Get Your Head in the Game

I've been assistant coach for First Born Son's ball team for many years now - like far too many to be honest.

I wasn't going to do it this year, but let's just say I was put in a "position". What amazes me is that in spite of all the skills a player may have and the practicing and drills a coach may run, little if any time is given to the "Mind Game".

That's usually what I bring to the table.

You can practice bunting all you want. You can have the best change-up in the league. You can launch a ball off a bat that burns up in the earth's atmosphere. But your head isn't the right place at the right time, you are SCREWED.

I've seen this too many times to mention. Lots of attention is paid to correcting a stance or perfecting a technique, but little if you are having a mental block at the plate - well, you just better get yourself out of that funk.

Huh?

The brain operates all of the other functions of the body. If your head is busy doubting that you can perform at the plate, your arms won't make it happen.

Never more was this demonstrated than in last night's game. We were facing a rival who has just come off of a B-Side Championship. It's a solid team but not indestructible.

First inning was stellar - we hit well and fielded expertly. We scored two runs and didn't let them near home plate. As the game progresses, there's a bit of bad luck with bad bounces and some near-miss moments, but the team is still positive and talking it up.

Then our catcher, who is physically likely one of the most co-ordinated and has loads of strength, launches a ball down the third-base line over the head of the third baseman. Why? He wanted the out at third, however, the runner wasn't off the bag. But you can bet for damn sure he was when that ball sailed deep into left field.

This pisses off the catcher, who yips at the baseman. The only person who speaks to him is the coach - who sets the record straight about the play - but in essence the catcher doesn't appreciate the dynamic of the play and he stays in a funk.

The next inning, the catcher is still in a foul mood and when the short stop has a messy catch and throw to first, he snaps and calls him out for it.

THAT is when we lost the game.

The coach marches out and speaks to catcher about his negativity and tries to build up the team. But the damage is done. We might as well have walked off the field.

I've tried to explain to players and coaches alike that you can't pound someone over the head repeatedly and then expect them to perform like a full-fledge member of the team.

Kick a dog enough times, and he'll bit you.

Here's hoping we can teach an old dog new tricks before we face this team again Monday night.

BITCH

I'm a bitch, I'm a lover
I'm a child, I'm a mother
I'm a sinner, I'm a saint
I do not feel ashamed
I'm your hell, I'm your dream
I'm nothing in between
You know you wouldn't want it any other way.

~Meredith Brooks "Bitch"

I remember the first time I was put in the same context as the word "Bitch".

I was 13 years old and my mother was in the middle of a nasty exchange with her sister. A bitter and eventually vengeful person, this woman had some beef and laid out her anger in a letter, including the reference that my mother's eldest daughter was "a bitch".

This wounded my mother terribly. I can only imagine how she felt inside as I know how I would react if someone made a derogatory comment about one of my children, never mind my sister.

At the time, I was shocked. I remember thinking I knew what incident she was referring to, but didn't think that action would qualify me as "a bitch." It took me a while to process the idea that there were people out there - in this case, a family member, who had a very dark impression of me.

Kinda heavy for 13.... That kinda crap messes a person up for a while.

I can remember referring to this branding throughout my teen years. Kind of an excuse for anything I felt contrary to - because after all, I was "a bitch".

Over time the brand became a badge of honor. I had a backbone I'm not sure I would have discovered as young and my ability to stand my ground comes from the fact that while you have a right to your opinion, I sure as Hell have a right to mine. Don't confuse my ability to concede or defer with weakness. I simply don't care as much about the issue as you do. Because if it matters to me, I will go down for the count. And there are very few people whose opinions truly matter to me any more.

As soon as I realized this, the better I felt about myself. A type of empowerment, if you will. Why worry about other people's opinions when there are very few whose opinions truly matter?

Which brings me to last week. I'm assistant coaching First Born Son's ball team AGAIN - long story there I won't bore you with - and it came time to hold the first practice.

Faced with 13 12-13-year-old boys, I realized there needed to be a strong impression made. The hormones are working. Some of them are as tall as I am and a couple of them easily out-weigh me. This is where you have to go for the weak spot - the brain!

"When I'm talking, no one else is talking," I started, which beautifully shut two of them up. "When Coach J is talking, no one else is talking. That's just common courtesy. When I'm here, I'm not FBS' mother. I'm Coach Sarah to him, just like I am to you. He's not my kid when we're here. There are no favorites. You will work hard. Don't get me wrong, I like to have fun and I'm not a prude - I'm not hung up on swearing or being frustrated when you are practicing. When we are in a game you WILL represent your town to the best of your ability, which means NO swearing, NO trashing the other team AND DEFINITELY NO tearing down your team mates. When I tell you to run, YOU WILL RUN. Softball is a running sport. When I tell you that you will be running an extra lap you, will do it, because gentlemen, I bring my own vehicle for a reason - and that's to stay here until the lights come on if that's what it takes. I will wait you out - that's right, I am a BITCH.

At that point, one kid fell off the picnic table.... All of their mouths dropped open - except for FBS - he knows about my bitchiness.

Three practices later, if someone speaks while I'm speaking, I merely stop talking and look at them. They immediately stop and usually they blush. When I'm running a drill and they are not executing the way they should - I stop - spell it out for them and they immediately adjust their actions. They speak to me with respect, or genuine friendship, since they realize that 90% of the time, I'm very easy to get along with and truly want for them to improve. I despise shouting.

While I would not suggest telling young girls they are bitches as a means to create character, I would have to say what started out as somewhat of a damaging experience has since become something that I would not change even if I could.

I'm a bitch, I'm a tease
I'm a goddess on my knees
When you hurt, when you suffer
I'm your angel under cover
I've been numb, I'm revived
Can't say I'm not alive
You know you wouldn't want it any other way.

When a loss is actually a win

Last year I mentioned to First Born Son that there was a spring hockey program that was new to the area - he might want to check it out.

He passed. I couldn't blame him. He had a crappy year and didn't want to prolong the agony into a 9th month of hockey.

But a lot of his younger friends took advantage and some of them, whose skills were about the same level as his were selected. He decided he wanted to try out this year. So we went for the three tryouts. Not expecting much because we knew what kind of season he had - if it was a grading situation, I would have assigned him a 75%. However it was something he expressed interest in and we want to encourage the kid as much as we can.

First tryout goes well. The Big Guy is happy with how FBS performs. He even gets a moment with one of the coaches who tells him he's doing a great job. I take him to the second tryout and at one point he shuts down a fast breakaway with multiple rebounds. Second Born Son and I look at each other and declare "Whoa!" Goalie boy is on fire!

Third tryout is THE day. I'm not anxious, but FBS is even though he's trying not to show it. We've discussed the odds of him being selected for this team - six goalies, two positions. There are well over 40 kids skating for the team and over half are going to be disappointed. The hardest part for FBS is the three other players who go to his school. Instead of being supportive and encouraging, are puffing themselves up on facebook and in person - while pushing him down. One of them is also a goalie, who FBS has dealt with for years. Raging ego. Talented, but could be more so if he focused and wasn't sloppy. He's big and strong, but not disciplined or fast, or flexible. He mouth makes up for all of that.

So we've discussed why FBS wanted to go through these motions. Primarily to see what other coaches have to say. To determine if he's capable of working to a higher standard when he needs to. To be evaluated alongside other goalies. He came home smiling from the first two tryouts. We tell him we don't expect him to put the kind of pressure on himself that other parents would expect. We tell him to HAVE FUN. And because of that - he plays very, very well.

Sunday comes, and the coaches - in the great tradition that is sporting cruelty, post the list for all to see. If you are on this list - you made it. If you are THAT list - you didn't and EVERYONE WILL KNOW IT.

FBS calls me on the way home to tell him he didn't get picked. He's not going to be on what is pretty much a Triple-A team. He has disappointment in his voice. Before he can get too far, I remind him of why we did this. I point out that his father, brother and I have seen him play the hockey we KNOW he could have played in the season. It's up to him to believe in himself - he proved it in three tryouts. (Note: Only one of the kids who was on his team this year did make the team, but none of three from his school were named - yup that Karma is a BITCH!)

I tell him I'm proud, and I love him, and I'm glad he TRIED.

He sleeps well and I know he's made peace with it. It's enough to keep him motivated until the fall when the madness starts again....

Walking the Tight Rope - Part Deux

Remember all that business a while back about what the right decision was - to force my kid to play ball or not?

Ya well, he's playing.

I gave First Born Son several weeks to ponder on his own, then set a deadline and advised him if he didn't have a summer sport selected before the end of the week, he was going to be signed up for softball.

Not too much resistance. I was cautiously optimistic.

Then Saturday came. He kicked up a bit of a fuss but agreed to go to the Community Centre where we signed him and Second Born Son up for their teams. He's happy, strolling around and checking out the display of BALL GEAR ARRANGED NEAR THE MINOR BALL REGISTRATION TABLE. Things get a little confusing, cheques are written, forms are completed.

I'm so flustered, I tick two boxes - one I meant to - to volunteer to help on SBS's team, and the first box, which was a Freudian slip - to volunteer to help on FBS's team. Not wanting to make a scene and being on a rather tight schedule, we leave and I explain the situation in the truck on the way home.

"So I DID tick the box on your sheet, but I don't need to be a coach for your team," I explain to First Born Son. "I meant to mark down on SBS's form."

He's not overly concerned and spends the next 10 minutes debating the pros and cons of having me involved with the team. Apparently I'm more of an asset than a liability in his eyes. I, however, have not yet decided how I feel on the matter. I've enjoyed coaching, but with boys in the 12-13 age bracket, I'm not sure I can handle their hormones, and those of their little girlfriends.... The Head Coach has asked me to return again, but for many reasons, I'm firmly on the fence.

The Head Coach happened to be at our house for an unrelated matter when FBS comes in the room and announces that not only is he playing, but I'm helping coach the team.

My mom figures that his motivation was less than honorable - perhaps he figures if he has to play ball, I have to coach!

Like mother, like son.

How not to teach sportsmanship...

The kid was now hunched over.

His shoulders shuddering up and down. In most arenas you wouldn't be able to hear what was happening on the ice, but between the superior acoustics and the intensity of his crying, the sounds of a soul defeated were heard to the very back row of the raised bleachers.

The insult to the injury was that the adults didn't seem to believe he was hurting. Not physically, because at least that would have been tangible, but deep in the core of his being. The sounds emitting from him were those of pain from a wound of the heart. A sound no child should ever make.

What should have been a thrilled victory in a playoff hockey game was quickly becoming a freak show. Adults acting like children, children acting like animals and finally a broken boy sobbing on the ice.

This.is.not.sport.

First Born Son is a goalie. It's a thankless position. You will never be credited for the win, and you will ALWAYS be blamed for the loss. If you can't handle that - get out of the crease.

But in this game, the goalie was obviously a little green. He showed his frustration with every smack of the stick against the posts and then the ice. He was annoyed that his teammates stood and watched while our forwards walked right in and smashed away at the puck with little if any resistance. Two goals in five minutes, and he was frustrated. He slams his stick into the metal posts.

"I HOPE YOU BREAK YOUR STICK LITTLE BOY!" Shouts a mother from our team, who then laughs with her friends. I'm am embarrassed at the comment, and the fact that she would yell so directly at a player.

By the mid point of the second period, the cracks were showing. If there had been a backup goalie, this one would have been pulled. One of our forwards rushes the goalie, who covers the puck for the save, and eats a face full of snow, thanks to the forward. The forward is removed for the penalty - and rightfully so - and the ref, sensing that there was a problem, gives the goalie a moment to collect himself. After all, we are talking about 12-year-olds here.

The forward's stepfather is in the stands and feeling self righteous I suppose? Embarrassed? Divinely appointed? yells out "ARE YOU OKKAAAAY GOALIE?" in a tone that left no room for interpretation - "buck up you little punk." The child - looks up into the stands, takes a breath and yells at the top of his lungs "SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE!"

While the "mature" spectators respond with a rousing "OOOOooooh" that would make any Grade 3 bully proud, the child is left at the centre of his end of the ice and he is overcome.

One of the more genteel mothers thinks he could be coughing - maybe he's got a respiratory problem. I know better. I can hear him and he's gasping for air because he's sobbing. It doesn't matter that the referee chides the "adults" for their immature behavior, and he can't hear his mother venting that the offending fans should be removed. He's just broken and hurting and he's on the ice so everyone can see him. The period ends and he flies to the bench as fast as he legs can carry him.

"SEE!" Says one parent "He seems ok now!?!"

Asshole. The little goalie collapses on the bench and doesn't move for the rest of the game. His coach props him up against the wall and his coach has to put his helmet on his head once the game resumes.

Mercifully he is replaced by a fellow player who doesn't normally play net. The third period begins and we continue on. More asinine comments - none nearly as pointed. The goalie just sits on the bench - never moving.

We won the game. But in fact - we lost. We lost our self respect, our pride in representing our community. Our humanity.

I see the Home team mother in the parking lot and take the chance to speak to her. She's still rabid about the public flaying her son endured. She yells at me. I take it because damn it, she deserves to vent. I explain that I too am a Goalie Mom, that I disagree with what our fans said and did. And that I was sorry. She seemed to calm down a bit and in the end, I gave her a hug.

And if her son had been there, I would have hugged him too.

NOT a Team Player

Setting: In the truck, while running errands.
Characters: Me and Second Born Son - but no laugh track this time...

Me: So did you hear why Player X didn't make it to hockey practice last night?
SBS: Yup, he said he's giving up on hockey. He doesn't care about hockey any more. (Note disgusted tone which verges on mockery as though he's quoting the other player.)
Me (stifling a giggle):Oh, well that's too bad. I guess it's not for everyone...
SBS: Ya, he told Y and Z that he doesn't care if ever plays hockey again. He makes it sound like it's not cool any more. It was cool when he started playing, but now...hmfurh (well- that's what it sounded like - imagine a noise that conveys disgust - could have been a shoulder shrug in there too - I couldn't tell.)
Me: Oh, I see!
SBS: (He doesn't acknowledge my amusement at his indignation) You know, I wanted to quit and you wouldn't let me! You said, "You need to give it a chance SBS and when you try you will like it' and that's what I did Mom! AND I LOVE HOCKEY - IT'S THE BEST. He's not even trying and he's QUITTING!! (Insert disgusted sigh and eye roll).
We are now out of the truck and he's stomping across the parking lot.

Me: So, you and Player X - you're not friends any more?

SBS: No, it's all good - we just can't talk about hockey any more.

Obviously!

Walking the Tight Rope

When it comes to your kids, how do you when you've gone too far?

When does encouragement become dominance, pushy, not in the child's best interest? How do you that the direction your nurturing your child isn't going to totally screw them the hell up?

First Born Son has had more than his fair share of drama, starting in Grade 1 when a teacher sat across from me and insisted he had ADHD (he didn't - he was bored, and no, I'm not in denial - I would have accepted that had the Doctor agreed with her) through to Grade 3 when the name of a certain child in his class came up with more and more frequency in stressful situations until, in Grade 4, it became full blown bullying that I'm dealing with to this day.

Then there was the hockey coach last year who messed his head up but-good and sat him for a month. Followed by this year, when he broke his collar bone in November, and sat for a month and a half while he recouped. He's now in the midst of getting his groove back - and considering he's a goalie, when he's having a bad day, the whole team knows about it.

Each year my boys have three constants in their social/extra-curricular circles 1. Winter is Hockey, 2. Spring is swimming lessons, 3. Summer is softball.

The problem is, by the time you get to March/April when its time to sign up for ball, you're pretty overwhelmed with the hockey situation - playoffs have just begun/ended/middle of. But the conversation needs to be had.

"Sure, I'll play," says Second Born Son between mouthfuls at dinner that night. "I want to improve my swing." I am thankful for his realization that his swing stank all last season. I'll get him working on that and he's stubborn enough that he'll swing away until he gets it - God Bless His Bum!

Silence from across the table.

"FBS?" I ask.

"I'm going to the farm for a month this summer, so it's not fair to join a team and then not be around," he said.

"Uh, no you're not. You can maybe go for a week or two, and if you were on a ball team Uncle Bob would be fine with taking you to games - he did it last year and got a kick out of it," I returned.

"Well, if I do swimming, maybe that's all I'll do," he volleys.

And this is how it goes throughout the meal, until he finally comes out with the fact that he doesn't want to get hit with a ball (he goes up a year and pitch control can be a bit of an issue) but he also doesn't want to spend any more time than necessary with his nemesis. Who, I might add, is not as bad during ball season as he is during hockey, where they have to share the net on the same team.

I've coached him the past four years, which is likely too long, but held on because the head coach is amazing and has asked me to stick with him while he moves this group of kids along because he thinks they have potential. But I'm not coaching if my kid ain't playin'. It should be noted that FBS is a better than "good" ball player. Not "excellent" by any means, but has the potential to be. His team won the Consolation Championship last year and they all received team jackets - which he LOVED. It was the first title he had ever earned....

So where do I stop? Is this merely a stalling tactic on his part? Is it more about my desire to play than his?Do I tell him it's not negotiable? That he needs to be social with his friends during the 2.5 months of summer because without that he'll miss out on A LOT, or do I let him find his own way to socialize and run the risk that he won't at all. His suggestion is just "hanging out" around town....that went over badly for him. It's a different group that he chums with - they do get along well but there's not a lot of back and forth unless you put yourself out there.

If I let him sit out this season, he won't go back. He just won't.

This also goes hand in hand with his logic of not being a goalie next year in hockey. Again, understand where he's coming from, - two crappy years back to back. But this kid is not built for contact. He's lean and long, wiry and agile. PERFECT for a goalie. Deadly for a winger, suicidal for a defenseman.

Therefore, I'm at a crossroads and I'm not sure which is the best level of risk to take. Each has it's benefits, and then equal number of drawbacks. While I think I'd rather push him now and keep him active, it's long summer of "but I didn't want to play".

If anyone has the magic answer, I'm all ears!

~tb

The Spirit of the Games

Who isn't watching the 2010 Olympics? Regardless of where they are held, I'm captivated - although I could do with a little less "behind the scenes"-

"Johnny's grandmother always wanted a grandson who could shoot targets while skiing across frozen tundra and her homemade cobbler was exactly what he needed to aim for Olympic GOLD!"

Yup, that's thick...and deep...

Usually the Olympics are a celebration of hard work, determination, perseverance and the pursuit of excellence - not to mention the temper tantrums.

Sure, I get all warm and fuzzy when I see a Canadian athlete excel - especially when it's the first Gold on Canadian soil (shout out to you Alex!!!) but for every five "warm fuzzies" we get one jackass who makes the Olympics really THE greatest show on earth.

Take, for example, Dale Begg-Smith, the Aussie transplanted Canadian who is the scourge of the technological world. You see, DBS is the lovely chap behind many of the pop-up versus and links to XXX websites that infiltrate your computer...hate him already, don't you?

Add to that endearing quality the fact that he's a total putz. Wealthy beyond reason, DBS is considered the Millionaire Skier who chose to join the Australian team when he couldn't get along with the Canadian National Team. He refused interviews leading into his sport (Freestyle/Mogels) and made himself a global spectacle when he came in second to Canada's Alex Bilodeau. The photos. are. priceless. Look them up. I've seen 2-year-olds react better to spilled ice cream cones.

Jump ahead to this week, where the Men's Figure Skating was decided. While Patrick Chan - who is known for his amazing footwork and artistry wasn't considered much of a threat after his disappointing short program, he was called out by another "well groomed" sportsman - Russia's Evengi Plushenko. Plushenko laid it pretty clear that he believed if you were in the men's class and you didn't lay down a Quad, well then you really weren't much of a man at all, were you?

Again, egos raged and the "Quad King" as he has become known, supported his mature mentality with his actions during warmups - taking three tours of the ice surface, landing two or three jumps and then leaving, stating "That's enough." Talk about diva behavior.

In the end, the judges didn't warm up to the Russian's one-trick-pony act (*Take note Mr. Plushenko - there is artistry involved in figure skating - it is the blend of athleticism and art that makes this sport truly unique. Check in to it.) He received the silver and even that wasn't graceful. He quickly pulled the medal off his neck and skated off for the exit - which he was denied because he had to exit the opposite end of the ice - poetic justice indeed.

And I'm really glad my kids haven't seen these episodes of child-like behavior because it's hard to raise kids to be good sportsmen and take responsibility for their actions when adults are televised acting like morons.

Now, what the world needs is more Nobunari Odas.... A young 17-year-old Japanese figure skater, he executed a fun, entertaining and challenge ode to Charlie Chaplin. But what made him outstanding is what he did when things went bad.

As he landed his final jump in the Men's Freestyle, his leg went out from under him, sending him crashing to the ice. Within seconds, you knew something was wrong and he skated directly to the judges panel. A close up of his skate evidenced a badly beaten skate boot and when he pulled up his trouser leg, a handful of mangled, snapped laces.

The rules say, you have three minutes from the time you notify the judges to return to the ice. He did so with speed and grace, quickly re-lacing and retying the skate and then resuming his routine with style and flare. You honestly never would have thought he stopped. The music ended, he struck his final pose and the audience went wild.

Plushenko, DBS, were you watching? Not likely....