is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“You said that about camp last summer. And the travel team last fall.”
“Oh, uh, well, when you’re a true-blue player like me, whose entire future revolves around hockey, you’re bound to have more opportunities of a lifetime than average people.” It’s so hard to explain stuff like this to regular folks.
Before Dad can sit down and get caught up in the new house, I give it my best shot.
“I wish you knew what it feels like to be flying over the ice, working the puck, blowing past an opponent who looks like he’s in slow motion, spotting the net, and then flipping your stick just right and sending the puck spinning past the goalie.” I’m practically hyperventilating.
Dad’s trying to listen, but he’s sneaking glances at the blueprints on the table. This isn’t the first time he’s zoned out on me, thinking about boring stuff like money and bills, when I’ve been trying to tell him something important about the game. Mom does it, too.
I take a deep breath. Find the perfect words. “Hockey is the only thing I care about. It’s all I think of. Hockey is my whole life—it’s my future. I hope you keep that in mind when you talk to Mom.”
I know enough to leave the room before I say something I’ll regret. Like “Don’t be a hypocrite, Dad—you’re always talking about believing in yourself and how everything will work out if you just work hard enough.” It may be the truth, but it’ll torpedo my chances.
Besides, there’s no way Mom and Dad won’t let me go.
No. Way.
Atticus: I don’t want my boy to go away. He’s too young, and I like my people bunched together so I can keep an eye on them. No one ever gets in trouble when I’m around, but when they go off in separate directions or try to keep secrets from me, things get weird. They don’t seem to realize that; that’s why I always try to keep my people close by.
As long as I can remember, it’s been the boss and the real boss who smells like flowers and my boy and me. And now this falling-over puppy. My people need to spend more time together. Everyone is always coming and going and missing each other. My boy talks to me about everything, and he tries to explain things to the puppy, but he still needs to talk to the bosses. And they should listen better. Like I do.
They need to spend more time at home. I’m tired of taking care of this puppy. They wanted him, not me. The boss could stop messing the place up, too; it’s always loud and dirty, and everything smells wrong.
Conor: I LOVE THE SHINY FLOOR! IT MAKES ME FLY!
The Decision
Dad drags me out of bed at five in the morning—his favorite time of the day to bring me up to speed on family disasters. He bounds down to the kitchen and as soon as I’ve staggered to the table, tells me that after careful consideration last night, he and Mom have decided not to let me try out for the new academy.
I brace myself against the counter and watch Dad pet Atticus, who glances at me and looks away quickly, horrified by the bomb Dad just dropped.
I struggle to control my quavering voice. “You can’t do that to me.”
“Sure I can; I’m your father and I have your best interests at heart.”
“How long are you going to play that lame ‘I’m the dad’ card?”
“Can’t see an end to it. Works like a charm.”
“But you’re wrong! You just don’t get it. I’m fourteen, and these are crucial years for me. Every minute at the rink makes a difference. Don’t you understand the importance of training with players and coaches who’ll push me to be better every time I take the ice?”
I’m sweating and my hands are shaking, but Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table calmly scratching the itch Atticus can’t reach behind his right ear—arthritis in his hips has stiffened his back legs. Is Dad even listening to me or is he just waiting for me to stop talking? I press on.
“Any serious coach will tell you that turning down this
“You said that about camp last summer. And the travel team last fall.”
“Oh, uh, well, when you’re a true-blue player like me, whose entire future revolves around hockey, you’re bound to have more opportunities of a lifetime than average people.” It’s so hard to explain stuff like this to regular folks.
Before Dad can sit down and get caught up in the new house, I give it my best shot.
“I wish you knew what it feels like to be flying over the ice, working the puck, blowing past an opponent who looks like he’s in slow motion, spotting the net, and then flipping your stick just right and sending the puck spinning past the goalie.” I’m practically hyperventilating.
Dad’s trying to listen, but he’s sneaking glances at the blueprints on the table. This isn’t the first time he’s zoned out on me, thinking about boring stuff like money and bills, when I’ve been trying to tell him something important about the game. Mom does it, too.
I take a deep breath. Find the perfect words. “Hockey is the only thing I care about. It’s all I think of. Hockey is my whole life—it’s my future. I hope you keep that in mind when you talk to Mom.”
I know enough to leave the room before I say something I’ll regret. Like “Don’t be a hypocrite, Dad—you’re always talking about believing in yourself and how everything will work out if you just work hard enough.” It may be the truth, but it’ll torpedo my chances.
Besides, there’s no way Mom and Dad won’t let me go.
No. Way.
Atticus: I don’t want my boy to go away. He’s too young, and I like my people bunched together so I can keep an eye on them. No one ever gets in trouble when I’m around, but when they go off in separate directions or try to keep secrets from me, things get weird. They don’t seem to realize that; that’s why I always try to keep my people close by.
As long as I can remember, it’s been the boss and the real boss who smells like flowers and my boy and me. And now this falling-over puppy. My people need to spend more time together. Everyone is always coming and going and missing each other. My boy talks to me about everything, and he tries to explain things to the puppy, but he still needs to talk to the bosses. And they should listen better. Like I do.
They need to spend more time at home. I’m tired of taking care of this puppy. They wanted him, not me. The boss could stop messing the place up, too; it’s always loud and dirty, and everything smells wrong.
Conor: I LOVE THE SHINY FLOOR! IT MAKES ME FLY!
The Decision
Dad drags me out of bed at five in the morning—his favorite time of the day to bring me up to speed on family disasters. He bounds down to the kitchen and as soon as I’ve staggered to the table, tells me that after careful consideration last night, he and Mom have decided not to let me try out for the new academy.
I brace myself against the counter and watch Dad pet Atticus, who glances at me and looks away quickly, horrified by the bomb Dad just dropped.
I struggle to control my quavering voice. “You can’t do that to me.”
“Sure I can; I’m your father and I have your best interests at heart.”
“How long are you going to play that lame ‘I’m the dad’ card?”
“Can’t see an end to it. Works like a charm.”
“But you’re wrong! You just don’t get it. I’m fourteen, and these are crucial years for me. Every minute at the rink makes a difference. Don’t you understand the importance of training with players and coaches who’ll push me to be better every time I take the ice?”
I’m sweating and my hands are shaking, but Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table calmly scratching the itch Atticus can’t reach behind his right ear—arthritis in his hips has stiffened his back legs. Is Dad even listening to me or is he just waiting for me to stop talking? I press on.
“Any serious coach will tell you that turning down this
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