Chapter 19: We Interrupt This Broadcast

We interrupt this broadcast.  I haven't had the drive to write this past week.  First there was the passing of Whitey Bensen which really affected me on a deep level.  Then my kid's hockey career ran into a roadblock.  For a few painful days I thought the jig was up. I thought my run as a hockey dad had ended..i.e, all roads lead to the beer leagues.  I won't go into detail at this point so as to build suspense and save it for the appropriate historical time in my account.  Suffice it to say that it looks like things got worked out and the journey and dream continues.  

Every hockey career must end.  Mine ended unexpectedly one late night soon after I graduated from college.  I've always dreaded the end of my son's career.  While I never had realistic hopes that he would go "pro", as he developed I began see him potentially having somewhat of a minor pro or European pro stint, ya never know.   That is unless he gets on track with a meaningful career in the meantime, which is the ultimate goal.  At any rate, I'll fill you in on this phase at a better time.

My so called hockey career, in the meantime was heading toward its ultimate demise. My second career, after coming back from my career ending back surgery peaked in the late 90s. It was pretty much all downhill from there. At the pinnacle, I was playing in two leagues, skating in multiple pick up sessions per week and I exercised like a maniac.   I lived three miles up the hill from my office at Merrill Lynch in downtown San Diego.  I would carpool or roller blade down the hill in the morning and then roller blade or run back up the hill to go home after work.  On non-game days I would meet a client in Balboa park after the stock market closed (1pm my time) and go for a five mile run. 

I had my next surgery in 2001 and there would be another four by the time I finally got the message and hung them up. 

I loved playing but it was frustrating for me, not to mention for my team mates. As my skills deteriorated my son's soared.  He played pick up hockey with me on Thursday nights.  Before long everyone wanted him on their team and not me.  I was so proud of him but heartbroken that I could no longer go. 

I played in lower level leagues. I reffed more.   It got harder and harder to put on my skates.  It got more and more frustrating to not be able to move the way I thought I should be able to move.  I watched my son play with my friends.  More and more of my friends were slowing down too.  Many of them continue to play and embarrass themselves.  I would if only I could!

There was a night in the early summer of 2006 where I was playing in an intermediate level senior league game.  It ended up being the last official game I would ever play.  It was pretty late on a Wednesday night.  I was playing defense.  I was tied up in front of the net with an opposing forward.  The defenseman took a shot from the blue line.  I saw the puck coming.  It was up on end, not flat.  Oh crap!

My business partner and I had taken a recruiting trip to New York a few months earlier.  By recruiting, I mean in the financial servcies business, nothing to to with hockey recruiting.  We had been sought after by competitors for years.  We were ready to make a move.  It's fairly common practice in my industry for firms to offer enormous incentives to successful advisors, or teams in my case, to jump ship and come work for them.  We had accepted an offer and were a few weeks away from making the  move when I saw this puck coming straight for my face.

Then, Bam!  Right upside the head.  I wore a helmet and half shield.  The puck was on edge when it slammed into the side of my bucket where the shield covers the ear piece.  It must have been slightly more than half way down the edge of the shield because it kept going underneath the plastic and made contact with my face.

It felt like someone took a full swing with a baseball bat and smashed me in the face. I felt the impact and everything went immediately black.  I fell like a sack of grain to the ice.  I couldn't see anything.  I didn't feel anything.  Not just that I didn't feel pain.  I felt nothing.  My face was numb.  I couldn't feel my teeth.   My initial thought was that this is what it's like to die.  My second thought was, there goes my bonus from the deal I'd just made to change firms.  My next fear was that I'd lost all my teeth.

Within seconds an EMT who happened to be at the rink was on the ice tending to me.  I was regaining my awareness and collecting my thoughts, self-assessing the damage.  I was bleeding.  I tasted the warm blood in my mouth. The impact from the puck's initial contact with my helmet cut my eyebrow area.  The continued trajectory of the puck as it went under the shield crushed my cheek bone and eye socket.   I lost no teeth.  I couldn't feel them because the puck had damaged a nerve in my face that provides signals to the teeth and gums.  This is the same nerve that is blocked when your dentist gives you Novocaine.   To this day, seven years later I still notice a loss of feeling in my cheek, lip and gums on the upper left side.

A friend was working the time clock.  She called my wife and had the conversation.  You know, the one that starts with:
"Steve is OK But......."   I forget how I  got to the emergency room but Kyle met me there.  Fortunately, and I suggest this to everyone, we had a good friend who is an ER doctor.  We called him and he cleared the way for me to get tended to right away.  Otherwise I would have sat in the emergency room for hours.  I can't tell you how many times we've benefited from this connection.  Highly recommended.

Kyle took the following picture and texted it to my business partner with the caption, "I'm Not Dead!".

It turns out I suffered a broken cheek bone and fractures in the orbital socket.  And this was just from a shot in a mid-level men's league game.  When I watch some of these plays in the NHL where Ian LaPerriere or some other player takes a slap shot to the face I cringe.  Given my experience, I'm surprised more people aren't killed from blocking shots with their face.  God Bless 'em.  I'll never understand why anyone would play without at least a half shield.

I went on to play pick up hockey for another year or so.  I wore a full cage.  I hated it.  I never got used to it.  But I never played another official hockey game.  I reffed for a few more years, but as the surgeries and back pain piled up, I eventually stopped reffing as well.  I continue to stay certified in the hope that one of these days I am able to get back to it, but it looks less and less likely.

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss the thrill of skating, playing the game I love so much.  The most joy I get now is from watching my son play.  Thank goodness I still have that.  Of course his competitive career will end as well.  Grandkids!!!

Sad Day

I'm so sad to say I just got word that my good friend and hockey mentor, Whitie Bensen passed away today.  I wrote of Whitie's help and what he meant to me as a young beginning hockey player growing up in West Haven, Connecticut.  As I mentioned earlier, Whitie sold hockey equipment out of the trunk of his car in the mid and late 60's before opening his store in the center of West Haven.

I can't imagine there is a hockey player in Connecticut that didn't have some contact with Whitie.  He supplied all of the kids, schools and many teams in the area with their equipment.  He coached.  He encouraged.  He cheered.  He was an icon.  He will be missed.

When I was in high school and had a chance to go to Europe to go to hockey school, Whitie loaned me the money and let me work it off by raking leaves in his yard.

After leaving Connecticut for California in the late 70s I had little contact with Whitie, or even with hockey.  When I started playing again in the early 90s the first thing I did was ordered sticks from him by the 1/2 dozen.  He would ship me the Kohos or Montreal fiberglass sticks that I loved so much.  I headed back to West Haven in late 1991 and played in the high school alumni game.  Whitie and his son Kyle, were the first stop I made.

As I continued to play senior league hockey and my son worked his way up the youth ranks we stopped by his store every time were were in town to buy something and to say hello.

Whitie was a wonderful, gentle and kind man.  He never had a lot to say.   I wouldn't necessarily say he was a warm man.  He was friendly and always had a few minutes to say hello and catch up.  He was always behind the counter sharpening skates.  My interactions with him over the past twenty years were short and sweet.

He was a busy man and didn't have a lot to say or a lot of time to say it.  I remember leaving there and talking to my wife wondering why he didn't have much to say.  I had to wonder if he was happy to see me sometimes because he was so "matter of fact".  I had forgotten something and turned around to go back into the store.  Whitie didn't see me.  He was behind the counter talking to one of his employees, a young hockey player.  He was bragging to him about me and my team and how we were some of the best hockey players to ever come out of West Haven.  I was touched.  He wouldn't let me know, but he knew and I loved him for it.

We will all miss Whitie Bensen.  Rest in peace my friend.

Chapter 18: Burning Down the House

Things were going along. Life was good. We sold our house for a ridiculous price a few years before the market peaked. We moved to the Scripps Ranch area of San Diego, much closer to the rink in Escondido and right down the road  from Mira Mesa. A lot of hockey families lived in this area. My son was doing his thing with hockey, roller hockey and baseball.  My daughter was immersed almost full time with her friends playing travel soccer and softball. We were almost never home on the weekends. 

By now it was a becoming a division of labor. Kyle drove Bret to her tournaments. I got Max where he needed to go. Bruce Miller, Max's coach recognized my background and expertise and had no knowledge of my having previously inflicted brain damage on that poor squirt a few years back so he started letting me contribute to the team. First in terms of video, stats, managing the schedule and ultimately he brought me on as his assistant coach.  I was little more than a glorified puck shagger during practices. Bruce ran the show.  I was on the bench and I had a lot of ideas and insights that Bruce seemed happy to incorporate.  For example, I once said "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger".  Bruce liked that and repeated it in his pre-game talk. I was full of wisdom. (Sarcasm intended)

Tryouts ceased being the stressful head trip they had been in the peewee days. Max had become an integral part of the team and no longer had to sweat out dealing with politics nor a coach's ego. 

A core of the 91 birth year kids opted to go up to L.A. To play AAA hockey with the Kings or L.A. Hockey club. Before they left we played the best AAA Bantam team in L.A. And beat them 1-0.   Then a handful of our top players decided they'd rather spend five to six hours a night driving up and back on school nights three days a week.  So we ended up playing Bantam AA without them. 

The Gulls were the beneficiary of a merger though. MF Schurman ran a youth program in addition to his Surf junior club.  The Surf youth players were absorbed into our team.  We got three or four of their best players plus their goalie. 

We also inherited their parents.  A nice group of folks.  They fit right in. They loved hockey and they tolerated their kids. So it worked out nicely. 

They all knew me since I was with their kids every practice. I got to know them and liked them all.   Because Kyle was busy taking Bret to her games each weekend these new parents had never met my wife. 

That was, until our Christmas Tournament in Toronto.  Kyle and Bret joined Max and me. We made a fun winter vacation of it.  One night all of the parents were out for dinner at a steak house restaurant.  Kyle was sitting to my left.  One of the new families' parents sat to my right and two couples were across from us.  This was their first time actually meeting Kyle. 

I noticed this quizzical look on their faces as I introduced my wife.  They looked at each other and then broke into laughter.  I'd spent the past four months with these people.  When they got the email list of players info they saw Max's dad was Steve and his Mom's name was listed as Kyle. They then assumed that Max had two dads. They explained this to their kids and for the entire time just figured I was gay.  Not that there is anything wrong with that!  I'm glad we got that straightened out.  Ever since then when I mention Kyle's name I add "She's a girl". 

By the way,  soon after we moved to Scripps Ranch we woke up early one Saturday morning to an ominous sky full of thick dark smoke.  We were up early because Bret had a softball game that morning.  We turned on the news to discover we were in the midst of a raging fire.  This became known as the Cedar Fire , the worst fire in California history.

Scripps Ranch was engulfed in smoke and fire. Hundreds of homes were destroyed. Many homes burned due to overgrown brush in the canyons and because they had flammable wooden shake roofs.  We had quite a few friends who lost their homes.  People were evacuated and didn't know for days if they still had a home. 

Fortunately we lived on top of a hill in a newer section of the community. While the flames got fairly close we were never in much danger.   Bret's game was obviously cancelled.  But Max had a game up on Long Beach.  We went.  What self respecting hockey dad wouldn't?

Before leaving we pulled our valuables together and loaded up our SUV.  Kyle stayed behind and made sure the house didn't burn down. She was prepared to evacuate if need be. 

Max, Bret and I made the hour and a half drive north for his game.  All along the highway there were fires breaking out on the hillsides. Homes were burning.  It looked like a war zone.  For days afterword  it looked like the world had come to an end. Unfortunately it had, for some. Sixteen people died. Smoke and soot hung in the air for well over a week.  People wore masks all over the city.  Eeriest thing I've ever seen. 

The team did quite well that year. There was one team we just couldn't beat. We came close every time.   Every game ended in a one goal loss. This was the L.A. Selects Bantam AA team.  Emerson Etem,  Shane Sooth, Matt Nieto.  There were a few others who escape me.

We lost to them by a score of 3-2 in the opening game of the CAHA (California Amateur Hockey Association) state playoffs.  Our second game of the tournament was against another team that we struggled with, the Yorba Linda Blackhawks.  We were slightly better but they had a strong goalie. 

We were trailing 2-1 near the end of the second period when one of their players dumped the puck in from the other side of the red line.  He turned away from the puck to head for the bench. Had his dump in shot not been on net it would have been icing.  

But it was on net.  Our goalie went down to his knees in a butterfly position and swiped at the puck with his stick intending to steer it harmlessly to the corner.  Instead he missed it and it squirted right through his legs and into the goal.   3-1.  A heart breaker. 

This goal would have crushed most.  In one of the most remarkable pieces of coaching I've ever seen, Bruce challenged the goalie. "I need you!  Can I count on you?"  Many coaches would have jumped all over the poor kid or yanked him. But Bruce gave him the chance to step up.   Then he did the same with the rest of the team. 

The boys came out on fire to start the third period. It happened to be Max's birthday. He scored a great goal right off the bat to close the gap to 3-2 with nearly the entire third period to go. 

We out shot the Blackhawks something like 20-3. Their goalie stood on his head. 

We called timeout with about a minute to go in the game.  Already with one loss we knew we would be out of the tournament if we didn't win this game.  Bruce pulled the goalie for the final minute of play.  There was an offsides call against us with  :30 seconds left.  

We won the face off just outside of the Blackhawks zone, gained control and worked to puck down around the boards, behind their goal and into the near right corner.   One of our players was able to pass it out to the high slot area above the face off circles.  Mikey "Moose" Spunt stood alone as the pass came.  He wound up and was able get off a blast, a one-timer that made its way through a mass of bodies and past the goalie for the tying goal with  :15 seconds on the clock. 

Our bench erupted with joy.  The players on the ice swarmed Mikey.  The Blackhawks were dejected as they skated back to their bench. We tied it up.   We were alive. We had the momentum.  Looks like this one was going to overtime. 

The referee was a girl.  She may have been the same one from the game where I was ejected a few years earlier. She was in perfect position on the goal line when the puck went in.  She signaled "goal" as she pointing to the net.  As the boys celebrated, she made her way to the scorers table to report the goal. 

Uh oh. The older, male linesmen retrieved the puck from inside the net.  What I'm about to tell you should never have happened. It was wrong. There was no excuse. 

The linesman picks up the puck and places the goal back on its moorings. It had come off as the goalie tried to stop the shot.  As often happens he kicked the post while attempting the save, dislodging it.  We've all seen it a hundred times. 

The linesman then makes a beeline to catch up to the ref before she can report the goal.  A discussion ensues which ends with her waving her arms indicating no goal. Say what?

Bruce went nuts.  Bruce is the most courteous, respectful coach I've ever seen when it comes to dealing with officials.  He refers to them as sir, or ma'am in this case.  He never loses his cool.  But he did this time.  He asked for an explanation and was told that the linesman said the net was off.  That would be the proper call had it occurred prior to, or even at the time the puck went in.  But not now. Not after the goal had been awarded. Not when a linesman reports the net is off after the head ref already indicated it was a good goal. 

This was disturbing.  The game continued.  The final  :15 seconds were played. The game was over.  Bruce was making his way through the handshake line.   He was shaking the hand of the linesman and asked him if the net was off why didn't he whistle the play dead at the time.  He said to Bruce that he didn't notice it until he was retrieving the puck. 

Again, Bruce who always shows respect to officials goes nuts once again. And justifiably so.  I think he could have gotten away with justifiable homicide in that moment.  But nope, that was it. The game was over. End of story.  We were done. 

After the game we headed to a restaurant to commiserate. We also celebrated Max's birthday. But there was no joy in Mudville that night. 

Before the food was delivered we got a phone call.  It was the CAHA president.  He and a number of board members and other league officials were at the game.  They saw what happened and they suggested we file a protest.  They asked for a written affidavit and any video tape we could provide. 

Bruce and I left the party.  We hopped on the computer and wrote out the report. We got video tape from another parent. We met with the officials and submitted it.  They said they would let us know. 

The boys were unaware of the protest. We didn't want to get their hopes up.  In hindsight, we probably should have.  They played the next game but they were flat, dejected and had lost heart.  We lost. I forget the score or who we played. 

We played one of the best teams in the state other than L.A. Hockey Club in our final game. We crushed them 5-0. 

We took the long bus ride back from San Jose to San Diego.  This was the same bus trip where we found out Paul, our billet kid, was partying with the girls and ripping us off. 

A few days later I asked Laura, our club president whatever became of our protest.   She checked into it and got back to me. The CAHA board had witnessed the play and considered our protest. They decided that had we won our next game, the one where we came out flat, they would have overturned the call. They would have allowed our tying goal to stand and we would have played overtime hockey until one team scored. 

This would have been good to know prior to that next game.  It turns out the linesman was a senior official and pretty much bullied the referee into disallowing the goal.  

That was a hard one to swallow. 

Chapter 17: Show(case) Me the Money!

Here is how a year goes  in the life of a youth hockey family.  The season goes from Labor Day until late February or March, later if you get to the regional or national playoffs.  Spring hockey goes from March until tryouts for the next season which usually happen in May or June.  In the meanwhile you attend clinics, play in a summer league, take private lessons from "the coach", go off to summer camps and showcases.   The season itself starts with a Labor Day tournament.  The regular season starts in the next week or so.  You have weekly games punctuated by tournaments at all of the major holidays.  Playoffs start in February.  Again, you go as far as you can go and start the entire process over again.  

Sooner or later any competitive youth hockey player will need to start attending "showcases".  Showcases are events organized to attract top level players to play in a series of games over the course of a three day weekend in front of scouts who are looking to attract talent to their leagues or schools.  These showcase events are held all over the country and Canada.  I imagine they are huge money makers for the organizers.  We've given Bliss Littler more money than any man deserves over the years.  They hold out hope of the holy grail to parents, such as myself, eager to have their kids be scouted.   We spent many a summer weekend traveling hither and yon.  Of course, I always hoped my kid would be scouted and drafted to whatever league or level was next.  But in reality, my true goal was to get him the experience of playing with and against the best competition we could find with the ultimate goal of him playing at the highest level of college hockey possible. 

Some of these showcases are structured as camps where the games are informal scrimmages with refs who rarely call anything.  When a penalty is called it results in a penalty shot for the offended player, who is simultaneously being chased by the entire opposing team as he streaks in on the goalie.

Other events are organized as tournaments where entire teams compete for a title.  We participated in both.  The first showcase we went to was in Vancouver, BC.  It was the Global Showcase.  We attended the Global Showcase in Las Vegas, the Pre-draft and Chowder Cup in Boston, The Pre-Prep showcase in New Hampshire, the U. S. Junior Development program in Colorado, Hockey Night In Boston, The Chicago(Now known as America's) Showcase and Cali Camp in Los Angeles.

The biggest thing I almost learned in Vancouver is to turn your cell phone off.  My typical family cell phone bill for five iPhones and an iPad runs about $300 a month.  Back then we only had two phones.  I had a Palm Treo, one of the early smart phones. After a long weekend in Vancouver I was shocked and surprised to get a $1600 phone bill due to the AT&T international roaming charges. Lesson learned.  You would think.  

The following Christmas we went to Toronto with the Gulls bantam team for the Marlies tournament. I knew about the potential problem with the roaming charges so I contacted AT&T to sign up for an international calling plan.  This time I returned home to find a phone bill for $4000.  I disputed it.   I still ended up having to pay a big chunk of it though.

A running theme I tried to impress on my son was to ways play as if you were being scouted.  You never know who is watching.  I was once again coaching the next season and we went to watch a kid who we were considering.  He played like he didn't care.  We crossed him off our list.  He probably never knew if he even just gave a little effort we would have offered him a spot. 

In the back of my mind I was always curious about how my son would fare playing hockey, not in Southern California, but in my old stomping grounds of New England.   I may have already mentioned this, but I had prep school offers after high school, but my parents would not hear of it.  I thought that if Max ever had the chance to attend prep school I would be all for it.  

I found out about the PrePrep Hockey Showcase at the Icenter just over the Mass state line in Salem New Hampshire. It was a  four day event showcasing the talents of 6th, 7th and 8th graders in front of most, if not all of the prep schools.  These schools included not only the New England schools, but also schools from around the country and Canada  as well.  The players were placed on teams and played four exhibition games in front of coaches from the various schools.  There was a private school admissions fair on Saturday as well as a presentation featuring some of the coaches and  question and answer session.   I still remember one of the kids helping out with he presentation.  He guarded a door, dressed in his pink LaCoste Alligator shirt with the collar popped, his khaki pants and his beat up docksider shoes.  Yep, we were in prep school territory.

At the admissions fair, we met many coaches.  Max talked to the coaches who expressed interest.  He signed up for the mailing lists of schools he found interesting.  We had a friend who was attending the Northwood School in Lake Placid.  My brother-in-law's father had also been headmaster there for a short stint a few years back.  I specifically recall meeting Rob Gagnon who was the coach at Hebron at the time.  Hebron was way up in Maine somewhere.  Rob ended up moving on to Cushing Academy in Mass last I knew.  

I didn't expect anything out of having Max attend this showcase other than as I said, to see how he stacked up against the competition and the northeastern style of hockey.  I was a bit surprised and a little saddened when one of the coaches asked Max if he was interested in attending prep school. He said he was.  I got nostalgiac and realized if this were to come about, we would no longer share our two hour car rides in L.A. traffic up to his travel hockey games anymore.  Of course, other than receiving a steady stream of prep school brochures in the mail for the next four years, nothing happened to make this a reality.  So we continued our weekend commutes up to L.A.

This period of time was the peak of my son's size disadvantage versus the bulk of his age group.  So many of his peers had already gone through at least their initial growth spurts.  Kyle and I are both at least average if not slighty above average height wise.  I was shaving by the time I was in the 9th grade. It turns out Kyle was a late bloomer, and it looks like both of my kids were following in her footsteps. The upcoming bantam season would be the worst.   Just to give you an example of what he was up against, here's picture of Max standing in line at the snack bar behind Luke Duprey.  The issue of size would be no more obvious than this moment. They are the same age.  Luke was a New Hampshire kid.  He was a youth hockey legend in those parts who ended up playing hockey and lacrosse at Philips Andover.  He went on to play lacrosse at Duke.  He was hockey team mates with Chris Kreider at Andover.

The Gulls coach ended up getting a job offer and moved back east.  Bruce Miller was offered the job to coach our Bantams.  Bruce was an entrepreneur from Buffalo.  He owned restaurants and music stores.  He'd played hockey and coached at Geneseo State.  He was about 40 years old.  Brian Lang had been the previous coach's assistant.  Brian played at Oswego State in the Sunyac.  He was also a prep school product having attended the Hill School in Pennsylvania.  I'm sure he had some influence on Max ultimately going the prep school route.

Bruce took over the team and had a great way with the boys.  He was serious.  Disciplined but fun.  The kids responded well to him.  He also had one of the most talented group of players around.  The photo at the top of the blog site with Wayne Gretzky in the center is this team.  The team actually ended up missing the playoffs that year.  That was primarily because another team hosted the tournament that year and they got an "auto-bid".  So we qualified but missed out because the last playoff spot went to the host team even though they wouldn't have qualified otherwise.  

The other big thing that was happening for us is that Max was getting much more involved with roller hockey. 

All of his buddies played.  He played for his middle school team and was now moving on to the high school. High School roller hockey is a pretty big deal in San Diego. It's a sanctioned varsity sport. There is no high school ice hockey in San Diego. The best news was that Joe Noris had been right. It contributed significantly to Max's puck skills and confidence.  

The boys all played in a summer roller hockey league. Max wasn't very serious about it.  He played when he could but he was playing pony league baseball and summer league ice hockey as well.  We got him to weekend tournaments when he could make it. 

I'd received a mass email to the team asking who would be available for an upcoming tournament.  It was a qualifying tournament for NARCH.  NARCH is the national organization that runs all of the tournaments culminating in the annual championships.  

I didn't really know or care much about what a qualifying tournament was. Apparently others did. I responded to the email that Max had baseball on Saturday and ice hockey on Sunday morning.  We would try to get there for the later games on Sunday afternoon if possible. 

Sunday morning came and went. We finished up the ice hockey game. I was talking to two other dads, my friends Jaye Park and Dan Hansen. Their sons Gregory and Rory were in the same boat as Max.  So we discussed the situation and somehow I ended up getting nominated to drive all three boys up to Anaheim to join up with the roller team. 

By the time we got going and got up to the rink it was getting dark.  We had to fight some awful traffic.  We ended up being late and missed the start of the game. 

Here I was thinking I was being a hero, delivering our kids who would ride in on their silver horse and save the day. 

In addition to the three boys, I had my daughter, Bret with me.  I was also just recovering from another back surgery. 

The guys hustled into the locker room and suited up. Bret and I parked and made our way inside the arena.  Rory scored a quick goal.  Max took a tripping penalty. 

Suddenly, two dads went crazy yelling and screaming at Max.  I assumed they were dads from the opposing teams and I said something to them. "Really guys, it was just a trip, no need to get so worked up". 

The guys turned around.  They weren't from the other team. They were Dad's from our team.  I didn't understand. Why were they so upset?

Next thing I know they are in my face yelling and screaming about showing up late after the team did not qualify. Who the f**k did we think we were?

I was dumbfounded. I still didn't get what the big deal was.  But these two were so pissed they were ready to fight me. My daughter was in tears, horrified at what was happening. 

It turns out these two had been there all weekend. They'd been drinking all day long. The team didn't win enough games and so hadn't qualified to go to nationals. With our boys there they most likely would have made it. So they were "out of control" pissed. 

I thought I was doing a good deed by driving all the boys up to play and it turns out I was on the receiving end of all this anger and drunken hostility. 

One of the two dads was Dale Obinger.  Dale passed away last year.  He was a bigger than life character with a heart of gold.  But he did love him some beer.  Over the next few days some emails and phone calls were exchanged.  Apologies were made and we went on to become good friends and laugh over this incident for years to come. Out kids went on to play ice hockey together for a number of years and all was good. 

The other dad, Dave apologized as well. But our kids never played together and we never had a chance to become friends and put this behind us. We would bump into each other over the years but we never really had much to say to each other. 

Maybe four years later I was dropping Max off to referee a youth game. Dave was doing the same with his son. He came over to me and asked if he could have a word. 

He went on to tell me how awkward he felt whenever he saw me. He told me that he was so embarrassed over his behavior that he didn't know what to say.  He then told me that he was so ashamed after that initial exchange that he sought out help, joined AA and has not had a drink since.  I nearly cried.  It was so amazing to me that an incident like that could have such an impact and be the catalyst for someone to alter the course of their life.  

Crazy stuff. 

Chapter 16: Mi Casa Su Casa-The Life of a Hockey Billet Family

The word, "billet" is a military term.  A billet refers to living quarters, originally a private home that was required to accept the soldier. In the hockey world it is used to describe both the host family and where a junior hockey player lives when he leaves home to play at the age of 16-20 years.  We became a billet family in the early 2000s.  

My friend, MF(Maynard Freeman) Schurman was the founder of the San Diego Gulls youth hockey program.  MF was a moose of a man.  He played a handful of games with Gordy, Mark and Marty Howe and the NHL Hartford Whalers in the late 70s.  He once nearly took my leg off in a senior league game with his slap shot.  MF owned the skate shop at the iceoplex as well as the San Diego Surf which was a junior B team in the Western State Hockey League.  The last two years of MF's involvement the league went to Tier 3 Junior A and now boasts 22 teams in 11 western states.  MF has since moved to the east coast where he coaches the University of Delaware D1 ACHA club program.  They won a natty title a couple of seasons back. 

Around 2001 or 2002 MF asked me if I could help him out by being a billet family.  It sounded like fun.  Definitely no way to make money.  The player pays $300 a month for room and board.  They eat nearly that much so it's at best a break even proposition in that regard.  A decade later and the amount they pay is still $300 a month.  My kids were ten and twelve years old.  We thought it would be fun.  It was.  At least it started out that way.

Our first billet.  The word is used freely.  Here it refers to the player..he was our billet.  The player would refer to us as his billet, billet house or billet family, or billet mom, dad, sister or brother.  Our first billet was Keith Tully.  We fell in love with Keith from day one.  He was a great kid.  He was seventeen, in his senior year of high school.  He was a goalie from Illinois.  The perennial league powerhouse, the Phoenix Polar Bears traded Keith to the Gulls.  The Gulls struggled.  They didn't win many games.  Keith would face upward of 70 shots in many games.  He broke a lot of goalie sticks over the frame of the goal in frustration.  He had good save percentage and attracted the attention of a lot of scouts.  He probably could have gone to school anywhere he wanted. The professional San Diego Gulls had their eye on him, but he was too young.  

Keith was a terrific role model for our kids.  He loved being around them and they loved him as well.  He and Max played a lot of floor hockey.  They played baseball.  Keith went to Bret's soccer games, even though he hated soccer.  He set the bar high and he was a tough act to follow.

Even though the Gulls struggled, Keith came back for a second year.  He graduated from our local high school, Scripps Ranch High and enrolled in community college in the fall. There was a girl friend.  There were many.  Most of them were psycho.  I forget this one's name, but her dad was an airline pilot. Keith was fascinated and developed a passion for flying.  He ended up quitting the Gulls half way through the season and started taking flight lessons at a local airport.  He abandoned goal tending and started playing senior league hockey with me as a forward.  Keith's temper didn't stop with his frustration at getting pelted as a goalie.  He got in more fights in senior league hockey than almost anyone I know.  

Keith's flying lessons progressed, he got his license and then moved away to become a flight instructor.  From there he started flying billionaires around in their private chartered jets.  After that he was hired by Continental Airlines which is now United.  This is about ten years later now and Keith is happily married, owns a home in Pennsylvania and recently had his first daughter....our first billet grand daughter!

No one could match Keith and they didn't for a number of years.  The next few year's billets were mostly forgettable, but three or four years later we got a kid named Kyle from Colorado.  Kyle was....awkward.  He didn't relate to us socially.  We did everything we could to include our billets and have them be a part of our family.  We served dinner at home every night from Monday through Thursday.   The next three days usually involved games and travel.  My kids had their hockey or soccer and softball.  Recently, my daughter and wife started going their own way on weekends...they were off to softball and soccer games and tournaments, often during the same weekend. And Max and I were off to his games around Southern California.  Our billet, in this case Kyle, would go on the road for a three game series in L.A. or Arizona. 

We have always eaten healthily.  Each season as we got our new player, my Kyle would ask their mother if they had any favorite dishes or recipes.  When my Kyle asked, awkward Kyle's mom what he liked for breakfast she said, "donuts."  

I'll refer to him as Kyle V.  so as to not confuse him with my Kyle, my wife.  Kyle V. liked junk food.  He had a car.  We suggested if he wanted anything he could drive down the road to the grocery store and buy whatever he likes.

Kyle V went to high school with Max.  Max was a freshman and Kyle V was a senior.  He didn't make one friend at school all season.  He got home after practice, holed himself up in "my office" and would spend hours and hours on his computer watching Japanese anime, often until two a.m. or later.  We tried to include him.  We invited him to come watch the kids play in their games.  Things just did not click.

I got a call from MF. He said that Kyle V's dad had called and reported that Kyle complained that we weren't feeding him.  We didn't keep enough food in the house.  We forced him to come watch Max play hockey.  blah blah blah....Hmm.  We'd never seen anything like this.  

Things went along.  We tried to accommodate him.  One night I got a call from the kid's dad.  He told me that Kyle was upset.  He couldn't find anything to eat in the house.  Really?  I grabbed Kyle and while on the phone with his dad went into he kitchen. Kyle said there is no milk.  What's this?  Behind the nearly empty milk bottle was another full one.  Well, there's nothing to eat.  I pointed out to his dad, while Kyle was watching, the fresh fruit, the left overs from the previous few nights dinners.  We went to the cabinets and I showed him the soup, the noodles, bread, peanut butter and jam…everything.  There was plenty of food.  This was before smart phones, but I took pictures of everything and emailed them to his dad.  That was pretty much the end of the issue, but things never got comfortable in the house.

Kyle V got hurt in a game and spent nearly a month hanging out at the house watching his anime on the computer and eating his cookies and chips.  We ended up going to Vancouver for a tournament over the Christmas break.  While there, I got a call from MF asking me, "if I could take a new kid, he would find another place for numb nuts".  Sure!  Happily.  

The kid didn't say a word to me about it.  About two weeks later, in the middle of January on an early Saturday morning I woke up and went downstairs.  It was about 7a.m.  He was slinking out with the last of his stuff.  I asked him what was up?  He said, "uh, yeah, I was going to talk to you....I'm moving out"...No shit?  I told him a little notice would have been nice.  With that he was gone.  I did hear from MF that his dad wanted the balance of the months billet fee back since he was only there for 1/2 the month.  I didn't oblige.  I told him since he gave no notice and because he left the place, my office and his bedroom an absolute pig sty I would not be returning any money.  So that was that.  Things couldn't get worse.  Right?

About a week later we were expecting our new kid, Paul. Paul was driving in from Utah.  We were still getting over Kyle V and his awkward anti-social behavior.  We were hoping for the best with Paul.  MF assured me Paul was a great kid and we would get along fine.  Max and I drove about 15 minutes up the highway to meet him at a gas station.  We were waiting when an old Ford Bronco pulled in.  I walked up to greet the new fella when he opened the door to the vehicle.  Loud rap music blared, a pungent smoke billowed out.  A super friendly dude with metal piercings poking out of his chin, lips and eyebrows jumped out and shook my hand.  Definitely not anti-social.

Paul followed us back home to Scripps Ranch.  He came in and met my wife and daughter.  They didn't quite know what to make of him.  But he sure was confident and friendly.  A nice change of pace from what's his face.  

We were impressed with how outgoing he was.  He asked to borrow my laptop.  I gave it to him to use.  AOL was the big thing at that time.  he went on AOL instant messenger.  Up popped his buddy list.  The first category was "Girls I want to  f**K."  Nice.   I suggested he not let my wife see this.  

The next day he got up and found himself a job.  Again, we were impressed with his initiative.  As unconventional as he was we liked him.  He was friendly, outgoing, confident and funny.  His job was at a mall kiosk for a cell phone company.  You know, one of those annoying guys who bug you when you walk by them.  All in all he was an alright dude. 

 There is a list of rules that the billets need to follow..curfews, no porn, no smoking or drinking, no chewing tobacco etc.  One morning I came down to the living room.  On the floor by the couch was a bottle of dip juice.  Yuck. I had a word with Paul and he apologized and said he wouldn't do that in the house any more. Nuff said. 

About a month later we, my family, all headed up to San Jose for the California State championship playoffs.  We took the team bus.  That was about an eight hour bus ride.  I got a call from Paul on Saturday asking how the tournament was going.  I told him.  I will share with you a bit later. He asked when we would be coming home.  I told him it depended on how we did in our next game.  That was was all.  I didn't think much of it.

The next morning, Sunday, I got another call from Paul.  Again he asked when we would be home.  My antennae went up.  He seemed awfully concerned with when we were coming home.  I thought this was odd, so I called a friend near our house and asked if she would take a ride over and just walk in.  She did and when she got there she walked in on Paul and two girls.  They had been there partying all weekend.

I called MF and demanded he go right there and remove Paul and the girls from the house.  That was the last we ever saw of Paul.  It was the last we saw of nearly $1000 of jewelry as well.  Live and Learn.

We ended our billeting after this debacle.  We stopped for a few years until MF sold the team and the skate shop to Bruce Miller.  I'll tell you more about Bruce in a bit.  He became Max's bantam and midget coach for the next four seasons.  He also allowed me to be his assistant coach for the two seasons of midget hockey.  When Bruce bought the junior club from MF he changed the name to the San Diego Gulls.  They moved up to Tier 3 Junior A.  He was in desperate need of billet families and we consented to doing it again, but only if we could meet and approve of the players before hand.  

Despite these couple of bad apples, we loved nearly every one of our billet kids. Since Bruce Miller took over the team we've had nothing but great kids.  More about some of them later. I would frcommend this experience to anyone.

Since about 2007, when we once more started accepting billets and now, we've hosted six players.  Two times we've had a couple of boys at the same time.  At the time we started up again Max had moved off to go to prep school in New Hampshire and then played two years of junior hockey where he was also a billet.  During all that time, he and our billet boys never met.  There were times where he and our billet would literally pass each other in the sky as they were both flying home at the same time for Christmas break.  I have a few stories from Max's billeting experience but I don't have permission to publish them.  Sorry about that!  They are funny.

When we first started this venture my kids were ten and twelve.  The last few years my son had moved on and my daughter became a teenager.  That could have been a prescription for disaster but fortunately both she and our billets were good kids.  At least that's what I tell myself.  It was fun and interesting to watch as each year the hockey players coming in would be the same age, but my kids were a year older each season.

Chapter 15: I'm Blind, I'm Deaf, I Want To Be A Ref!

I'd never cared much for refs. I didn't like them as a player and learned to hate many as a coach and hockey dad and fan. I especially hated the ones with an attitude or those who seemed to act like they were more important than the game. If I thought a ref missed a call or made a bad call I would let them know it.   Idiots. 

Then I got kicked out of a game for being a jerk. It was a couple of years earlier. The Jaguars were playing a team at the Glacial Gardens in Long Beach, California.  Glacial Gardens is pretty much the center of the Socal hockey universe.  It is owned by Ron White, the godfather of Socal youth hockey. The facility had three surfaces.  Our game, on this day, was on the smallest rink.  It was tiny. Too small. 

I was behind the glass in the corner.  I was video taping the game and I had a clip board for recording stats.  Hitting from behind was a big thing and there was a new rule that year.  A penalty for checking from behind resulted in two and a ten.  A two minute minor penalty plus a ten minute misconduct. 

There was a girl reffing the game. She had either missed or let go a number of hits from behind, against both teams.  I was angry, not about any unfair advantage, but that someone was going to get hurt if she didn't crack down and start calling these hits. 

Just then there was another hit from behind against one of our kids in the corner.  I and a number of other parents were yelling at the ref.  I took my clip board and banged it on the glass a few times for effect. 

Next thing I know, the linesman is standing in front of me motioning.  He was ejecting me!   I did my perp walk with the rink security guy.  I think I have a problem. 

The problem was me. I needed to manage my emotions and not get so upset by what I deemed incompetence.  The next chance I got I signed both Max and myself up for the referee clinic to get trained and certified to officiate. This changed my life.  

For one thing, I realized how difficult it is to do that job.  When you watch a hockey game from the point of view of a player, coach or fan you have a bias, a vested interest in an outcome. Seen through this prism your perspective is colored by what you want to see. Someone hits, trips, hooks or punches you, of course it's an infraction.  When you do it to an opponent and he goes down you can claim you barely touched him. "How can you call that?"

I remember the first few times I reffed or even "lined" a game I couldn't even tell who was going which way. When objectivity is required everything looks different.  It's much more difficult to make a judgement call when you have no stake in the result.  A fellow official gave me a tip that was immensely helpful in "seeing" the game and sorting out who's who on the ice. He suggested that I do an internal play-by-play commentary in my head.  You know, like:  "the red team has the puck behind their own goal. The d-man makes an outlet pass up the boards to his winger...."   Etc.  this really helped me early on sort out the play.  Again, being neutral takes some time and experience to be able to make good decisions.  

It's also humbling becoming one of "them". I'd spent a lifetime hating on this group of policemen. Now I was one of them.  All of a sudden crazy uninformed screaming parents seemed silly.  I went on to work youth games at most levels and adult league.  I've had to deal with crying mites who refuse to go to the penalty box all the way to drunk grown men who I had to eject.  I officiated a game while Teemu Selanne watched his squirt aged son play.  He thanked me after the game. 

Officiating ice hockey has allowed me to learn innumerable life lessons about human nature, including my own.  Once I watched a series of plays where a forward was right at the edge of committing a penalty two or three times.  I didn't call anything.  Next he stepped in front of a player, interfering with a scoring opportunity.  I called interference.  By itself it was an iffy call. But in the context of what I saw it was the correct call.  He yapped and whined all the way to the penalty box.  I started to explain to him how he committed a number of borderline fouls that I'd let go before finally making the call.  He laughed and winked at me and told me he knew but he has to make it look good.  Great lesson for me.  No matter how legitimate the call it is human nature to dispute it.  It's not personal. No need to debate it.  This gave me tremendous freedom. 

Max also got his referee certification.  He's a very good official.  He's been working games since he was thirteen.  It's a fantastic work experience for any kid. It's a great way to make more money than any part time job he could have gotten. He's continued to ref through prep school, juniors and college. Where else can a kid earn $40+ for an hour and fifteen minute game.  How many hours  would someone have to work Jamba Juice to make the $120 or so you make doing a three game set? And the leadership and responsibility learned from dealing with whacko parents or uninformed adult players is priceless.  

There would be at least one more incident where I got upset with a ref while coaching.  It happens two years from this point. I'll get back to it in a chapter or two.