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judgesmails
02-05-2005, 12:01 PM
I just finished reading "The Boys of Winter". A book written by Wayne Coffey that centered around the 1980 US Olympic hockey team's victory over the Soviet Union.

I was originally going to title the post "What makes you cry?" an post it in the Psychology forum.

The stories of these young men, and thier families, is Americana at its purest form.

Innocence, pride, skill, love, and ambition - blendend to perfection by a visionary coach at a time their country needed them most.

What choked me up most, were the details of how the families of the players sacrificed everything to make sure their childredn had every opportunity to be successful. The modeset families of the Iron Range of Minnesota, the hardscrabble streets of Boston, the tough neighborhoods of St. Paul.

These children, who turned into heros, were loved unconditionally by wise and nurturing parents. The family structure of each man was a common thread for these teamates. Few were first or only children.

Noncoincidentally, the best players on the team had no trouble sacrificing personal goals for the betterment of the team. When a person grows up in humble circumstances, accepting hand-me-down clothing as a way of life, being the third line center on a US Olympic Team is easy medicine to swallow.

As someone who grew up in similar circumstances, in the same geographic area as many of these players, this book struck a raw nerve for me.

I see how difficult their childhood was - compared to mine, and see what they made of themselves - and I feel proud of their accomplishments. I am from the same stock they are.

But at the same time, I feel more shame than pride. My parents loved me just the same and gave me all the support in the world, yet I do not feel like I have ever fulfilled my potential like these individuals did. Nor do I think I ever can match the effort and output these men displayed that month in early 1980.

That makes me cry. Not just my failure(s). But the beauty of their accomplishment. The pureness of their motive. The flawlessness of their execution.

Those of us who have had the privilege of participating in team sports in our lives know the deep meaning and sanctity of the locker room. The bonds that are implicit in sharing the physical and emotional sacrifice that sport demands. We all consider ourselves lucky to have had the experience.

The 1980 Olympic Hockey Team had the greatest experience in the history of sport. This book gives all a shiver of that experience and a rekindling of our own experiences.

pudley4
02-05-2005, 12:32 PM
again...

again...

again...

again...

again...

again...

/images/graemlins/laugh.gif

Gamblor
02-05-2005, 12:36 PM
What you described is every minor hockey team I have ever played on.

Most kids across canada grow up learning hockey on sloughs (little ponds) and then going in and helping their father run a farm.

Try Home Game (http://www.amazon.ca/exec/obidos/ASIN/0771028725/qid=1107620989/ref=sr_8_xs_ap_i1_xgl/701-5845733-8289962) by Ken Dryden.

Excerpt:

"HOCKEY IS PART OF LIFE IN CANADA. THOUSANDS PLAY IT, MILLIONS follow it, and millions more surely try their best to ignore it altogether. But if they do, their disregard must be purposeful, done in conscious escape, for hockey's evidences are everywhere - on television and radio, in newspapers, in playgrounds and offices, on the streets, in sights and sounds, in the feeling of the season. In Canada, hockey is one of winter's expectations.

...It is played in every province and territory and in every part of every province and territory in this country. ...though its symmetry is far from perfect, hockey does far better than most in cutting across social division - young and old, rich and poor, urban and rural, French and English, East and West, able and disabled. It is this breadth, its reach into the past, that makes hockey such a vivid instrument through which to view Canadian life. Its first game was played just eight years after Confederation by reluctant northerners who chose to escape winter and play it indoors. In little more than a century, hockey has moved from pickup games on rivers and sloughs to Friday nights in quonset-hut rinks, town against town, to cathedral-like arenas and Hockey Night in Canada...

The Common Passion....
...Incredibly, in Saskatchewan today there are 459 indoor rinks, 151 of which have artificial ice. In all of the Soviet Union - a country some 300 times larger - there are only 116. With about 850 cities, towns, villages, and lesser communities in the province, nearly half can claim a rink. A closer look at the numbers offers even more startling details. A city in Saskatchewan is defined as having 5,000 people or more. There are only twelve "cities" in the province. Together they share sixty-two indoor arenas (seventeen in Saskatoon, ten in Regina, eight in Prince Albert, three in Moose Jaw, and two in most of the rest). There are nearly 400 rinks, therefore, in communities with fewer than 5,000 people. Maymont, population 197, has a rink. So do Marquis, population 97, and Brownlee, population 89. None of this makes the slightest sense, it seems, but of course it does. Each community needs a place to gather, to act and feel like a community, to remind itself of why it is a community...

... If you looked prairie reality in the eye, you were too easily beaten. ...Having come to a seasonal, isolated life, those who set down roots sought out activities that could involve them as a community. To get people to slog ten miles through mid winter cold, one needed to offer entertainment as well as spiritual and secular basics. The same search for solidarity and entertainment also explains a lot about prairie people's fascination with hockey. Hockey, in particular, became a winter passion for both players and watchers. It kept coffee row humming. It was, for many, a means of off-season fitness for the rigours of farming, the driving force behind the building of community centres, the way in which widely separate communities connected with each other. And it was a way of extending the web of community outward to regions, to the province, to the country itself, even if that web often burned with rivalry. Through Gordie Howe, the Bentley brothers, and countless more, perhaps more than any other, through Foster Hewitt, hockey was a connection to the rest of Canada more vivid and far more acceptable than banks and federal bureaucrats. And for young boys growing up on the Prairies - boys no different than Gordie Howe in Floral back in the 1940s or Kevin Kaminski in Churchbridge in the 1980s hockey, like the RCMP and the priesthood, was that dreamed-of ticket to a bigger world. Before there were malls, kids would hang around in hockey arenas. Before Zambonis could be found in every hockey rink in the land, it was the kids - rink rats - who would fight for the right to grab a wobbly, bent-blade snow shovel and join in the plough lines that circled the rink, for free, to clear off the snow so a barrel of hot water could be wheeled out for the flooding. And before there were Zambonis and arenas, there was the outdoor game, played on farm ponds called "sloughs" and in schoolyards, as much in winter boots as on skates. Not so many years ago, it was very nearly the only game played in this mythical hockey heartland. Weather had created the game in the first place, but weather limited when and how often it could be played. Games awaited an early winter freeze-up, then ended for good, not when schedules were played out and playoffs won, but when the ice melted. In between, snowstorms and extreme cold temperatures - both hardly rare - cancelled many games

....Here, people love this game ...The land, the winter are every where. People are out where they shouldn't be, doing what to others seems to make no sense. But for the original prairie settlers, for Bill Hunter and Kevin Kaminski, for the people of tiny Radisson, for Canadians, what did sense ever have to do with anything? Canada is such an improbable country.

... The immensity of the land overwhelms. Only a few scruffs of trees and buildings distract the eye from its utter space. The land separates and dis connects, place from place, person from person. What links it all together seems so hopelessly overmatched. The broad winding rivers that brought in fur traders, the ruler-straight railway lines that brought settlers in and their grain out, the highways, the power lines, the TV antennae and TV dishes - such fragile threads to bind this far-flung land and its people. All serve to connect in some way, but these cannot create the bond. What ties us together must be a feeling that travels the waters and pavement and airwaves and steel: things we have in common, things we care about, things that help us make sense out of what we are. It is a hard-won feeling. So much about Canada sets us apart distance, topography, climate, language, European rivalries and cultures. The country can seem so contrary to destiny and good sense that at times we ask ourselves, "Why bother?" Canada has never worked seriously at developing the traditional instruments of community: the icons of nationhood - flag, constitution, monument - the myths, legendary figures, events and commemorative dates. Without such evidences of nation worship, without focal points for community expression, it can seem we lack a sense of nation. It can seem that what sets us apart is stronger than what holds us together. It can make our bonds seem frail. It can make us weak when we are not."