by Bob Mckenzie
The only two freshmen games he played that I missed-damn the World Junior Championships-were in the Dartmouth tournament at Christmas, when he scored on a penalty shot in overtime to beat Boston University. I was back at TSN working, watching the SLU-BU game on TV. Mike was interviewed after scoring the winning goal and was asked why he chose to attend St. Lawrence. I could see him pause and think about how he was going to answer and I mouthed it just as he said it.
"Well, actually, it was the only school that offered me a scholarship," he said.
That's my boy.
But as idyllic as a lot of it was, it's still hockey; you're still subjected to the volatile ups and downs of the game.
Mike missed the finally eight games of the regular season his freshman year with a sports hernia, but when the doctors told him he was going to need off-season surgery whether he continued to play or not, he took a cortisone shot, got taped up and gutted out the playoffs with his groin all torn up.
The Saints were predicted to be a middle-of-the-pack team in the regular season, but finished in first place in Mike's freshman season. Though they lost in the ECAC tournament semi-finallys against Quinnipiac, Mike scored two goals, including the game winner, in a come-from-behind win over Dartmouth in the ECAC consolation finally. That win propelled SLU into the NCAA tournament (finally sixteen teams in the country) only to lose to Frozen Four finalist Boston College in the first round. That first year was fantastic.
Mike's sophomore season was as difficult as his freshman year was wonderful. Coming off his sports hernia surgery, Mike went fourteen games to start the season without a goal, managed only seven goals and twenty points in thirty games. He lost his confidence; he lost his focus; he didn't get as much ice time and there were occasions when he was just plain miserable. Ditto for me. And the Saints finished a disappointing ninth before meekly bowing out in the first round of the playoffs.
Mike did, however, bounce back to have a terrific junior season. The Saints played well and finished in fourth place, earning a first-round playoff bye. For the second time in three years, SLU made it to Albany, home of the ECAC tournament, but lost a heartbreaker in the semi-finally to Yale. The Saints just missed qualifying for the 16-team NCAA tournament, but all in all it was a good year of hockey for the team and Mike, who scored a team-leading 16 goals and 34 points in 38 games.
I wrote this book before Mike's senior year. So who knows what's in store for Mike and his team, but I feel safe in saying Mike's four years at St. Lawrence will be something that stays with both of us for the rest of our lives. I have no doubt he'll come out of it a better player and a better man, with a degree to boot, and it's hard to beat that.
I am well aware not every parent of a college hockey player feels as positive about the experience as me. It's not some sort of Utopian paradise. It's the next level, after all. There's not enough games for my sensibilities (if you play forty, that's a big year), but that, I suppose, is why they call them student-athletes.
I am not here to tell anyone how much better the college hockey experience is than major junior. There are OHL organizations to which I would never entrust the care of my son, but there are some college coaches or programs I would put in the same category.
Not every freshman has the kind of year Mike had at SLU. Too many of them don't see enough action for no reason other than they're freshmen. I have friends whose kids' college hockey experiences have been a complete and utter nightmare; players who went to a school only to get there and be told their scholarship would be honored but they wouldn't be part of the team. I have friends whose kids' experiences in major junior have been nothing but a bitter disappointment and rejection.
But that, I'm afraid, is what hockey is all about at the next level.
No system has the market cornered on anything, good or bad. At the end of the day, when your kid arrives at the next level, anything and everything could happen. It may not always seem fair, but then, as I loved to tell my boys, life isn't always fair. In fact, I've always maintained every league above minor hockey-Junior A, B, C; major junior; college; and ultimately the pros-should have only one slogan because this is the absolute truth once you get out of minor hockey: "We will love your kid so long as he's playing well; we'll treat him like gold…unless someone better comes along."
I hope that doesn't come across as too cynical or crass, because it's not meant to be. In fact, that reality check should reinforce to everyone to try to enjoy the journey, not get too hung up on the destination. There are just so many ups and downs for the vast majority of kids who play hockey at any level above minor hockey. If you permit yourself, you can get eaten alive by them.
For Cindy and me, the hockey has always been the bedrock on which we try to build relationships and friendships. For as much as we have loved watching Mike play college hockey, the enduring payoff for our time in Canton, N.Y., has been becoming such good friends with Tim and Teri Phalon, having their family open their home to our family; getting to know the Cunninghams and the Flanagans; sharing time and stories with the other Crazy Hockey Parents/road warriors like the Bogosians or Fensels, the Generouses, amongst many others; getting to the Hoot Owl-"Scary, isn't it?"-for a night of One Mo's. (It's a long story.) Or trading text messages with my Colgate friend Don McIntyre or my Cornell pal Dan Whitney or my cattle-ranching SLU alum Tom Giffin.
Oh, the hockey is important-I would never suggest otherwise and anyone who knows me would call B.S. if I did. But if as a parent that's all you're taking from it, I have to tell you something-you're missing the boat.
Nevertheless, maybe at some point before Mike graduates, we'll go on a little father-son excursion, maybe see an East Coast Hockey League or American Hockey League game.
Maybe I'll ask him: "Do you think you can play this?"
And he'll say: "I don't know. I think so, I'm not sure."
And I'll say: "Neither am I."
And then, all things being equal, we'll find out. Mind you, one day-who knows when?-there'll be no more next level, it will all be over.
And you know what? That's just fine, too, because it's been quite a ride, a lot longer and more thrilling than either of us ever could have imagined. And hey, it's not over just yet.
35: Blowing the Whistle and Doctor, Doctor
I COULDN'T LET AN ENTIRE BOOK GO by without some mention of my "friends" who wear the striped shirt.
There is, of course, no more thankless job in minor hockey than that of the on-ice official. They take far too much abuse-sadly, some of it is physical-and I have been guilty, on occasion, of dispensing some of the verbal variety. I can admit that. But I'm also not shy about suggesting Mike, Shawn and I, between the three of us, have been on the receiving end of some mistreatment, too.
There was the ref in Barrie who started a tournament game by saying to me: "I hope you're a better coach than you are a broadcaster." I started laughing, thinking it was a pretty funny line, until I realized he wasn't kidding. This particular referee, who I had never met before, could not have been more blatant in his disdain for me and clearly took it out on the kids I coached. Which is kind of pathetic.
Most of the zebras are good guys trying to do a good job.But it was quite obvious when we would get one who would take great delight in making my life difficult. This was much more likely to happen at home in Whitby than on the road.
What is it they say, familiarity breeds contempt?
I know this to be true because a guy I know started working as an OMHA linesman. He told me after the fact that there were a couple of local Whitby refs who, prior to a game, would sit in the referees' room and brag to their colleagues about how they were planning to get a reaction from me or the other local Whitby coaches who had some profile. "Watch me get [fill in the blank] going crazy," one of these refs would say before the game. My buddy couldn't help himself one time. "Aren't we just supposed to call the game?" he said. "I didn't realize our job is to plan on getting the coaches upset."
There may be some
who would suggest I actually got favorable treatment from some refs because they were intimidated by my TV persona. I never saw it that way, but that's just me.
In all the years I coached minor hockey or lacrosse, I only ever got one bench minor penalty for verbally abusing an official.
Honestly, though, I could handle the back and forth between me and the refs; it's all part of the game. It was when I thought they were targeting my sons for extra attention that it really upset me. It still does.
I can't count how many times over the years a referee would make a much more flamboyant penalty call-the demonstrative/theatrical pointing of the finger towards the penalty box is a dead giveaway-or loudly use my kids' surname for dramatic effect when he banished one of them to the box: "Let's go, McKenzie, two for roughing, McKenzie." I'm not arguing my kids didn't deserve penalties-far from it-but I am saying there were refs who visibly enjoyed assessing those penalties a lot more than they should have.
But there is one Hall of Shame officiating story I will leave you with because it so far crossed the line that I still can't quite believe it happened.
It was the sixth and deciding game of the first round of the playoffs in Mike's major bantam AAA season. The winner of the game between Oshawa and Whitby would move on. I was away at the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics. I was on pins and needles awaiting the result.
Oshawa beat Whitby that night; Mike's season was over and that was Mike's last game of minor hockey. When I came home from Salt Lake City a couple of days later, I was told by Mike's coaches, including my brother-in-law John, that the referee had more or less verbally abused Mike from the beginning of the game to the very end.
I asked Mike about it. He confessed that in all the years he'd played hockey or lacrosse, he had never experienced anything quite like this. He said if he missed a shot on goal, the referee would skate by and say, "Ah, did you miss the net? Do you miss your daddy at the Olympics, too, poor baby?" This torrent of abusive dialogue was, I was told, pretty much constant. By the time the game was over, Mike was overwrought.
I was going to let it slide. I mean, it was over and done with, what could I do now? The more I thought about it, though, the angrier I got. So, just for the hell of it, I called the OMHA and talked to the referee-in-chief. I told him the story. He said he would get back to me, but I wasn't holding my breath. A week or two later, though, he called. He said he had concluded an investigation-I was waiting for the "lack of evidence" line-and after conferring with the linesmen who worked the game with that referee, he determined the ref had indeed acted inappropriately. This referee's behavior was so reprehensible that his own linesmen in that game ratted him out. That tells you how bad it was right there. The referee-in-chief said the ref would be disciplined-he was scheduled to work the all-Ontario midget championships in Peterborough and was subsequently taken off that assignment.
The kicker to the story is that the next season in a Junior A game in Oshawa, Mike was in an altercation and down on the ice. A linesman jumped on top of him to restrain him and rather zealously, I thought, put what amounted to a choke hold around Mike's neck. The altercation was over as far as I could see, but the linesman still was on top of Mike and had his arm locked around Mike's neck. Mike was kicking his feet because he was getting choked. I started to yell from the stands, it was that obvious to me. Finally, the linesman let up. It was a day or two after the fact, when I happened to look at the game summary, I realized the overly aggressive linesman and the ref who had verbally abused Mike were one and the same. At the end of the day, officiating hockey is not an easy job.
I get that. I also know the vast majority of guys who do it are doing it for all the right reasons-because they like hockey; they want to stay involved; get a little exercise; they want to contribute something to the community; and maybe make a buck or two. To all those guys, if I ever offended you, I am sorry. But there are also a few bad apples who are raging egomaniacs and power-hungry control freaks with an ax to grind.
Hey, maybe I should apply.
Actually, I've occasionally thought I might like to get my referee's card one day, although I acknowledge it's probably just a flight of fancy. (Mike and Shawn both officiated minor lacrosse briefly, but didn't like the responsibility and abuse that went with it.) But I think it would be a fascinating experience and a tremendous challenge. I would love to see if I have any feel for the game in that capacity. Now, wouldn't that be fun for the coaches, players and parents to see me skate out in the stripes with a whistle in my hand?
The finally word on officiating, though, goes to my buddy Kevin O'Brien, who came up with the best "chirp" of an official I've ever seen or heard. This one was so good that even the ref who was being chirped burst out laughing. Just one warning, though, your timing has to be impeccable.
"Everyone here who thinks the ref is doing a lousy job," Kevin would yell from the stands, "put up your hand."
If the line is delivered in a dead-quiet rink just as the ref makes the signal to say the visiting team can't make a line change, tell me you can't see the sheepish smile on the ref's face as he slowly lifts his arm above his head. Priceless. Just priceless.
As difficult as it is to deal with some referees, the hardest part of having kids playing minor hockey is the whole injury experience.
Injuries are, unfortunately, unavoidable. If your child plays sports, he or she will get hurt at some point. What you come to realize very quickly-or at least you should-is that a bad game or a game where Junior misses a shift or gets into the coach's doghouse pales in comparison to the child getting hurt and not being able to play at all, whether it's for a game, a week, a month, a year or forever.
Shawn had the obvious problem with multiple concussions/headaches, though most of them weren't experienced in organized sports. But Shawn also had a whack of other injuries from hockey and lacrosse. We have a collection of crutches and splints and braces around our house. Most of them were for Shawn, who banged up his knee almost as often as he did his head. He has had tears of the anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) and medial cruciate ligament (MCL) and even the lesser-known lateral cruciate ligament (LCL)-no knee surgery was ever required-and when he skates now, he wears a brace for support.
Even in a noncontact sport like volleyball, Shawn managed to get injured. When he was in Grade 7, he jumped up to spike a ball at the same time as his teammate. The teammate's karate chop spike got more of Shawn's baby finger than the ball. The result was a broken finger, with the portion above the knuckle jutting out at an almost ninety-degree angle from the base. It was really quite horrendous. He nearly passed out from the pain but never cried, not even when at the hospital they repeatedly gave him needles to freeze it before setting it. Finally, Shawn got fed up with the needles-the freezing wasn't taking-and he stoically told them to "just set it."
Mike battled his way through a lot of injuries, too, but let's just say he was a tad more verbal than Shawn in expressing pain and suffering. Mike was much more likely to cry or scream or yell or curse, but like his brother, he would never want to let an injury keep him down.
In addition to his broken arm in lacrosse and his one notable concussion, Mike has had separated shoulders (one in lacrosse; one in hockey), a fractured ankle, a sports hernia that required surgery-not to mention a painful cortisone shot with a really big needle that was inserted near the pubic bone (I break out in a sweat just thinking about it)-and too many soft-tissue injuries to count.
Like many who are so deeply embedded in the minor hockey culture, the McKenzies subscribe to the age-old, macho philosophy that you don't lie on the ice when you're hurt; you do everything possible to get to the bench on your own.
Within reason, you play hurt and battle through injuries, but that does not, of course, include trying to play through a concussion, which is simply not possible.
But of all the things that qualify me as a Crazy Hockey Dad, my obsession with and fanaticism about getting my kids the best possible medical/injury treatment is p
robably right up there at the top of the list.
If your child is injured playing sports and all you do is visit the local hospital emergency room or your GP or family doctor-all due respect to all of them-there is a pretty good chance your child may be on the sidelines longer than they might otherwise be.
I believe it is paramount to seek out specialized medical treatment from those who live and work within the sports medicine community. It's just a matter of finding these people. Once you do, you are on your way because they generally operate within a network of other health-care experts (medical specialists, chiropractors/active release therapists, physiotherapists, massage therapists, nutritionists, strength and conditioning trainers, homeopaths) who can also be a huge help in healing and getting the injured athlete back playing.
A good sports chiropractor/active release/soft tissue therapist, for example, is worth his or her weight in gold to treat or even help prevent injuries.
I obviously have an advantage over most Hockey Dads, but I like to think that even if I weren't the Hockey Insider I could still track down good people to treat my kids. My boys like to give me a hard time about my medical "hookups" because I have this team of experts, depending upon what is required.
I am sure these "experts" all go running for the hills when they see my name and number pop up on their call display, but I don't know where I would be without this network of health-care professionals. They all know who they are-K.J.; Dr. Tim; Mark the chiro/ART/soft tissue wizard and Duane, too; Dr. M for imaging; Jeremy the massage therapist; Matt for strength and conditioning; and so many others too numerous to mention.