The Morning Brew: Reflection, Rinks, and Ridiculousness

I was sitting on the balcony having my coffee this morning, which is my daily ritual. I use this time primarily for thinking and reflection. If you know me, that might come as a shock to the system, but it’s true—I actually enjoy the silence. All sorts of nonsense drifts through my mind as I dissect the previous day and prep for the one ahead. The Stoics recommend this practice, and I’ve really started leaning into it. Those cats were onto something; I only wish I’d picked up the habit sooner.

Anyway, before I get completely sidetracked: youth sports popped into my head. Growing up, I played everything—baseball, basketball, football, and hockey. I stuck with organized hockey through high school and baseball until 8th grade. I skipped organized football because it clashed with hockey season, and you had to pick a lane. As for basketball? Well, I was a chubby, short kid who couldn’t jump. Yes, White Men Can’t Jump is a documentary, not just a movie—so for all you PC folks out there, there’s no need to lose your collective minds over that one. It’s just physics.

In my youth, we just played. We weren’t over-coached; we learned by doing. Our only options were the town leagues. Parents watched, enjoyed the game, and when the whistle blew, everyone went home. Period. After school and during the summer, we gathered the neighborhood troupe and organized our own chaos. We had street hockey, baseball in Scott’s yard, football in Steve’s yard, and basketball at whoever had a hoop (usually my place). When the adults started coming home from work, we’d scream “CAR!”, drag the nets out of the road, and wait for them to retreat safely into their houses before resuming the mayhem.

Fast forward 25 years to the late ’80s and early ’90s. I’m now the adult coming home from work, and I noticed a eerie silence: no kids in the street. I won’t go down the rabbit hole of why—we can blame technology and “play dates” (don’t even get me started on that) another time. But as a new parent, my son started playing youth hockey in the same league I did.

Only now, it was different.

This was the era when parents officially lost their minds. It was the birth of the “Participation Trophy” (again, Kevin, stay on point). I noticed it wasn’t just about having a place to play anymore; it was about where you played. Suddenly, there were “Elite,” “Select,” and “AAA” leagues. Kids were being pulled out of town leagues to join these “specialized programs.” They weren’t playing with their friends anymore; they were playing with strangers. Parents were chasing the dragon of “better opportunities”—the delusion of D1 scholarships and the NHL.

It reached a level of pure absurdity. Parents were shuffling kids between leagues, summer programs, off-ice conditioning, and power-skating clinics. I saw parents screaming at their kids, making them jump rope in the parking lot before a game—just nutty behavior. Whatever happened to playing for the hell of it? Do you know how many kids from that area actually went pro from my childhood until today?

Zero.

In the US, we are obsessed with “bigger, better, faster, harder.” We’ve lost sight of the magic of just playing and creating. Long after I noticed this shift, I read a book by a hockey player you might have heard of: Bobby Orr. He wrote a book about his youth (Bobby Orr published his autobiography Orr: My Story on October 15, 2013) and specifically mentioned exactly what I’d observed. He said that as a kid, they weren’t even coached—they just played. He spent his life on the frozen ponds. That is what I did too and that was lost by the time I became a parent.

Turns out, the greatest to ever play the game didn’t need a $5,000 “Elite” program to find his way. He just needed a stick and some ice.

I’m no Einstein, but I like to think I’m a pretty good parent. My main goal with youth sports has always been fun—both for my kids and myself. I always told them that if they reached a point where they no longer enjoyed playing, they could walk away. Unfortunately, that day eventually came, and it was largely due to bad coaching.

Our high school coach acted like he was leading the Bruins in the Stanley Cup finals. My son finally had enough and walked away with my full support. (And for the record, that team didn’t even make the playoffs.) My advice to other parents is this: lighten up, relax, and have some fun. It’s a quick trip that will be over before you know it. Keep things in perspective and let the kids enjoy themselves. I also highly recommend reading Bobby Orr’s book—if the greatest player to ever play thinks there is an issue with youth sports, it’s worth listening to him.

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