Ski Moguls

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 ... ?

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

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 ...

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!

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 ...

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 ...

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) ...

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 ...

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!

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?

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 ...

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