The Coaching Conundrum, Part II

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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 ...

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" ...

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!

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 ...

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