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

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ... !

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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

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