Photo by Samantha B
A long, long time ago in the middle of Montana, I played Junior hockey for a team called the Great Falls Americans in the now defunct America West Hockey League. I was eighteen years old, just a boy, and this is where I learned how to fight. The gap between an eighteen year old and a twenty year old was so vast and canyonesque during that eventful year out west, and so I learned to fight and compete against men. It was here in the middle of mountains that I found my courage, strength, and belief in myself as a person and as a hockey player. It was here where I became a man.
You run into many people during this lifetime, and you must embrace and cherish those who help or aid you along on your quest. Over the course of your quest, you will encounter certain people who exude positive energy which you are able to absorb, and this makes you a better person, through covalent bonds between atoms and humans. Maybe they make you look at yourself in a different light, and give you the ability to see the potential in yourself. Maybe they make you see the world from a different angle. Or more importantly, maybe they make you see your world from a different angle.
During my year in Montana, I encountered many influential people who led me on the path that I am on today, thirteen years later. Thirteen years later, and still playing this game and chasing my goals and dreams. I know that I was meant to cross paths with some of these people. Or at least, I know that I am very fortunate and lucky to have met them.
Number one on my list is Coach Rikard Gronborg, the Swedish Assassin; a conglomerate of brawn, toughness, intelligence, and sincerity. Looking back on it now, he was the perfect role model for me, and though I didn't quite know it at the time, he was the kind of man I wanted to be someday, and exactly the man I have become, and am still evolving toward.
It was the summer after my senior year of high school. I graduated, and now what? I didn't feel like I was quite ready to go to college. I knew I wanted to play Junior hockey, but at this point in my hockey career, I was so far off the radar that no spying drone or peering satellite could have possibly foreseen a Division 1 scholarship in my future, let alone a seven year professional career, and now standing on the cusp of my childhood dream to reach the top. And to be honest, I didn't see it at that time either. All I knew was that I wanted to play Junior hockey, and so I took the most logical step and went to my first Junior tryout with the Springfield Jr. Blues.
I tossed my hockey bag in the back of my dad's Ford Ranger and drove seven hours to meet my destiny in Springfield. The only advice that anyone gave me was from a local throwback, “if you want to get noticed, drop your gloves right away, and beat the piss out of someone.”
I had never been in a fight before, and I was scared to death.
I told myself I would do it, but for the most part, highly doubted that I would follow through with my plans. What did that guy know anyway?
During my year in Montana, I encountered many influential people who led me on the path that I am on today, thirteen years later. Thirteen years later, and still playing this game and chasing my goals and dreams. I know that I was meant to cross paths with some of these people. Or at least, I know that I am very fortunate and lucky to have met them.
Number one on my list is Coach Rikard Gronborg, the Swedish Assassin; a conglomerate of brawn, toughness, intelligence, and sincerity. Looking back on it now, he was the perfect role model for me, and though I didn't quite know it at the time, he was the kind of man I wanted to be someday, and exactly the man I have become, and am still evolving toward.
It was the summer after my senior year of high school. I graduated, and now what? I didn't feel like I was quite ready to go to college. I knew I wanted to play Junior hockey, but at this point in my hockey career, I was so far off the radar that no spying drone or peering satellite could have possibly foreseen a Division 1 scholarship in my future, let alone a seven year professional career, and now standing on the cusp of my childhood dream to reach the top. And to be honest, I didn't see it at that time either. All I knew was that I wanted to play Junior hockey, and so I took the most logical step and went to my first Junior tryout with the Springfield Jr. Blues.
I tossed my hockey bag in the back of my dad's Ford Ranger and drove seven hours to meet my destiny in Springfield. The only advice that anyone gave me was from a local throwback, “if you want to get noticed, drop your gloves right away, and beat the piss out of someone.”
I had never been in a fight before, and I was scared to death.
I told myself I would do it, but for the most part, highly doubted that I would follow through with my plans. What did that guy know anyway?
Photo by Samantha B
When I got to the Springfield rink, all of the veteran players were already there, and you could sense the bond and camaraderie among them. I felt like an outsider. An intruder. I felt small. But somewhere inside of me was a BIG belief that I could do it, and that I had something special that no one else had, and I just had to show that, I had to make people see that, and everything would be alright, and everything would fall into place. My destiny was there for the taking.
We jumped right into a scrimmage on the first day. I played then the same way I play now. Go as hard as you can. Hit them as hard as you can. Lay it on the line. Smash em.
And so that's what I did. I was flying around the rink like a screaming buffalo. In my first shift, as I forechecked one of the skilled veteran players, I ended up cross checking him and knocking him to the ice. I got the puck, lowered my shoulder, and took it to the net. The goalie poked the puck into the corner, and I gave chase. The veteran whose puck I stole chased me down into the corner and checked me from behind. I wasn't wearing a visor or cage, and my face hit the glass, cutting me above my eye.
I felt warm blood meandering down the boyish curves of my face, and that's when I felt another cross check to my back and heard those fateful words.
“Comon, let's go. You wanna go? Comon, fight me, you piece of shit.”
I felt fear and anticipation swell up in my veins. My whole body felt heavy. The puck had since started its way up the other direction on the rink and it was just me and this bearded veteran, alone in our own world, with scouts scanning, watchful eyes poking up over clipboards and roster lists.
I spun off of his check and started heading up ice, ignoring his request for a fight. I skated five strides and stopped. I remember this moment in all its defining qualities. This was that moment in my quest where I chose to face my fear. This is that moment where molecules and energy slowly started to shift and form around me, electrons buzzing with excitement and energy The hair was standing up on the back of my neck, a field of tiny antenna connecting to the universe and transmitting the signal that something big was about to happen.
I slowly let my gloves fall off my hands and cascade to the ice. I unbuckled my helmet, and tossed it aside. I turned around to face my destiny, and saw my adversary drop his own gloves and run his fingers through his wet, flowing hair, and put his dukes up. I could take this guy. He wasn't too big. He was their skilled guy. He was beatable.
It is at this point that I should introduce you to Goony McGinty. He was the resident tough guy and fighter for the team, and from the minute we arrived at the rink for the tryout, you knew who this guy was, and you always had him in your field of vision out of the corner of your eye. You heard mythic stories about how he beat up this guy and that guy, knocked out this guys teeth, and dropped that guy with one punch to the face. He was the goon. The man. The alpha. The fear.
As I turned and put my own fists up in front of my face, I thought about the tips my dad had given me over the years of how to defend myself, and the countless hours spent in the garage banging away rad-a-da-tat rad-a-da-tat on the speed bag.
I focused in on my opponent and started inching toward him.
Then there was a commotion to my left, gloves and sticks went flying everywhere, and I heard, “You're fighting me.” It was Goony McGinty. He pushed his teammate out of the way, and now I was standing there with my gloves off, and looking at two of the Springfield veteran players in front of me, both with their gloves off, but now my main concern was the fact that Goony McGinty and his giant pumpkin head was signaling with his hands for me to, “come and get it.”
Everything that happened next seemed to exist in fragments. It seemed like it wasn't even me there, as I grabbed the collar of Goony's jersey. Time slowed down as I watched his thick arms throw slow arcing punches toward my face. I blocked three of his punches, and cocked my right arm back and threw a punch as hard as I could. I threw a right-handed prayer out there. Someone must have heard it because it landed flush in the middle of his face, causing an explosion of blood that shot out of his nose.
And then the fight was over. And then I was the talk of the town. I had beat up the unbeatable. The coaches talked to me after the game and explained that they wanted to see me fight again in the next game. And so I did. I didn't fare as well as I did in the first fight, but I did what they asked.
After two days of scrimmages, we had individual meeting with the coaching staff to learn our fate. I wish that I could tell you that everything worked out perfectly, and that I made the team, and that everything fell into place, that the fairy tale started here.
But it didn't. Far from it. I didn't make the team. They said their roster was pretty much full, and that they already had Goony on the team from last year. They wished me luck and I was on my way back home, shamed and lost. I gathered up my strength and went to another tryout with another team a week later.
Cut. I didn't make it.
I went to five junior tryouts that summer after my senior year and I got cut from each one of them. After five weekends in a row, I didn't know if I could endure another failure. At every camp, I fought twice. I picked the biggest guy on the first day, and fought him to let the coaches know I meant business. But it wasn't working. I kept getting cut.
Just as I was on my last breathe, I found out about a tryout in Wisconsin for some league out in Montana. I didn't know much about it, but I figured I might as well keep trying. Though everything was giving me the sign that it was time for me to give up on my dream, I knew I never could. I knew I would never stop.
We jumped right into a scrimmage on the first day. I played then the same way I play now. Go as hard as you can. Hit them as hard as you can. Lay it on the line. Smash em.
And so that's what I did. I was flying around the rink like a screaming buffalo. In my first shift, as I forechecked one of the skilled veteran players, I ended up cross checking him and knocking him to the ice. I got the puck, lowered my shoulder, and took it to the net. The goalie poked the puck into the corner, and I gave chase. The veteran whose puck I stole chased me down into the corner and checked me from behind. I wasn't wearing a visor or cage, and my face hit the glass, cutting me above my eye.
I felt warm blood meandering down the boyish curves of my face, and that's when I felt another cross check to my back and heard those fateful words.
“Comon, let's go. You wanna go? Comon, fight me, you piece of shit.”
I felt fear and anticipation swell up in my veins. My whole body felt heavy. The puck had since started its way up the other direction on the rink and it was just me and this bearded veteran, alone in our own world, with scouts scanning, watchful eyes poking up over clipboards and roster lists.
I spun off of his check and started heading up ice, ignoring his request for a fight. I skated five strides and stopped. I remember this moment in all its defining qualities. This was that moment in my quest where I chose to face my fear. This is that moment where molecules and energy slowly started to shift and form around me, electrons buzzing with excitement and energy The hair was standing up on the back of my neck, a field of tiny antenna connecting to the universe and transmitting the signal that something big was about to happen.
I slowly let my gloves fall off my hands and cascade to the ice. I unbuckled my helmet, and tossed it aside. I turned around to face my destiny, and saw my adversary drop his own gloves and run his fingers through his wet, flowing hair, and put his dukes up. I could take this guy. He wasn't too big. He was their skilled guy. He was beatable.
It is at this point that I should introduce you to Goony McGinty. He was the resident tough guy and fighter for the team, and from the minute we arrived at the rink for the tryout, you knew who this guy was, and you always had him in your field of vision out of the corner of your eye. You heard mythic stories about how he beat up this guy and that guy, knocked out this guys teeth, and dropped that guy with one punch to the face. He was the goon. The man. The alpha. The fear.
As I turned and put my own fists up in front of my face, I thought about the tips my dad had given me over the years of how to defend myself, and the countless hours spent in the garage banging away rad-a-da-tat rad-a-da-tat on the speed bag.
I focused in on my opponent and started inching toward him.
Then there was a commotion to my left, gloves and sticks went flying everywhere, and I heard, “You're fighting me.” It was Goony McGinty. He pushed his teammate out of the way, and now I was standing there with my gloves off, and looking at two of the Springfield veteran players in front of me, both with their gloves off, but now my main concern was the fact that Goony McGinty and his giant pumpkin head was signaling with his hands for me to, “come and get it.”
Everything that happened next seemed to exist in fragments. It seemed like it wasn't even me there, as I grabbed the collar of Goony's jersey. Time slowed down as I watched his thick arms throw slow arcing punches toward my face. I blocked three of his punches, and cocked my right arm back and threw a punch as hard as I could. I threw a right-handed prayer out there. Someone must have heard it because it landed flush in the middle of his face, causing an explosion of blood that shot out of his nose.
And then the fight was over. And then I was the talk of the town. I had beat up the unbeatable. The coaches talked to me after the game and explained that they wanted to see me fight again in the next game. And so I did. I didn't fare as well as I did in the first fight, but I did what they asked.
After two days of scrimmages, we had individual meeting with the coaching staff to learn our fate. I wish that I could tell you that everything worked out perfectly, and that I made the team, and that everything fell into place, that the fairy tale started here.
But it didn't. Far from it. I didn't make the team. They said their roster was pretty much full, and that they already had Goony on the team from last year. They wished me luck and I was on my way back home, shamed and lost. I gathered up my strength and went to another tryout with another team a week later.
Cut. I didn't make it.
I went to five junior tryouts that summer after my senior year and I got cut from each one of them. After five weekends in a row, I didn't know if I could endure another failure. At every camp, I fought twice. I picked the biggest guy on the first day, and fought him to let the coaches know I meant business. But it wasn't working. I kept getting cut.
Just as I was on my last breathe, I found out about a tryout in Wisconsin for some league out in Montana. I didn't know much about it, but I figured I might as well keep trying. Though everything was giving me the sign that it was time for me to give up on my dream, I knew I never could. I knew I would never stop.
Photo by Samantha B
On the first day of training camp, on my first shift, the big tough-guy in camp challenged me, and we had an epic battle. I ended up winning the fight pretty violently, and it was a bloody affair. On my second shift, I streaked down the wing, made a nice move toward the net, and put the puck past the goalie. The first period ended, and as I skated off the ice toward the locker room, I saw the coach run down from the press box where the rest of the scouts and coaches were.
He intercepted me as I was walking toward the locker room and pulled me aside.
“Hi Bobby, do you want to be on my team?”
I shook my head yes. “Yes coach, I want to be on your team.”
More than he knew.
“Good.” He said. “Well, you are on it. You don't have to fight any more at training camp. Just play your game. You're a hell of a hockey player.”
He looked me in the eyes, and maybe he saw something special in me. He was a person I was supposed to meet on my quest. Over the course of the next season, I truly became a hockey player. I learned and grew and started to believe that I could play Division 1 hockey someday. The next season, Rikard helped me get signed to a USHL team, the top Junior league in America. That year officially started this whole adventure that I am on today. It was the fledgling steps of this journey.
I see Rikard Gronborg as some beacon of hope and inspiration and light to a kid who was lost and looking for some path in life. He helped shape me as a man and as a hockey player. And I am grateful to have crossed paths with him.
So, I just wanted to say, “Thanks Coach.”
Who has made an impact in your life? Share it with us in the comments below. Reach out to that person, and say thanks and let him or her know the impact they made on you. And even more importantly, let's each strive to become one of those people in someone else's life. Inspire, motivate, teach, and nurture. Pay it forward, and keep close observation about which people come into your life and who you cross paths with. That person could very well be a great beacon in your life. And you in theirs.
He intercepted me as I was walking toward the locker room and pulled me aside.
“Hi Bobby, do you want to be on my team?”
I shook my head yes. “Yes coach, I want to be on your team.”
More than he knew.
“Good.” He said. “Well, you are on it. You don't have to fight any more at training camp. Just play your game. You're a hell of a hockey player.”
He looked me in the eyes, and maybe he saw something special in me. He was a person I was supposed to meet on my quest. Over the course of the next season, I truly became a hockey player. I learned and grew and started to believe that I could play Division 1 hockey someday. The next season, Rikard helped me get signed to a USHL team, the top Junior league in America. That year officially started this whole adventure that I am on today. It was the fledgling steps of this journey.
I see Rikard Gronborg as some beacon of hope and inspiration and light to a kid who was lost and looking for some path in life. He helped shape me as a man and as a hockey player. And I am grateful to have crossed paths with him.
So, I just wanted to say, “Thanks Coach.”
Who has made an impact in your life? Share it with us in the comments below. Reach out to that person, and say thanks and let him or her know the impact they made on you. And even more importantly, let's each strive to become one of those people in someone else's life. Inspire, motivate, teach, and nurture. Pay it forward, and keep close observation about which people come into your life and who you cross paths with. That person could very well be a great beacon in your life. And you in theirs.
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