A Special Day
Ottawa Fury vs. Seacoast United
Copyright 2006 Stephen P. Spence
Two minutes into stoppage time, in a game we needed to win to secure second position and qualify for the prestigious North American Finals, it all started to move in slow motion. Frame by frame, like one of those excruciatingly slow instant replays that sportscasters use but viewers like me hate. You know the ones – the slow motion starts and then rewinds a bit and then slowly replays forward and back five or six more times progressing a little further each time until finally reaching its ultimate highlight. I hate those damn things!
Everything was moving along at normal speed. One of our strikers - Gavin Bush - takes the ball just to the right of the opponent’s penalty box. He dribbles around two players, draws in two more, and then dishes off to his striker-partner Brandon Tardioli, standing alone in front of an open goal. Just 10 yards to glory - a chance he would convert normally 99 times out of 100. But, for some reason, today is a special day.
Then it all slows down. Tardioli strikes the ball …..Tardioli strikes the ball a little off centre…..a little off centre and as all of us on the bench…… as all of us on the bench begin throwing our arms in the air …throwing our arms in the air to celebrate the win…. celebrate the win, the ball careens off the post…off the post….OFF THE POST…. and the opportunity is lost, seemingly forever.
For a second or two, of course I was devastated. But, the emotions that followed surprised me. I expected to be angry – angry at Brandon, angry at the world, angry at the referee (why not, I am the Coach). But, I wasn’t angry, not at all. As quickly as the immediate jolt of disappointment had struck me, it was immediately replaced with an unfamiliar warm combination of confidence and fate. The fact that our chance for glory had passed us by for some odd reason seem to matter little to me. It was going to work out. It was as if that was a defining moment that foretold a savory sweet taste of success that would come later.
Don’t get me wrong. I was afraid. I was afraid that our opponents would score on one of the two corners kicks we exasperatingly gave up following Brandon’s shot off the post. I was afraid that by not winning the game we had left an opening for another team to steal qualification away from us. Just maybe, I was even a little afraid of my own confidence, but in spite of these fears the warmness of fate never abated.
As the referee dutifully blew his whistle to signal the end of the 1-1 match, players from both teams collapsed at the point of their final step in total physical and emotional exhaustion. It had been a battle, and with each team believing it needed a win, both team's players were depleted and dejected.
Our opposition was the Maine-based soccer club, Seacoast United. The league is the youth component of the USA-based United Soccer Leagues (USL), a network of divisions that branches out across the US and parts of Canada called collectively the Super Y League or "SYL". It boasts a high-level of soccer that regularly delivers top notch players to US College and national teams. Our club is called the “Ottawa Fury” and is one of the first Canadian clubs to enter the SYL. Our team - the Fury’s under-16 boy’s squad, a team that has competed in the SYL for three years but has yet to qualify for the Finals.
Many of the boys now sat alone on the artificial grass, disconsolate with their heads buried in their hands or wedged between their knees. Other players tried to comfort those who were unable to console themselves, fearing that their one opportunity had passed them by. It had been the last game of a fourteen-game season.
We had trained hard all winter to kick the season off to a fast start, and with five straight wins, a fast-start we had. But then we had stumbled. First, we lost to Albany, the only other undefeated team in the league. It was a match we dominated for the first twenty minutes and the last twenty minutes but neglected the time between. Next, we traveled to Vermont to play a return match against a team we had earlier defeated 5-1. This time, for some inexplicable reason we played - in the parlance of old country footballers - like “shite” and lost 1-0. Unfortunately in our next game we again faced Albany who by now stood omnipotently in first place. It was a tight, hard fought battle of two respectful combatants, but our aerial weaknesses once again let us down and Albany scored a heart-breaking go-ahead goal from a corner kick in the last minute of the game.
After starting the season with five straight wins and all the confidence in the world, in the blink of an eye we had slid into a three-game losing streak and now faced the risk of a total collapse. With only six games left in the season, players confidence was now stuck in Purgatory – the state between cautious belief and total self-destruction. What was clear to all of us, but left mostly unspoken, was the sad reality that the next day's game would either launch us on a new campaign or drop us into oblivion.
As the boys started arriving for the next game, I sensed a malaise amongst them that I had not previously seen with this group. In spite of the three losses and the frustration of our high-spirited season slipping into something more gloomy, the boys should not be feeling like losers. Nor, would they be able perform with such a disposition. I know that I needed to do something, so just prior to the start of the game we sat the team down in the locker room and without preface or explanation, I began reciting the scores of our first five games.
At first confused, they soon understood:
“Ottawa 4 Cape Cod 0”
“Ottawa 2 Boston 1”
“Ottawa 5 Seacoast 0”
“Ottawa 5 Vermont 1”
“Ottawa 3 Rhode Island 1”
I stated each score slowly and loudly, and then for extra dramatic emphasis added: “Goals for – 19, Goals against – 3”.
After letting the numbers sink in and noticing a few heads nodding knowingly, I reminded the players that although we had lost three games in a row, it did not mean that all of a sudden they had become a bad team. They were still the same team that in the first five games were considered the class of the league. I stressed that of our three losses, only the Vermont game was a bad one. In anyone's book, seven good games out of eight was pretty damn good. I told them that as far as I was concerned they had every reason to be confident. Finally, I emphasized that they were still in control of their own destiny and if they kept winning they could still achieve their goal of going to the Finals.
We won that game 3-1 win. Truth be told, it wasn’t a great outing so I’m not convinced my pre-game talk had any effect whatsoever. Regardless, with only five games to play in the season, the win left us in third place in the table and within reach of the North American Finals.
The following weekend, lowly Cape Cod and second-place Boston came to town. Unfortunately, I had to miss the Saturday Cape-Cod game. My fourty-something single-all-her-life sister decided that it was time to tie the knot. Despite my earlier convincing that the summer was no time for a wedding since it was soccer season, she chose anyway to wed on the day of the Cape Cod game. The wedding and reception was to be held in Burlington, Ontario, a painfully dreary five-hour drive from Ottawa.
I had no choice but to go to the Wedding of the Century. Well, I did have a choice but I decided to do the right thing anyway. My plans were set. I’d go to the wedding, have a good time, party as late as possible, and get the family up early the next morning in spite of my mother’s protestations about me missing the momentous Family Brunch of the Century, and drive back to Ottawa in time for the noon kick off against Boston.
During the Wedding of the Century church service, I looked discretely and often at the Blackberry I held in my lap for the message I had ask team manager, Frank Cardinali, to send immediately following the game. Repeatedly bowing my head in search of e-mails, I must have looked like I was thanking God that he had finally granted my sister the happiness of marriage. It was not until we were at the golf club for the dreaded wedding pictures that I felt the welcomed vibration on my left hip. My heart beat a little faster as I noticed an e-mail from Frank. The message read simply: “Hi Steve. The boys had a good game. We won 2-0. Have a great day, see you tomorrow.”
I was elated. I told everyone at the wedding that the slide was over. Anyone who would listen learned that we now had two wins in a row and with just four games to play had a fighting chance to qualify. Tomorrow’s match against second-place Boston could well decide everything. The boys had done it. They had fought back into contention and given themselves the opportunity they wanted and so rightfully deserved. I wanted so badly to be with them at that moment but I couldn’t. The Wedding of the Century beckoned. My sister was not all too pleased that her wedding celebration had turned into a soccer celebration - at least at my table.
Early the next morning, I did the impossible. After arriving back at the hotel with the family at 1:30 in the morning, I had managed to get three females (my wife and two daughters) up and into the car by 7:00 am. A special day for sure.
Just over four hours later, I arrived at the park only 40 minutes prior to kick-off. The boys were already warming up and, as I talked to assistant coach Don Bouchard, I noticed that to a player they looked steely-eyed and focused. They knew what was on the line and were preparing themselves appropriately. With only 20 minutes to go before the pre-game ceremony, we again gathered the team in the locker room and I gave them my feeble pep-talk. Considering I had four hours to prepare it, I should have been done a much better job with it: “Today is the reason you ran along the canal in minus 30-degree temperatures on Sunday winter mornings," I said. "Today is why you ran the Cooper Test a couple of weeks back with a Humidex over 40 degrees.”
I told the players that today they should not to play for me, or for their parents or friends. Today, they needed to play for each other. Sharing the goal seemed to me a way to make the pressure a little less oppressive. Pressure from the inside can be dealt with easier then pressure from the outside. I kept the tactical messages simple. Focus on just two things – patiently maintain possession of the ball so Boston gets frustrated, and regain possession as quickly as we can by winning the aerials and putting constant pressure on the ball.
It was probably our best game of the season. We started by moving the ball around confidently which set Boston chasing. In the 22nd minute of the game Tardioli scored the games opening goal. And then shortly after the re-start we regained possession and, in less than a minute after our first goal, Bush knocked in our second. Rather than ease up as we had in some previous games, the boys kept up their masterdom for the duration of the match and the game ended as a 6-0 romp for Ottawa.
Our next match just three days later was a 4-2 win against New Hampshire, last year’s divisional champions. It was a game that due to the scorching heat and artifical turf looked at times like it was being played in slow motion. In spite of a 4-0 half-time lead, during the second-half New Hampshire delivered a resounding message to our team. Down a player and with no players available for substitution, they scored on us .... twice. An ugly win for sure but it left us in a position where we simply needed to win one of our final two games to capture qualification - a return match against pesky New Hampshire on the Saturday, and a second game against always-dangerous, Seacoast on the Sunday.
The game against New Hampshire did not go as planned. Although we scored first, our keeper Alex Fait was forced to take down an opposing player on a break away and was abruptly ejected from the game near the end of the first half. Our fortunes soon turned sharply downward and we gave up three quick goals in the second half. Will Magill scored a late goal to narrow the lead but when he was ejected for collecting his second yellow card and we were reduced to nine players a few minutes later, our chances were all but over. It had all come down to one game – defeat Seacoast and we qualify.
After the hand-shaking at the end of the Seacoast game and while the boys did their best to comfort each other and rationalize the result, I pulled out my notebook and together with Frank worked through the proverbial permutations and combinations. When I was sure we had it right, I called the boys over to the bench. Many did not feel like moving so rather than rush them, I walked the pitch, randomly moving from player to player. I didn’t say much. I never really know what to say in situations like this. “Good effort”. “You did well today”. "You smell terrible". To each player, I added, “come on over to the bench”.
Being uncharacteristicly patient, we slowly gathered all the players together at the bench. Once I had their attention, I outlined exactly what Frank and I had worked out.
First, Seacoast: “By picking up a single point today, we have just eliminated Seacoast from finishing above us. We have 28 points. Even if Seacoast wins each of their remaining three games they will end up with 28 points but because we have a win and a tie against them, we go through.” I saw a couple smiles and a few glances back and forth.
Now Boston. “We have also just eliminated Boston. If they win their remaining two games, they will end up with 28 points but since we beat them twice, we go through.” More smiles, more looks of self satisfaction, and more neck-turning.
I continued: “The only team that can catch us is New Hampshire. If they win every one of their six remaining games, they will finish one point ahead of us. But, if they faulter one little bit – even just a tie – we take second place and go to Forida”. It now all once again seemed possible. Players looked around and smiled - a few pats on backs, a couple hugs, and a few seconds later, even a laugh or two.
I looked at Brandon. My explanation didn’t seem to help him. He still hung his head, his eyes read and somber. I am sure he was now thinking – "It’s not for sure boys, it’s not for sure." I tried telling him that he had single-handedly won games for us this season but my words didn’t seem to have an effect. I understood. Missed opportunities like that are painful not because of what happened, but because of what could have happened. I felt powerless to help him feel better because as much I wanted to, I couldn't make what could have happened, happen.
On the 8-hour bus trip back, Frank and I realized that because of the late start to their season, New Hampshire was actually playing two games that same day against Vermont, one game in the morning and one in the afternoon. All we needed was a draw. Just get the game results and tell the boys. Today is a special day.
Because of some issues after our Saturday New Hampshire game, Frank quite rightfully did not not think that the New Hampshire team would appreciate a call of this sort from us. The details are a little sketchy so let's just move on. It took 6-7 hours of anguished waiting before we got any news. The whole time I could not shake the feeling that there was good news coming. Today is a special day. With less than an hour left before the bus was to arrive back in Ottawa and the boys dissolve into a richly deserved two-week break, Frank finally caught up with the Vermont coach by cell-phone. When he gave me the thumbs up, I knew we had done it.
I immediately grabbed the bus-driver's PA mike and announced as dispassionately as my racing heart would allow:
“May I have your attention, please. We have some out of town scores…..
(pause for effect) ... New Hampshire 1 ...
(pause for more effect)..... Vermont 1.”
The bus erupted in a roar that must have given our bus-driver Rick some difficulty maintaining his line on road. I hung up the mike and as I moved quickly to the back of the bus to offer my congratulations, I noticed through the darkness, a fulminating pile of players growing larger by the second as player after player piled on top of each other. Although they didn't get the chance to celebrate on the field as they should have, at least they had the opportunity to celebrate on the bus.
I offered my congratulations to each player and then moved back to the front of the bus to share the moment with Frank and my thoughts.... and make some phone calls. Brandon wasn't with us on the bus. He along with a few other players had stayed behind to join their families on a seaside camping vacation. But after Frank left a voice message for Brandon we were satisfied that once he got the news his bitter day would turn into a sweet one.
Our last weekend of the season - a weekend that saw us qualify a U16 team in the North American Finals for the first time in our clubs short history - did not unfold as I had envisioned. But as I settled peacefully back into my adopted front-seat of the bus and stared out the large window at the oncoming Ottawa night, the inescapable feeling of satisfaction, mixed with a little relief, was every bit as gratifying. Today is a special day.
Copyright 2006 Stephen P. Spence
Two minutes into stoppage time, in a game we needed to win to secure second position and qualify for the prestigious North American Finals, it all started to move in slow motion. Frame by frame, like one of those excruciatingly slow instant replays that sportscasters use but viewers like me hate. You know the ones – the slow motion starts and then rewinds a bit and then slowly replays forward and back five or six more times progressing a little further each time until finally reaching its ultimate highlight. I hate those damn things!
Everything was moving along at normal speed. One of our strikers - Gavin Bush - takes the ball just to the right of the opponent’s penalty box. He dribbles around two players, draws in two more, and then dishes off to his striker-partner Brandon Tardioli, standing alone in front of an open goal. Just 10 yards to glory - a chance he would convert normally 99 times out of 100. But, for some reason, today is a special day.
Then it all slows down. Tardioli strikes the ball …..Tardioli strikes the ball a little off centre…..a little off centre and as all of us on the bench…… as all of us on the bench begin throwing our arms in the air …throwing our arms in the air to celebrate the win…. celebrate the win, the ball careens off the post…off the post….OFF THE POST…. and the opportunity is lost, seemingly forever.
For a second or two, of course I was devastated. But, the emotions that followed surprised me. I expected to be angry – angry at Brandon, angry at the world, angry at the referee (why not, I am the Coach). But, I wasn’t angry, not at all. As quickly as the immediate jolt of disappointment had struck me, it was immediately replaced with an unfamiliar warm combination of confidence and fate. The fact that our chance for glory had passed us by for some odd reason seem to matter little to me. It was going to work out. It was as if that was a defining moment that foretold a savory sweet taste of success that would come later.
Don’t get me wrong. I was afraid. I was afraid that our opponents would score on one of the two corners kicks we exasperatingly gave up following Brandon’s shot off the post. I was afraid that by not winning the game we had left an opening for another team to steal qualification away from us. Just maybe, I was even a little afraid of my own confidence, but in spite of these fears the warmness of fate never abated.
As the referee dutifully blew his whistle to signal the end of the 1-1 match, players from both teams collapsed at the point of their final step in total physical and emotional exhaustion. It had been a battle, and with each team believing it needed a win, both team's players were depleted and dejected.
Our opposition was the Maine-based soccer club, Seacoast United. The league is the youth component of the USA-based United Soccer Leagues (USL), a network of divisions that branches out across the US and parts of Canada called collectively the Super Y League or "SYL". It boasts a high-level of soccer that regularly delivers top notch players to US College and national teams. Our club is called the “Ottawa Fury” and is one of the first Canadian clubs to enter the SYL. Our team - the Fury’s under-16 boy’s squad, a team that has competed in the SYL for three years but has yet to qualify for the Finals.
Many of the boys now sat alone on the artificial grass, disconsolate with their heads buried in their hands or wedged between their knees. Other players tried to comfort those who were unable to console themselves, fearing that their one opportunity had passed them by. It had been the last game of a fourteen-game season.
We had trained hard all winter to kick the season off to a fast start, and with five straight wins, a fast-start we had. But then we had stumbled. First, we lost to Albany, the only other undefeated team in the league. It was a match we dominated for the first twenty minutes and the last twenty minutes but neglected the time between. Next, we traveled to Vermont to play a return match against a team we had earlier defeated 5-1. This time, for some inexplicable reason we played - in the parlance of old country footballers - like “shite” and lost 1-0. Unfortunately in our next game we again faced Albany who by now stood omnipotently in first place. It was a tight, hard fought battle of two respectful combatants, but our aerial weaknesses once again let us down and Albany scored a heart-breaking go-ahead goal from a corner kick in the last minute of the game.
After starting the season with five straight wins and all the confidence in the world, in the blink of an eye we had slid into a three-game losing streak and now faced the risk of a total collapse. With only six games left in the season, players confidence was now stuck in Purgatory – the state between cautious belief and total self-destruction. What was clear to all of us, but left mostly unspoken, was the sad reality that the next day's game would either launch us on a new campaign or drop us into oblivion.
As the boys started arriving for the next game, I sensed a malaise amongst them that I had not previously seen with this group. In spite of the three losses and the frustration of our high-spirited season slipping into something more gloomy, the boys should not be feeling like losers. Nor, would they be able perform with such a disposition. I know that I needed to do something, so just prior to the start of the game we sat the team down in the locker room and without preface or explanation, I began reciting the scores of our first five games.
At first confused, they soon understood:
“Ottawa 4 Cape Cod 0”
“Ottawa 2 Boston 1”
“Ottawa 5 Seacoast 0”
“Ottawa 5 Vermont 1”
“Ottawa 3 Rhode Island 1”
I stated each score slowly and loudly, and then for extra dramatic emphasis added: “Goals for – 19, Goals against – 3”.
After letting the numbers sink in and noticing a few heads nodding knowingly, I reminded the players that although we had lost three games in a row, it did not mean that all of a sudden they had become a bad team. They were still the same team that in the first five games were considered the class of the league. I stressed that of our three losses, only the Vermont game was a bad one. In anyone's book, seven good games out of eight was pretty damn good. I told them that as far as I was concerned they had every reason to be confident. Finally, I emphasized that they were still in control of their own destiny and if they kept winning they could still achieve their goal of going to the Finals.
We won that game 3-1 win. Truth be told, it wasn’t a great outing so I’m not convinced my pre-game talk had any effect whatsoever. Regardless, with only five games to play in the season, the win left us in third place in the table and within reach of the North American Finals.
The following weekend, lowly Cape Cod and second-place Boston came to town. Unfortunately, I had to miss the Saturday Cape-Cod game. My fourty-something single-all-her-life sister decided that it was time to tie the knot. Despite my earlier convincing that the summer was no time for a wedding since it was soccer season, she chose anyway to wed on the day of the Cape Cod game. The wedding and reception was to be held in Burlington, Ontario, a painfully dreary five-hour drive from Ottawa.
I had no choice but to go to the Wedding of the Century. Well, I did have a choice but I decided to do the right thing anyway. My plans were set. I’d go to the wedding, have a good time, party as late as possible, and get the family up early the next morning in spite of my mother’s protestations about me missing the momentous Family Brunch of the Century, and drive back to Ottawa in time for the noon kick off against Boston.
During the Wedding of the Century church service, I looked discretely and often at the Blackberry I held in my lap for the message I had ask team manager, Frank Cardinali, to send immediately following the game. Repeatedly bowing my head in search of e-mails, I must have looked like I was thanking God that he had finally granted my sister the happiness of marriage. It was not until we were at the golf club for the dreaded wedding pictures that I felt the welcomed vibration on my left hip. My heart beat a little faster as I noticed an e-mail from Frank. The message read simply: “Hi Steve. The boys had a good game. We won 2-0. Have a great day, see you tomorrow.”
I was elated. I told everyone at the wedding that the slide was over. Anyone who would listen learned that we now had two wins in a row and with just four games to play had a fighting chance to qualify. Tomorrow’s match against second-place Boston could well decide everything. The boys had done it. They had fought back into contention and given themselves the opportunity they wanted and so rightfully deserved. I wanted so badly to be with them at that moment but I couldn’t. The Wedding of the Century beckoned. My sister was not all too pleased that her wedding celebration had turned into a soccer celebration - at least at my table.
Early the next morning, I did the impossible. After arriving back at the hotel with the family at 1:30 in the morning, I had managed to get three females (my wife and two daughters) up and into the car by 7:00 am. A special day for sure.
Just over four hours later, I arrived at the park only 40 minutes prior to kick-off. The boys were already warming up and, as I talked to assistant coach Don Bouchard, I noticed that to a player they looked steely-eyed and focused. They knew what was on the line and were preparing themselves appropriately. With only 20 minutes to go before the pre-game ceremony, we again gathered the team in the locker room and I gave them my feeble pep-talk. Considering I had four hours to prepare it, I should have been done a much better job with it: “Today is the reason you ran along the canal in minus 30-degree temperatures on Sunday winter mornings," I said. "Today is why you ran the Cooper Test a couple of weeks back with a Humidex over 40 degrees.”
I told the players that today they should not to play for me, or for their parents or friends. Today, they needed to play for each other. Sharing the goal seemed to me a way to make the pressure a little less oppressive. Pressure from the inside can be dealt with easier then pressure from the outside. I kept the tactical messages simple. Focus on just two things – patiently maintain possession of the ball so Boston gets frustrated, and regain possession as quickly as we can by winning the aerials and putting constant pressure on the ball.
It was probably our best game of the season. We started by moving the ball around confidently which set Boston chasing. In the 22nd minute of the game Tardioli scored the games opening goal. And then shortly after the re-start we regained possession and, in less than a minute after our first goal, Bush knocked in our second. Rather than ease up as we had in some previous games, the boys kept up their masterdom for the duration of the match and the game ended as a 6-0 romp for Ottawa.
Our next match just three days later was a 4-2 win against New Hampshire, last year’s divisional champions. It was a game that due to the scorching heat and artifical turf looked at times like it was being played in slow motion. In spite of a 4-0 half-time lead, during the second-half New Hampshire delivered a resounding message to our team. Down a player and with no players available for substitution, they scored on us .... twice. An ugly win for sure but it left us in a position where we simply needed to win one of our final two games to capture qualification - a return match against pesky New Hampshire on the Saturday, and a second game against always-dangerous, Seacoast on the Sunday.
The game against New Hampshire did not go as planned. Although we scored first, our keeper Alex Fait was forced to take down an opposing player on a break away and was abruptly ejected from the game near the end of the first half. Our fortunes soon turned sharply downward and we gave up three quick goals in the second half. Will Magill scored a late goal to narrow the lead but when he was ejected for collecting his second yellow card and we were reduced to nine players a few minutes later, our chances were all but over. It had all come down to one game – defeat Seacoast and we qualify.
After the hand-shaking at the end of the Seacoast game and while the boys did their best to comfort each other and rationalize the result, I pulled out my notebook and together with Frank worked through the proverbial permutations and combinations. When I was sure we had it right, I called the boys over to the bench. Many did not feel like moving so rather than rush them, I walked the pitch, randomly moving from player to player. I didn’t say much. I never really know what to say in situations like this. “Good effort”. “You did well today”. "You smell terrible". To each player, I added, “come on over to the bench”.
Being uncharacteristicly patient, we slowly gathered all the players together at the bench. Once I had their attention, I outlined exactly what Frank and I had worked out.
First, Seacoast: “By picking up a single point today, we have just eliminated Seacoast from finishing above us. We have 28 points. Even if Seacoast wins each of their remaining three games they will end up with 28 points but because we have a win and a tie against them, we go through.” I saw a couple smiles and a few glances back and forth.
Now Boston. “We have also just eliminated Boston. If they win their remaining two games, they will end up with 28 points but since we beat them twice, we go through.” More smiles, more looks of self satisfaction, and more neck-turning.
I continued: “The only team that can catch us is New Hampshire. If they win every one of their six remaining games, they will finish one point ahead of us. But, if they faulter one little bit – even just a tie – we take second place and go to Forida”. It now all once again seemed possible. Players looked around and smiled - a few pats on backs, a couple hugs, and a few seconds later, even a laugh or two.
I looked at Brandon. My explanation didn’t seem to help him. He still hung his head, his eyes read and somber. I am sure he was now thinking – "It’s not for sure boys, it’s not for sure." I tried telling him that he had single-handedly won games for us this season but my words didn’t seem to have an effect. I understood. Missed opportunities like that are painful not because of what happened, but because of what could have happened. I felt powerless to help him feel better because as much I wanted to, I couldn't make what could have happened, happen.
On the 8-hour bus trip back, Frank and I realized that because of the late start to their season, New Hampshire was actually playing two games that same day against Vermont, one game in the morning and one in the afternoon. All we needed was a draw. Just get the game results and tell the boys. Today is a special day.
Because of some issues after our Saturday New Hampshire game, Frank quite rightfully did not not think that the New Hampshire team would appreciate a call of this sort from us. The details are a little sketchy so let's just move on. It took 6-7 hours of anguished waiting before we got any news. The whole time I could not shake the feeling that there was good news coming. Today is a special day. With less than an hour left before the bus was to arrive back in Ottawa and the boys dissolve into a richly deserved two-week break, Frank finally caught up with the Vermont coach by cell-phone. When he gave me the thumbs up, I knew we had done it.
I immediately grabbed the bus-driver's PA mike and announced as dispassionately as my racing heart would allow:
“May I have your attention, please. We have some out of town scores…..
(pause for effect) ... New Hampshire 1 ...
(pause for more effect)..... Vermont 1.”
The bus erupted in a roar that must have given our bus-driver Rick some difficulty maintaining his line on road. I hung up the mike and as I moved quickly to the back of the bus to offer my congratulations, I noticed through the darkness, a fulminating pile of players growing larger by the second as player after player piled on top of each other. Although they didn't get the chance to celebrate on the field as they should have, at least they had the opportunity to celebrate on the bus.
I offered my congratulations to each player and then moved back to the front of the bus to share the moment with Frank and my thoughts.... and make some phone calls. Brandon wasn't with us on the bus. He along with a few other players had stayed behind to join their families on a seaside camping vacation. But after Frank left a voice message for Brandon we were satisfied that once he got the news his bitter day would turn into a sweet one.
Our last weekend of the season - a weekend that saw us qualify a U16 team in the North American Finals for the first time in our clubs short history - did not unfold as I had envisioned. But as I settled peacefully back into my adopted front-seat of the bus and stared out the large window at the oncoming Ottawa night, the inescapable feeling of satisfaction, mixed with a little relief, was every bit as gratifying. Today is a special day.
posted by Stephen Spence at
8:11 AM
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