Mine wasn’t a household of armchair quarterbacks. My dad wasn’t a sports spectator nor a sports
participator, so having the game, the match, the fight, the meet or the race
piped over the airwaves into our house wasn’t a regular occurrence. Nobody was against it in any way, it was
literally just never a thought. Except
for the Olympics. When the Olympics were
on, our TV was on and we gathered together, and we watched. We watched with interest and we watched with
enthusiasm. And the specific sport didn’t even much matter, because, you know,
Olympics…obviously. I find the phenomenon of Olympic viewing fascinating. At least at my house. Never would I ever eagerly and
enthusiastically tune to a rowing repechage or biathlon competition. Except for
the Olympics. When it came time for the Olympics, we watched it all. We watched
curling and fencing and gymnastics and hockey and volleyball and whatever else
the Games had to offer. I was 15 years
old and a Sophomore in High School for the 1980 winter games…the Miracle
Year. The year that the USA Hockey team
beat the Russians and went on to win the Gold Metal. I remember it well. I can replay it in my head. I remember watching the game and I vividly
remember the call…the moment. “Do you believe in Miracles?” Why, yes Al, yes I do.
I have loads of Olympic memories. As a kid, I remember lively discussions
around the dinner table, comparing the Greats.
Nadia or Olga? What about Mary-loo? Does the world’s greatest Wheaties Box go to
Mark or Bruce? And then many years later, with my own kids. We watched the new generation of
greatness. We watched Michael and the Magnificents.
And we cheered and we hoped for miracle moments. And one special year, where we watched from was
even memorable than what we watched. We watched from a pop-up camper. From a
campground. The camper was cozy and warm
and adventury feeling and if you wanted to, you could brush your teeth, take a
shower, and perform any other bathroom task needed without actually having to
change position. It was an all in one stall. Bonus. And to go along with the teeny tiny toilet,
we had a teeny tiny tent garage, and a teeny tiny outdoor kitchen and even a
teeny tiny television. And we watched the Olympics. In the camper. Together. In
our tiny little space on our teeny tiny TV. We were tiny homers before tiny
homing was trendy. When the kids and I talk about that time, the time when life
led us to live in unexpected places and unexpected spaces, we laugh and we
look back at it fondly. And it always
comes up. “Mom, remember when we lived
in the camper? Remember how we piled up
on the bed and how we watched the Olympics on that tiny TV? That was cool.” Yep, kids, that was a magical
miracle time for sure.
Of course, we own the Miracle movie. We own and have watched
the Miracle Movie multiple times.
Multiple multiple times. I love the “Yes” moment. It still brings back memories of my
childhood. It is a “where were you when…” moment for me. It reminds me that there is a reason the game
is played. It’s played because, no
matter the odds, there are no guarantees. The outcome, while often times quite probable,
is never really 100% certain. It reminds
me that sometimes, against all odds, Miracles happen. I love that moment, for
sure. But there is another moment in the
movie that resonates with me as well.
The light-bulb moment. It is the moment where the team has been skating
past the point of exhaustion and players are swearing and puking and then, the
moment happened. “Who do you play for?” “USA”.
There, a lesson to be learned. Light-bulb lit. Not so much a miracle
moment, but rather, a life lesson learned.
A fortune cookie phrase, if you will.
Over the years I have learned to be better at watching and
listening for miracle moments and for fortune cookie philosophy, not just
during the Olympics, but in every day life. I try to pay attention and spot
them. Moments where a life lesson can be learned. Where the Fortune cookie gets written. But I have to be paying attention. Sometimes
the message takes time to soak in because sometimes, the message isn’t obvious.
And sometimes the message isn’t intentionally delivered or even known by the
messenger. An accident almost. But there
it is. In the midst of anger and swear words
and puke and poop, a little miraculous nugget of wisdom and truth.
Speaking of poop (last line, previous paragraph. Try to keep
up), most hockey teams have two goalies.
Wait, Wynette… what does poop have to do with hockey goalies? Patience Grasshopper, I’m getting there. Try
not to interrupt… On some teams, the
goal tenders are fairly equal, so the playing time is fairly equal. On other teams, one goal tender is marginally
to significantly better than the other, but the playing time is still fairly
equal. And on still other teams, one
goal tender gets the lion share of the games, because, presumably the one is
better than the other and thusly gets to play more often. My son has been on number of different teams
and mostly on teams where the goalies got equal time, sometimes because they
were equally talented and sometimes, just because. But there was one particular year, a year where
the goalie hierarchy was clearly defined.
There was an obvious number 1 and an obvious number 2. And everyone wants to be number 1 because
number 1 is golden. And nobody wants to be number 2 because number 2 is poop.
And nobody wants to be poop. Poop is
poopy and people cough or they do preemptive flushing, or other sneaky
techniques to pretend poop isn’t poop, but nobody is fooled. Poop is poopy. And
stinky. And so, on this particular team,
there was the golden goalie and the poop goalie. Not preferring the poop
position and hoping to work his way out of the poop position, young #2 went to
the coach and enquired “Coach, what do I need to do to get more playing
time?” And with no pause, no hesitation,
the Coach immediately responded, “Stop the puck.” And then he walked away. Mic Drop. Likely not
at all what #2 was expecting or hoping to hear.
I suspect that #2 was expecting a slightly different and more detailed
response. Something more. Certainly, something more than “Stop The Puck”. Harsh.
But also, Brilliant. Fortune
Cookie brilliant even. Maybe even tattoo
brilliant. If you happen to play the
position of goalie, and you happen to want more playing time, it is solid
advice. Perfect. OK, maybe not the
stomping on the hopes, dreams and spirts of a vulnerable 13 year old boy, maybe
that part was not so perfect, but if one were to overlook that nasty little
detail, (which, in this case by the way, the parents of young #2 were not too keen
to do), it’s actually pretty sage advice.
A solid tip. I don’t know if the
messenger meant to belittle or enlighten, and the message certainly wasn’t
intended for me. But the messenger isn’t always in charge. The messenger doesn’t always get to choose
who hears the message or how the message is heard, which is an entirely
separate message in and of itself. But I
heard the message, intended or not. Stop the puck, Wynette. Sometimes I get
neck deep, drowning in the details and I have to remind myself…Don’t over
complicate. Don’t over analyze. Keep it simple. Stop. The. Puck. Oh, yep…I get
it. And I took that little strip of paper and tucked it in my wallet. A fortune cookie message worth keeping.
Apparently, 1980 was a good year for fortune cookies. In
1980, I watched the miracle moment and I also personally learned a couple of
cookie worthy lessons. I learned “do what you are supposed to do, whether or
not you think someone is watching” and “just because other people do it,
doesn’t make it right.” I know what you are thinking…Oh boy, Wynette, what terrible
things did you do to have to learn those doozies? I always figured you were a
trouble maker! Ease up, Skippy, and let me just set the record straight right here
and now. I wasn’t the one that actually did the deed that triggered the need
for some lesson learning. Not only did I
not do the deed, I didn’t even know the deed had been done. Not until the
learning the lesson part was taking place, anyway. But, I was on the team. And when a couple of teammates think it would
be a harmless, great, and fun idea to scratch their jersey numbers into a
graffiti covered, old wooden tabletop nestled among the veritable smorgasbord of numbers
and initials scratched there before them, well, if that happens, then the whole
team gets to learn the lessons and apparently the best team teaching tool is to
run together. And run. And run. And there is puking and there are tears. And
swear words. And while the running is
happening and the body fluids are escaping, the coach imparts a story of young
boy. As the players are running, the
coach tells a story of himself when as a young boy, he received a wood burning
set as a gift. And at first, most of the team is confused by the story being
told. And then the coach talks about the choices the young boy made, the
trouble he got into with the wood burning set, and the lessons he learned as a
result of his actions…and then it clicks. Cookie cracked. There are wood
burners amongst us and just because other there had been other wood burners that
burned things before and just because nobody seemed to care or to be paying
attention to what was being burned, doesn’t make it OK to burn whatever we
please. And because we are a team, we
will learn the lessons together. And we will run together. Messages received. Lessons Learned.
Please pass the cookies.
