Granted, a number of the, um, more "mature" booters on our Wen-Ham United Football Club aren't all that fond of a wet field, but I'm not one of them. Nothing makes me feel more like a kid than messing around in the muck. Not that it's easier. In fact, as a goalie, I have a healthy respect for the havoc that a wet ball can create. But I'll take the trade-off ... running in the rain has always been, and I hope always will be, one of the more exhilarating experiences of my life.

We were matched up against our cross-country rivals, FC Boxford, a band of skilled and fleet players who we've gotten to know quite well over the years. Several members of their squad were once teammates, and a few of us play for their indoor team during the winter. There's a healthy respect between the teams, which probably adds to the level of intensity of these games. Earlier this season, we played FCB to a 0-0 standoff, and it was the start of a nice run for our guys. We came into this match knowing it was the last of the season for us. There was absolutely no pressure; we had secured our spot in Division 3, but hadn't garnered enough points to make the playoffs. For us, then, it was strictly a social affair.

Not so for FCB. The Boxfordians needed a win to assure they were safe from relegation, so there was considerable pride at stake. Not to mention bragging rights. We understood that FCB would come out gunning for bear, but still had trouble matching their level of play. They had that extra jump in their step right from the get-go, winning most 50/50 balls, and creating scoring chances at will. Our guys hung tough, though, and we were able to keep them off the scoreboard for most of the first half. I managed to keep my mitts on that greased ball on most scoring bids, except for two shots that glanced off my fingertips and then off the crossbar. Another terrific shot from FCB's Eric Swain sailed just past my outstretched right hand, but the ball struck the outside post. Then, just minutes before half time, FCB sent a free kick into the box. I charged off my line to punch the ball away, but a split second before I reached it, Swain flashed between us. The ball skimmed off the top of his head, over my balled-up fists, and into the net. It was, admittedly, a great goal, and the difference in the 1-0 final result.

Five years ago (maybe 10?), I might have gotten to that ball. But I supposed that's what they mean by "Over the Hill," eh? The goalie in me never likes to concede anything, and I can't help but feel like I should have had that cross. Next season, I'm redoubling my efforts to play a bit more assertive in the goal box, and make sure that I win those 50/50 balls. That said, the 51-year-old in me understands that balls will occasionally get past me, and I'm really too old to be losing any sleep over them. And it was a blast to play in the rain, and finish covered in mud and grass stains!

At halftime, I gave way to my netminding colleague, Stephan Thieringer, who I had platooned with all season (given my injury history, it was a wise move by our captain, Daniel "Ahab" Bates, to recruit another keeper). Stephan made a couple of great stops to keep the game close, but we could never dent the FCB defense, despite hitting a post as well. It was a well-played, hard-fought contest, and today we came up just a bit short. The game ended with FCB garnering all three points, ensuring a couple of rematches during the fall OTHSL season. And everyone finished soaked to the bone. It's never fun to lose, but we escaped relatively unscathed. Injuries, after all, are the biggest concern when splashing around on a slick field. The truth is, my biggest regret is that the rain canceled our planned post-game cookout with the FCB squad. So now I've got that to look forward to next fall when we meet up again!

Best,
-B

Hoisting the Cup ...

2009-06-13T08:45:00.007-04:00

Boston, brilliant sunshine!

I've been watching Stanley Cup celebrations since 1972 (when my current "hometown" team, the Boston Bruins, edged my first hockey love, the New York Rangers, in six). And it never, never gets old. Last night was a passing of the torch, as the upstart Pittsburgh Penguins, with three top overall draft picks (a testament to just how bad the team was a few short years ago), slipped past a veteran Detroit Red Wing squad in Game 7, 2-1, to take the hard-fought series, 4 games to 3. Admittedly, being an old jock myself, I was pulling for the aging Wings to have one last dance with Lord Stanley's Cup, and it looked like they were in command after a 5-0 drubbing of the Pens in Game 5. But the tenacious youngsters from Pittsburgh, led by three stars who couldn't grow a decent playoff beard between them -- goalie Marc-Andre "Gumby" Fleury, Evgeni "Gino" Malkin, and "Sid the Kid" Crosby -- came storming back to take the last two games. It was the stuff of champions, and Pittsburgh was a deserving champ.

But what really grabbed me, after the last crazy scramble in front of Fleury's crease and the final horn, was the sheer exuberance of the victory celebration. I only hope Crosby, shown in the accompanying photo (somewhere, Tony "Stale Bread" Davenport is weeping in his orange & blue Islander pajamas), the youngest captain to ever hoist the Cup, understands just how fortunate he is!

The Stanley Cup is, without question, the most revered and most coveted of any major sports trophy. Quick, name another championship named after the trophy?!! Lord Stanley's Cup has taken on iconic status; it is hockey's Holy Grail. It has the power to make grown men cry, and those who hope to one day raise it overhead won't even touch it. That's some powerful magic.

Some of the best players to ever lace up a pair of skates, including two of my all-time favorite netminders -- Tony Esposito and Eddy Giacomin -- never won it. Another favorite, Raymond Bourque, the second best defenseman to ever don a Bruins jersey, had to OK a trade to the Colorado Avalanche to get his chance, and he made good on that one opportunity (so relieve was Bourque after finally hoisting the Cup that he promptly retired, leaving $6 million on the table). The players on the winning teams, all of them, have their names engraved in the polished rings that support the original Cup. In hockey terms, that's akin to immortality. And these Penguins, the long-struggling offspring of the great Mario Lemieux, will now see their names preserved forever. That's how it should be.

Best,
-Brion

Eight is more than enough ... !

2009-06-12T10:20:00.008-04:00

Boston, still raining.

So here I am, feeling all sorry for myself after getting absolutely pummeled in my Friday morning hockey game. The final score was 8-3, and that's indicative of how badly we played, myself included. To make matters worse, we even got the early lead, 2-0, and were ahead 2-1 after the first. That was as good as it got ...

The wheels came off pretty quickly in the second period. A shot from the point went just wide, and I got stuck in one of my patented "Help I've fallen and can't get up" positions (as the accompanying photo, above, will attest). The puck caromed off the back boards right to the stick of an opposing forward, Danny McCarthy, who tucked it into the open net. Tie game. Then a soft point shot went through a maze of legs and sticks, slipping into the far corner; 3-2, bad guys. A bang-bang play from behind the net made it 4-2, and a missile from Trevor Hanson over my glove (at least I think that's where it went, since I'm not sure I actually saw it!) capped the 5-goal outburst.

In the third, three more goals got behind me, including another bullet shot, this time from Paul Albano. I couldn't get off the ice fast enough. The weird thing is -- and most goalies can appreciate this -- I didn't feel like I was way off my game. There are days when the puck just seems to hit you, no matter how out of position you are. And then there are days when that three-inch slab of vulcanized rubber seems to find every tiny little crease in your stance. Today definitely fell into the latter category. By the end of the game, I felt like a pinata. I should have stayed in bed!

;-)

Best,
-Brion

This Bud (singular) is for you ...

2009-06-11T08:24:00.012-04:00

Boston, overcast again!

I don't think I've ever had a beer that tasted better than the one served up right after a good skate. The brews can be cold or lukewarm, cheap or chi-chi (provided a bottle opener isn't required) -- it doesn't matter. The combo of water, malt, barley and hops is the perfect elixir for the parched puckhead.

The problem these days is that, like the rest of my body, the post-skate, post-Bud Light recovery is more challenging. Like the number of skates I can manage each week without winding up in traction, I also have to limit my intake of carbonated beverages. Last night is a perfect case in point.

It was my Wednesday night pick-up skate with the North Shore Skating Association gang (believe me, that name sounds much more formal than any of the chuckleheads, myself included, who show up for this 90-minute session). My own performance was sub-par -- I felt like I was a split-second behind the puck all night -- but the beauty of pick-up hockey is that the final score doesn't really matter. It's sort of like the points in Drew Carey's "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" Fact is, I rarely keep a running tally, though I know we got drilled pretty good last night. Which left me with a hefty hankering for a frosty beverage afterward. And that first one, a Coors Light served up by Matty "The Total Package" Theriault was just what the nurse ordered. The first six ounces were gone in a gulp. The rest didn't last much longer.

Now, I typically have a single post-skate beer, but I still had most of my gear on, and the locker room banter was lively (most of it centering on one of our younger guys, a recent college grad, and the sexual exploits that awaited him during an upcoming trip to Australia!). So I asked Matty for another brew, and he happily obliged. Before I knew it, a bunch of the guys and I were out in the parking lot, it was closing in on Thursday, and I had cracked open a fourth. But gabbing with friends is one of hockey's great byproducts, and last night, the conversation and the brewskis just flowed.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same about this morning. Four beers on a "school night" is never a good idea, especially for a sore and cranky 51-year-old goaltender (it could have been worse, but the rink lot's lights got shut off at midnight, forcing us to head home). I'm not hungover, just sluggish. And those aches and pains that typically accompany my post-skate wake-up call have a bit more bite. Lauri's "high test" coffee is making a few inroads on the cobwebs, but a few more hours sleep is what I really need. Next skate, I'll try to show a little more restraint!

One last caveat on the topic of hockey and beer. If you offer to bring the suds, bring fresh brew. A while back, I made the mistake of running behind schedule on my appointed "beer night," and was frantic to get to both the store and the rink on time. Then I recalled a case of Bud Light that was sitting in my basement. How long had it been sitting there? Good question. I had no idea. But in my haste, I didn't have any time for such niggling details. I grabbed the case, chucked it in a cooler, packed it with snow, and ran off to the rink. Two hours later, you could hear the howls of protest from my locker room in the next county. To say that the stuff was rancid was a gross understatement. It was bad, bad, bad. I tried to play Mickey the Dunce (I know, not a stretch), but once some of my more enterprising colleagues found the "Born On" date, and discovered the beer was more than three years old, I was toast. They still haven't let me forget it, proving Lord Jeffrey's time-honored adage "A good name, like good will, is got by many actions and lost by one."

Best,
Brion

Why hockey's Stanley Cup playoffs rule ...

2009-06-09T17:30:00.019-04:00

Boston, rainy.

Just a few hours before what may be the final game of the 2009 edition of the Stanley Cup Playoffs between the Detroit Red Wings and the Pittsburgh Penguins (with the Winged Wheels up, three games to two), I'm thinking about what makes this game the best in all of sports. Those who know me know I could go on and on and on about hockey's superiority to any other athletic competition, but all you really need to see is the accompanying photograph. It is a classic. Taken in 1952, after the deciding game of the Stanley Cup Finals between the Boston Bruins and the Montreal Canadiens, it epitomizes the very essence of the game.

To the left is "Sugar Jim" Henry, the Bruins goaltender. He's grasping the hand of a battered and bruised Canadien legend, Maurice "Rocket" Richard, one of the most dynamic, and most volatile, superstars of any sport, in any era. Richard had been knocked into la-la land earlier in the game, and was carted off the ice. No one expected him to return. Today, he wouldn't have. But in the 1950s, players were able to shrug off the concerns of trainers, and Richard, despite clearly suffering from a concussion, returned in the third period. Cementing his legend, Richard (pronounced REE-shar) scored the game-winning goal on one of his high-voltage sorties to the net, slipping the puck past Henry. This photo, one of hockey's most famous, captures the two weary but proud combatants during the traditional post-game handshake.

No one knows exactly when the handshake line, which consummates every Stanley Cup series, originated, but I'm glad someone thought of it, and that hockey players embraced it. The idea of two teams battling tooth-and-nail over the course of a best-of-seven series, literally beating the snot out of one another, being able to immediately put their differences aside speaks to the character of the men who play this game. It is that character that hockey, through its team-first focus, engenders.

The handshake concept is so compelling that it's been adopted throughout the hockey-playing universe. I play in two competitive leagues, an Over-50 League on Tuesday nights, and another Friday-morning adult league, the Blades and Breakfast Hockey Club. Both leagues end games with the teams lining up to shake hands. Believe me, that's not always easy. Given hockey's physical nature, there's bound to be a dust-up or two during the games, and I've been in the middle of my share. But the handshake line forces you to "man up," look your opponent in the eye, and win or lose, compliment him on the effort. In a day and age when "respect" is sorely misunderstood, the handshake embodies what it means to honor your opponent. In all my years, I've only skipped the line twice (both times after I felt the opposing team was running up the score). Both times I later realized, after I had a chance to cool off, that I was wrong. Hockey's handshake transcends the game just played; it's a reminder that we're part of something even greater than one game on one night. No matter what the final score, no matter who wins or who loses, the handshake line reminds us of the importance of lacing them up, getting on the ice, and playing the game. It reminds us that sportsmanship trumps everything else.

And tonight, hockey's best go at it again.

Regards,
-Brion

Wen-Ham hard men stay up ...

2009-06-08T06:21:00.016-04:00

Boston, Monday.

Sporting a .500 record in one of the toughest divisions of the Over The Hill Soccer League, with five teams battling in out to stay "up" in Div. 3, my Wen-Ham United Football Club needed a win this past Sunday to ensure we would once again avoid relegation. And our scrappy squad did just that, edging a tough P.A.C. Lowell team by a 1-0 score after veteran midfielder Billy Waslick slotted home a penalty shot late in the second half.

It was essentially a game of attrition, as our opponents only had a single sub. Still, Lowell was a very capable squad, and pressured the WHUFC goal with a few nice runs in the first half. Thanks to a boneheaded decision by the Wen-Ham keeper (that would be me), punching the ball on a misguided cross instead of catching it, Lowell had one glorious chance that was booted just wide, deflecting off my ever-present sweeper back, John Sixsmith. From that point forward, I tried to hang onto any ball I could get my hands on.

Meanwhile, our Wen-Ham club started building pressure on the Lowell net toward the end of the first half, but this was a game that was fought primarily in the midfield. We went into the break tied, 0-0. Throughout the second half, my bend-but-don't break D limited Lowell to only a few inconsequential shots on frame (a grateful shout-out to Tom, John, Ahab, Tony and Jeff). Our midfielders, led by the young legs of Carson, Bruce, Billy, Jim and JJ (and occasionally Sharpy and Tim) battled Lowell for every 50/50 ball, eventually wearing the visitors down. Ian was creating chances on the right side, while Jose nearly connected on a glorious chance inside the box. Jose was then taken down on another bold run a few minutes later, resulting in Mr. Waslick's PK tally.

Things got a little chippy in the last half-hour, as youthful exuberance gave way to lactic acid, leading to a flurry of yellow cards (we doubled our season's total in about 10 minutes). But we held the fort, and came away with the three points. Almost as important, nobody got hurt, which is always a nice bonus. The icing on the cake, however, was that our merry band staved off relegation for another season (given our shaky 0-2-1 start to the season, our present 4-3-2 record is a matter of considerable pride). We went on our 4-1-1- run with a patchwork line-up (at least five guys took a turn in goal) and a lot of heart. There might be better teams in our league, but there's not a better bunch of guys.

The win also enable us to go into our spring season finale against crosstown rival FCB a bit more relaxed -- no title, or relegation, on the line. I have a great deal of respect for the Boxford crew -- good guys all -- and it will be nice to play a "friendly." Still, knowing the characters on both squads, it will be a spirited match nonetheless. I'm looking forward to it, and the cookout afterward!

Oh, one more thing. Tim Perry said he'd give me $10 to mention his tremendous 20-yard strike that connected flush against the crossbar before bouncing away harmlessly (technically, not even a shot "one goal," but a real nice effort just the same). OK, Tim, pay up!

Best,
-Brion

Putting my mug on FaceBook ...

2009-06-06T09:20:00.014-04:00

Boston, cloudy.

In my ongoing efforts to be more like my hip younger brother Matt (that's the two of us in the accompanying photo, trying to figure out where the hell we are along the White Rim Trail in Utah!), I've decided to put my mug up on FaceBook. That puts me only -- what? -- five years behind the curve on the cooliometer. Matt has got the whole "social networking" thing wired, and when he talks about creating a buzz, I listen. He's the main reason I took the first step by creating this blog, and now am bearing my soul to the world on FB. To be honest, I was hesitant to do either, in part because I never thought I could meet Matt's standard for literary talent, or humor. The guy (almost said "kid") is a riot ... always has been. One time, a good 10, 12 years ago, Matt was wedged between older bro Sean and myself on a chairlift at Loon Mountain, heading up to the North Peak. Sean and I never got a word in. It was then that Sean and I decided that Matt should have his own talk show on TV. The concept was simple and brilliant; Matt wouldn't need any guests -- he could just talk extemporaneously for an hour or so, and the audience members would be left falling over themselves (think of a slightly less manic Robin Williams, without the crotch grabbing).

Sadly, the talk show idea never took off, but Matty and his mad-capped sense of humor still rules the O'Connor family airwaves, with brother Mike and brother in-law Chuck a close second and third. He's also pretty savvy when it comes to "new media." I'm honestly not interested in texting, and Twitter strikes me as the ultimate in mindless self-absorption, but blogging made a lot of sense. It's a great way to keep the creative juices flowing, at a time when print publications are downsizing in a big way. With luck, it will also as a wellspring for other "This Old Jock" projects that I've got percolating. Meanwhile, FaceBook, in only the few days I've been on board, has proven to be a great vehicle for re-connecting with friends and family. Networking has never been so much fun. So c'mon, be my "friend" ... Just click on my FaceBook link right here! Matt and Sean are already in the mix!

Gotta run! The clouds have blown over, and it's looking like a great day for a spin.

Best,
-B

The better part of valor ...

2009-06-05T08:56:00.009-04:00

Boston, overcast ...

I skipped my Friday morning hockey game with the BBHC today, opting for the "discretion is the better part of valor" approach (to paraphrase Shakespeare's great line from Henry IV). For the past few days, I've been battling a low-grade bug, or allergies (or both), and was feeling really sluggish. I played with my usual pick-up gang on Wednesday night, and had a decent game, but left the ice tapped. There's a good chance that whatever I've got was passed along by my youngest, Brynne, who missed school on Monday, or Lauri, who missed work on Tuesday. Yesterday, Maddi, my eldest, missed school with a 102 temp, so it's clearly a germ infestation infiltrating the O'Connor house.

Still, I hate missing hockey, especially my Friday morning games. One of the traits that the hockey players pride themselves on is that they always show up (OK, "usually"). That goes double for goalies. Heck, back in the "good old days" of the six-team NHL, there was only one goalie per squad, and those guys didn't even play with decent padding, not to mention masks (of course, this was before the advent of the slap shot and curved blades, in addition ro composite sticks that allow C-level hackers to fire a puck upwards of 80 miles an hour). I can't imagine the nerve required to play with an exposed mug! If a guy got knocked silly, or cut, the trainer would simply stitch him back up - usually without any painkillers - and send him back into the nets, often dazed and confused (and hurting). By comparison, my low-grade bug seemed a pretty lame excuse.

On the other hand, I try to rationalize these absences, knowing that if I played, I risked getting really sick, and spending the weekend on my backside. At 51, I try to incorporate some of the "wisdom" that middle age supposedly brings. But I also know that once I miss a game without any sense of remorse, I'll be one step closer to calling it quits. So while I can't stomach that gnawing feeling that I should have been on the ice this morning, a part of me is comfortable with it. I'll be back soon enough.

Best,
-Brion

That new car smell ...

2009-06-03T10:39:00.016-04:00

Boston, undecided ...

It's not often that Lauri and I buy a new car. My bride and I have been together about 20 years (married for 15), and I've had four cars over that stretch. We met while I still had my college-grad Toyota Tercel, festooned with surf stickers. Those stickers were, in fact, the only thing holding the rusted-out hatchback together. Shortly after Lauri and I became an item, I graduated to a Mazda MPV (which Lauri dubbed "the Manly Power Van") because my windsurfing addiction required a vehicle with more storage space. It was a deep red, and when my future father in-law inquired why a single guy needed a van, Lauri told him: "It's for his toys." After which, Dick referred to the Mazda as my "sleigh." I didn't mind the Santa connection ... the truth, as we were taught in journalism school, is usually the best defense.

Unfortunately for me, that same nice deep red paint job proved the Mazda's undoing, as it began flaking off within the first six months I had it. Two additional layers of clear-coat couldn't remedy a poor paint job, and Mazda eventually bought the vehicle back under the Lemon Law. Lauri and I flipped that little windfall into a down payment on our house here in Hamilton, and we went looking for a new car. Tops on my priority list was all-wheel drive. The Mazda, with its rear-wheel drive, was a smooth driving vehicle for three seasons, but an absolute horror show in a typical New England winter. So I downsized, settling on a Subaru Legacy wagon that proved to be one of the best investments I ever made. This tough little rig withstood two trips to the body shop (one collision was admittedly my fault, while the other - a fallen tree limb - was not). For 13 years, my rugged Subaru answered the bell, almost without fail. When Lauri inadvertently fried our second car, a Toyota Camry (the radiator split along the bottom) four years ago, we opted for another Subaru wagon, an Outback. In between those purchases, we had added two beautiful girls to our home, and another rig, a seven-passenger Mitsubishi Montero, to the stable. We picked the Montero up with 95,000 miles, but it came from a friend, and we knew it had been well cared for.

For five years, the "Monty" served as our family bus, and served us admirably. But in the past year, she was beginning to show her age. Last summer, four new brakes set us back a good chunk of change, and the air conditioner gave out. This year, with almost 140,000 miles on her odometer, we knew the Monty's demise was inevitable (and potentially very expensive). It was time to start shopping.

While I was not opposed to yet another Subaru gracing our driveway, Lauri insisted on a vehicle with at least three seats (or room for seven, minimum). We also needed something that would accommodate our lovable Labrador retriever, True. A minivan wasn't out of the question (my sister and our next door neighbors each have a Honda Odyssey, and rave about them), but Lauri is clearly not a mini-van fan. Plus, the all-wheel drive models are pricey, as are the AWD SUVs (the 7-passenger Subaru Tribeca, for example, was at least $10K out of reach). We asked around among other parents. A good friend picked up a Hyundai Vera Cruz last year, and likes it a lot. I liked the price (mid-$20K). A couple of weeks ago, after my Thursday noontime skate, I stopped by our local Hyundai dealership, just to get a few brochures. On the lot was a used, all-wheel drive Santa Fe Limited, simply loaded, with only 17,000 miles on it. Already under agreement, said my salesman, the Rev. Clinton Sherald. Too bad, I replied.

So, after asking the reverend to keep me posted on any new or used seven-passenger Hyundai SUVs that came across his radar, I motored home. Not 48 hours later, the reverend called to say the deal had fallen through on the Santa Fe. Was I interested? I told him I'd definitely like to take a closer look. The vehicle, powered by a responsive V-6 and 5-speed automatic, was a dream to drive, and appeared to be in spotless condition. Even better, after snooping around the glove compartment for more information, like a Car-Fax report, I found the registration, and discovered that the previous owner was a friend of mine. How often does that happen? I called Ron the moment I got back home, and he gave the Santa Fe two thumbs up. "The lease was ending," he told me. "If it hadn't been leased by my practice, I'd still be driving it. We loved that car." Coincidences, and recommendations, don't get much better than that.

So after Lauri gave the Santa Fe her own seal of approval (it will be her car, after all), and the usual give-and-take of negotiations, I brought the Santa Fe home on Monday. It is, as Maddi exclaimed, "Sweeeet!" Plus, it's a lot more car than we could have afforded if we bought brand new. OK, it's not exactly "new," but it's new to us. And if the Santa Fe holds up as well as my original Subaru, I'll consider myself a very lucky man!

Best,
-Brion

The Coaching Conundrum

2009-06-02T08:06:00.007-04:00

Boston, gorgeous ...

My wife stood at one end of the pool, glaring at the figure splashing toward her. "She's just not kicking," said Lauri, exasperated. "And her turns are a mess."

I was dumbfounded. Maddi, our eldest daughter, was finishing a practice session, and the water seemed to literally part before her (check out those shoulders in the accompanying photo!). I couldn't believe this 12-year-old, who is far from fleet of foot on the soccer field, made swimming seem so effortless.

"Go easy on her, honey," I quipped. "She looks great." Lauri turned to me, and said sharply: "I can't believe you are telling me to relax."

She was right. I quickly realized why the words I'd just uttered sounded so familiar. They were Lauri's words, almost verbatim, delivered six years ago following one of Maddi's soccer games. Being an avid soccer player, I couldn't wait for my own girls to play. The minute Maddi was old enough to join youth soccer, I signed her up, and volunteered to coach. She was six, I was 44. Clearly, we had different agendas. For me, soccer is truly "the beautiful game," a sport of subtlety, skill, and speed. For Maddi, soccer was social hour. When one opponent – a friend – went running past her, Maddi commented: "Sheridan, I like your hair!" I was apoplectic.

Lauri counseled patience. "This is supposed to be fun. Give her time." It was a humbling lesson. I wanted so badly for Mary to embrace the game I cherish that I lost sight of what it meant to her. Lauri provided a constant, and crucial, counterweight.

Then a funny thing happened. Maddi and Brynne (our second) started swimming, and Lauri, a former competitive swimmer, started coaching. The role reversal was swift and stunning. I was now the inexperienced observer, simply admiring these powerful girls motoring through their laps, laughing with their friends. Lauri was the trained eye, invariably focusing on the flaws in our daughters' strokes, urging them to work harder.

Today, Lauri and I strive to maintain this good-natured yin and yang. I coach Maddi in lacrosse, and Brynne, now 10, in soccer and hockey. I want them to be competitive and committed, investing the requisite effort (hence my oft-repeated adage, "The better you get, the more you'll enjoy it."). Keeping everything in perspective is paramount, though, as we remind each other that fun is an essential component, for all four of us.

Best,
-Brion

Band of Brothers

2009-05-29T16:21:00.026-04:00

Boston, TGIF!

With all due respect to our servicemen and veterans, especially given our recent observance of Memorial Day, I couldn't help but think of "Band of Brothers" when I saw this team photo of my Over-50 squad, the Indians (thankfully, political correctness hasn't infiltrated the deep catacombs of Commissioner Larry Abbott's HockeyTown office!). We're one of 11 eclectic teams that make up the Tuesday night Over-50 league, one of the best hockey programs I've had the good fortune of being associated with in my 40 years of playing this great game. We're a motley crew -- just like the other 10 teams -- that inevitably bond over the course of a seven-month season.

Many of the guys have been playing together for years ... I was a relative late-comer. Though the league allows goalies as young as their early 40s to play, pride and an over-inflated ego prevented me from joining up until I had officially past the half-century mark. I started the season with the Tigers (most of the teams are names after either Hockey East or Ivy squads, save for the curiously dubbed Turtles), but was traded mid-season to the Injuns (known to most as Team PBR, for our beverage of choice, Pabst Blue Ribbon ... maybe we ought to inquire about sponsorship possibilities?). Johnny Russo (in the white helmet) also came on board, and the Indians went on a late-season tear, moving up from last to 8th place in the league standings. I wasn't around for most of the rally, sidelined by a nasty case of tendinitis in my right elbow. But in the short time I played with these guys, I really enjoyed getting to know them.

Like most of the Over-50 squads, we're a mix of "A," "B," and "C" level talent. Dan McCraine (black helmet) is a granddad who can still skate like the wind (God bless him). Russo is a goal-scoring machine, and Dartmouth grad Tommy Garden (next to McCraine), another late-season addition, is our Energizer Bunny. Our "D" is anchored by Bill Riley, Rich Bowman, Jim Montanaro and Bill Piotowski, while Louie Puccilli, Pat Gallivan, and Ray Sampson add some offensive pop. Steve Palmer is the ultimate rover, willing to play wherever we need him. Sometimes -- OK, every now and then -- we play like a well-oiled machine. Sometimes we can't get out of each others way. More often than not, our performance falls somewhere in between.

The real key to this team's success, though, is getting along in the locker room. Here, the Indians excel. Everyone wants to win, and things have been known to get a little testy, especially when we've wound up on the wrong side of the final tally. But overall, this is a great bunch of guys that get along off the ice as well as on the ice. As someone who works from home, without the normal interaction that an office environment allows, I really look forward to the locker room camaraderie that Tuesday nights offer. Everything is fair game -- jobs, wives, girlfriends, injuries, good plays, bad plays, the referees, each other, you name it. It's all done in good fun, and the non-stop banter and laughter is absolutely priceless.

So here's hoping that Commissioner Abbott decides to keep the Indians together for next year. We may have gotten bounced from the playoffs prematurely this spring (losing to Larry's Blackbears, of all teams!), but we'll be back next year, gunning for the top spot. After all, hockey, like hope, springs eternal!

Best,
-Brion

The 24-Hour Rule

2009-05-28T16:17:00.012-04:00

Boston, still raining ...

Oh man, I'm beat. I skated last night with my local North Shore Skating Association gang, on defense, and then again in Peabody this afternoon in the nets. And, in the interests of full disclosure, I got absolutely lit up today. Couldn't stop a beach ball, as they say in goaltending parlance. In truth, I had no legs, which is why I'm considering implementing a hard-and-fast 24-Hour Rule. Back-to-back days are tough enough on this half-century netminder, but trying to play twice within a 24-hour period is, for me, just nuts. I should know better, but there's no guarantee that advanced age necessarily brings wisdom.

It's difficult for most old jocks to admit that their bodies simply don't bounce back the way they did 30, 20, even 10 years ago, but hockey doesn't allow me any such false illusions. The reality is in the results. Today was a perfect example. My legs, and my mind, were sluggish. No reflexes to speak of, no competitive spirit. A younger goaltender might have been embarrassed, but I was simply resigned. I just didn't have it, and that's probably because I need more than 13 hours to recover from a good, hard skate. I got home at about 11:30 last night, and needed another half-hour to unwind. A pending deadline had me up and at the computer by 6:30, and then I was trudging off to the rink shortly after 11. I got on the ice a few minutes late, and the game started without warm-ups (of course, these boneheads don't bother putting the pegs in the net, so the game actually started while I was trying to secure the goal). Even at 51, I know my body, and I knew right away that it was going to be a long hour. And it was.

After I took my punishment, and got a warm shower for my efforts, I limped home, tossed my gear in the basement, and tried to get back to work. After all, I need to get to bed early. Got a game first thing tomorrow morning (Friday), in clear violation of my newly established 24-Hour Rule. Say a little prayer for me ...

;-)

Bravo, Barcelona!

2009-05-28T07:18:00.012-04:00

Boston, rainy & cool ...

The UEFA Cup finals in Rome was a showcase of "the beautiful game" as practice by the magicians from Catelon, Spain, as Football Club Barcelona soundly defeated the heavily favored Red Devils of Manchester United, 2-0. I always prefer playing to spectating, but watching this game yesterday was a real treat. It was truly an international affair, with players from Cameroon, Portugal, Argentina, England, France, Brazil, South Korea, Wales, Ireland, the Czech Republic, Spain, and others all gracing the pitch at Stadium Olympico. ManU came out of the starting blocks like a team possessed, and nearly took the lead when Park Ji-sung attacked a rebound off a swerving Cristiano Ronaldo free kick, only to see it clipped wide of the frame. Several other speculative Ronaldo efforts went sailing off target, but ManU was certainly on the attack.

All that changed with a sublime piece of artistry from FCB's Samuel Eto'o, who turned ManU defender Nemanja Vidic inside out before depositing the ball underneath towering goalkeeper Edwin van de Sar and into the back of the net. The goal completely transformed the complexion of the game, swiftly and irrevocably. The Red Devils, so dominating during their UEFA run and the Premier season, lost their composure and focus (though ManU's splendid captain, Ryan Giggs -- the anti-Beckham -- came oh-so-close with a bending free kick at the 17-minute mark). Barcelona, unparalleled maestros at ball control, simply took the game over. Though there were moments of exquisite tension, when another goal seemed imminent, the final result wasn't sealed until FCB's diminutive striker Lionel Messi went soaring for a header on a precise crossing ball from midfielder Xavi Hernandez and, as ESPN's loquacious commentator Tommy Smyth would say, put "the bulge in the old onion bag."

The 2-0 final was a fair result, reflecting FCB's convincing win, and a stunning upset when compared to many pre-game prognostications. Though I'm not of fan of the theatrics of FCB's captain Carles Puyol -- writhing in pain like he had been dismembered anytime he bumped into a ManU player -- the wild-haired defender (who looks like Dee Snyder's long-lost twin) played an immense game at the back, frustrating Ronaldo time and time again. It was a spectacular final, worthy of the two best teams in Europe. It was soccer, or futbol, at its finest. Anyone who couldn't appreciate the speed and skill on display deserves American football. ;-)

Regards,
-Brion

Soccer is for hard men, Part 2

2009-05-27T07:23:00.013-04:00

Boston, drizzly ...

You'd think anyone with the surname Bates would have some reservations about posing for the accompanying photo, but Daniel "Ahab" Bates is no ordinary dude. Ahab, er, Dan is the forthright, no-nonsense manager of the Wen-Ham United Football Club, our Over-40 band of booters, and a take-no-prisoners outside fullback with a little offensive pop (Dan, I know you were aiming for that far corner all along last Sunday!).

Plus, the guy's a hockey player, and isn't afraid to take to the ice with a helmet labeled "Joey" but sans shoulder pads. Yeah, he skates kinda funny, but he's more than willing to muck it up in the corners (preferably with his stick, not the axe). Pretty impressive for a guy who moonlights (during the day) in a more cerebral capacity as an architect. Still don't think soccer is for hard men? Tell it to Dan. Better yet, send him your name and address ... I'm sure he would be more than happy to stop by to, um, persuade you about the finer points of the beautiful game!

Good luck!
-Brion