This is the story of my sons attempt at playing hockey. Sometimes we fail at achieving what we’ve built up in our heads, sometimes it’s devastating.
A month ago, while the two of us were goofing off with hockey sticks in the garage, my son announced to me that he wanted to play hockey. Skating only once in his life, he thought he’d be pretty good at it. I did some homework and found a free introduction to skating class at the local rink and signed him up.
It was a month away; I thought Max might lose interest. He didn’t. Instead, there was quite the build up. It was like anticipating a vacation. Questions from the eight year-old kept coming:
- Do we get to wear the pads?
- Do you wear hockey gloves or regular gloves?
- Can I play out instead of being a goalie?
- I’m like in training right?
Last week, we drove to the rink, still excited, he put his sweatshirt, helmet and gloves on in the car before we left. We live in Texas, it was 100 degrees, and he didn’t care. He wanted to be a hockey player.
We checked in, I laced up the skates; he waited and continued to tell me how excited he was to get started. Everything was fine…until he stepped on the ice.
I was sitting behind the glass; waiting to watch my smiling son take what we both thought would be his first strides into the world of hockey. He stumbled out there, lined up with 2 other kids, and then started to “skate”. Following the teachers instructions, he learned how to fall, turn, and push off. I could only see the back of his head. Tiny little guy out there next to a kid who was younger but a foot taller. I watched Max drag his body to the blue line and then turn back to the boards. When he got there, he looked up at me. All I saw was fear. He was stunned. This wasn’t easy. He didn’t know what he was doing. He had already fallen three times. My heart sank.
For the next 30 minutes, I watched his little body get pummeled by the frozen ice. He fell on his ass, no joke… about 15 times, then his knees, hands, and a couple of times on his hips. It was like watching your kid get beat up. Towards the end, he couldn’t even stand on the skates.
He came off the ice and reached for my hand, we walked over to the bench, and I started unlacing his skates. He wouldn’t look at me. His eyes went left, right, up, and down, it was all he could do to not make eye contact. I guess he felt like he had let me down, or he was embarrassed about not being any good. I asked how it went, and all I got was a muttered “good”.
I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that bad for someone. It was killing me. I thought I was going to cry, certainly choked up a little. Thirty minutes ago, he was confident, proud, determined, ready, and above all…happy. Now he was crushed. It was awful.
We walked out to the car; I prepped my speech about how it was ok if he didn’t want to go back. I thought about how important it was for him to know that I didn’t care if he played hockey again, and that I was proud of him for trying.
We got to the car, I opened his door. He pulled his sore little legs into the back seat. Slid his sweatshirt off, and then turned his head to me and said this.
“Dad?”
“Yes Max?”
“Even though I fell down a lot, I think I’m gonna try again.”
That’s when I lost it. I honestly cried the entire ride home. That’s my brave son back there. Quiet, sore, thinking about what he just went through and what would come of it. When we got to the house, he went to his room. Moments later, I found him crying in his bed. He let me know his short-lived hockey career was over. He didn’t want to skate again.
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is try after you’ve failed. It’s one thing to say you will, certainly another to actually do it.
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I was having breakfast last week with the family, and the topic of conversation turned to Osama Bin Laden. My wife and I thought we’d prep the kids for what could be discussed at school that day. Max thought he knew what went down:
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