junior hockey

The Eve of Controlled Chaos

Friday was an errand day—well, at least the morning was. With the hockey boys arriving this weekend, I had to finish up the grocery shopping. Earlier in the morning, Judy and I had discussed what the menu might look like for the first week. After that, we would have time to pick their brains and figure out what foods we could slide into the rotation without causing anyone to thumb their nose too high.

Our returning boy told us, “I like to eat everything.” So naturally, the first night he was here last season, we made a tomato pasta dish. (The things he liked was hence modified to be “everything except tomatoes.”) Our two Alaska brothers have already informed us that they dislike tomatoes and onions, and one of them dislikes peppers. The next few meals should help us get into the finer points of these dislikes. Is it the size? How they’re cooked? Or is it the flavor? Apparently, we are not simply cooking dinner. We are conducting a culinary research project.

The first night this year is tacos. Our carnitas have a few jalapeños beaten into a pulp, so we’ll get to test where the pepper line is. If the problem is flavor, they can fall back on brisket tacos. There is always a backup plan when you are responsible for feeding three teenage hockey players. It just happens to involve another kind of meat.

With my daughter within a month of her C-section—we are all rooting for the natural birth—I picked her and my granddaughter up so she could get out of the house and run some errands. It never hurts to have another adult available when a toddler decides to spontaneously melt down. This particular outing also resulted in one of my rare visits to Hobby Lobby.

I don’t shop at Hobby Lobby. Judy will buy craft items there, and on this day my daughter was shopping for birthday gifts for a church friend’s daughter. My granddaughter had her own opinions about what should be purchased, naturally. My daughter worked within her $25 budget and found a couple of things that seemed like they would actually feel like “her.” Ruth, my granddaughter’s code name for purposes of this blog, allowed Grandpa to push the cart while Mom did the math and performed increasingly sophisticated guesstimations about each gift’s position on the enjoyment spectrum.

As we checked out, we passed the inevitable temptation along the checkout aisle: Horehound lozenges. My daughter didn’t seem particularly excited to see them. I did. Not because I wanted any, but because they reminded me of my dad and the stash of horehound he kept tucked away in the kitchen cabinets of the house where I grew up.

Apparently, even a trip to Hobby Lobby can turn into a brief visit with your past.

The trip to Sam’s was more of a refrigerator “topping off” than a major shopping expedition. We’ll see which boys are still in our house next weekend. They started with 51, and we are told they will cut that number to 34 next weekend. Three of those 51 are staying with us, and there is also a boy trying out who happens to be the brother of a hockey player we had when we lived in Texas.

He is a goalie, so we are hopeful he makes the team. If he does, the billet coordinator has already promised that he will be “ours.” We really enjoyed his family when his older brother was ours. Most billet parents are fine. His parents were exceptional. When they came down for one of their son’s games, they were great fans and made it obvious how much they appreciated what we were doing.

That is part of the answer when people ask why we let young men stay with us when we could just eat out every night and avoid the whole cooking-and-parenting-adjacent experience.

First, we would cook anyway. We just throw a few more pieces of chicken on the grill. Second, most of the boys are genuinely appreciative. Yes, we’ve had a few entitled players enter our home. We tolerated them. And, regardless of whatever antics a kid might attempt, having parents we really liked tended to raise our tolerance level considerably.

There is a little chaos involved, but the boys also bring something we probably wouldn’t get otherwise. They are chasing a dream. Watching them work toward it gives us a reminder of what it looks like when something matters enough to work for. And when that dream takes a detour, we get a chance to help them figure out how to handle it.

The only truly “new” thing on this set of errands was voting early in a runoff primary. There were a series of tables I had to graduate through before I could finally get my ballot. At the first table, I signed an affidavit saying I wouldn’t vote again at another location during the remainder of the voting period. At the next table, I presented my driver’s license again, along with the affidavit. I believe they attached a label to it before sending me on to get my ballot.

At the previous table, I heard someone mention that about 120 people had voted. My ballot number was R103. I’m not entirely sure what the numbering system meant, but it made me wonder if the Republican ballots were winning the early-voting popularity contest. Then I remembered there apparently weren’t any Democratic runoffs, so that probably wasn’t much of a contest. The rules of the runoff simply meant the people participating were concentrated on one side.

There were only two state issues on the ballot, so I filled in the little rectangular boxes the old-fashioned way. No electronic ballot for me. I was told the ballot could be scanned with either side up. In my case, the scanner apparently preferred that I maintain my privacy and scan it face down.

I usually don’t take the “I Voted” sticker, but I thought it might entertain my granddaughter, who was already fighting a cranky mood brought on by incoming teeth or whatever other battle toddlers wage in their ongoing effort to preserve a good mood.

It did not entertain her at all.

Aldi’s was our final stop. We needed a few taco supplies—vegetable toppings for those who eat them and plenty of cheese because meat and tortillas need cheese to graduate to official taco status in all parts of the country. Tomatoes are optional.

By the time the errands were finished, I realized the day had been more than a grocery run and a few stops around town. It was the eve of another transition for our family. The boys arrive Saturday, and with them comes an eight-ish-month commitment.

We “get” to be parents again, but with some significant upgrades. They are mostly self-sufficient, although we may need to help with transportation from time to time. And if they screw up, we don’t have to blame ourselves for whatever parenting mistake supposedly caused it. We can help them navigate the challenge without taking their indiscretions personally.

If they have a great year and grow into better players and better young men, we get to watch that happen, too. Their parents deserve the largest share of the credit, without question. Our job is mostly to provide a home, feed them, encourage them, and occasionally nudge them back toward the idea that their priority right now is supposed to be hockey.

And if I ever need a reminder of just how good I can be at the nudging part, I can always ask my wife.

Yes, dear. You’re welcome.

A Plod Instead of a Skip

The “funk” happens 6 to 8 times a year. The variables change, but the result is usually the same. I do more of a plod than a skip.

I still get the “must get dones” done. The “nice to get dones” wait their turn.

I can fake upbeat for a while if the kids are around. I don’t bother faking it for my wife. She knows me too well, and pretending to be cheerful when I’m not is a lot of unnecessary work.

A bad funk also dulls my humor and makes my brain feel like it’s swimming uphill through molasses. I can still function. Everything just takes more effort than it should.

Naturally, I decided the best way to handle this was to analyze all the reasons I might be in a funk. Because nothing lifts your mood like conducting an internal investigation into your own bad mood.

One contributor is my current battle with the Dungeon Crawler Carl series. I like my fantasy to have a predictable magic system. Once I understand the rules, I expect the author to follow them.

For the first four books, my son’s enthusiasm kept me going. By about 25% into Book 5, I had to admit his positive review had carried me farther than my own enjoyment.

I probably could have quit sooner, but I let optimism run high. The premise was clear after book one, and each book since has been a little more of a struggle. Vacation was good for the series, since I could read 10% or more in a day. Now the daily trickle isn’t enough to move the story forward fast enough to keep me engaged.

So I have two problems: frustration with the book, and frustration with finding something else to read. I considered starting something new, but talked myself out of it. “Andy, you don’t want to learn a new world’s rules right now. You want something you already understand.”

Well, it wasn’t the best decision.

Now I may have to wander between a couple of books before I find one that fits, with a plot simple enough that I’m not spending three chapters remembering who everyone is. First-world problem? Absolutely. Apparently the funk has standards.

Another contributor: I gave blood the other day. The blood center’s follow-up email announced, “You have a new badge.” Naturally I had to check.

Instead, I found out about the badge I didn’t get.

But I also found something that made me smile. Between double-red donations in Ohio and Texas, I’ve never had an accurate lifetime total. After moving to Oklahoma, I started giving through the Oklahoma Blood Institute instead. I logged into my old Carter BloodCare account this week and found out I’d donated more than seven gallons there alone.

That’s a lot of me being voluntarily drained and sent home with a cookie.

One of my Facebook friends is past 20 gallons. I have no idea what my Ohio total adds up to, so my real number could be higher than I think. Just finding the seven-gallon figure moved my funk down a few percentage points. Apparently even my blood donation history is conspiring against my bad mood.

Then there’s the cold.

A cold makes my brain run slow whether I’m in a funk or not. Add in the lack of sleep, and the result isn’t exactly peak performance. I can plow through what needs doing, but the list has to shrink to keep the frustration manageable.

And then there’s chess.

My son and son-in-law both play at Chess.com. I’ve taken the Duolingo approach: too shy for real people, so I play the AI. I generally hover around 800-900 ELO.

Every time I get close to 900, hope creeps in. Maybe I’m getting better. Maybe I’m finally figuring this out.

Then the AI decides it’s had enough of my nonsense. Does it call me a loser? Of course not. It just does some voodoo with its queen and cleans my clock in under a dozen moves. Once it’s beaten me back down to 800, it puts its “idiot hat” back on and lets me win a few with my low-end strategy.

I don’t have the commitment to go deep into chess. I just want to keep my brain active. Unfortunately, the “you are horrible, maybe you’re not horrible” cycle accounts for a surprisingly large share of my funk.

This is clearly another first-world problem.

Then the hockey boys started arriving Saturday. The last arrived Sunday afternoon.

Thirty-four boys made it through the July camp that picked the roster pool. Now they’re competing against each other and against 17 more boys for a final spot. Fifty-one boys chasing a limited number of spots is a good way to wreck a teenager’s sleep schedule.

The late arrivals were probably off the coach’s radar for one reason or another. But what if they deserve a spot too? I’d hate for one of our boys to get cut because a late-comer showed up and pushed him off the roster.

The older I get, the softer I get. If the boys are in my house, I’m cheering for them. Next Friday night, when the cuts happen, our house could lose one of three beds. I feel for them, living with that uncertainty.

As my wife put it: “They are young. They can handle it.”

She’s probably right. I’m glad I’m not still young, though. I wouldn’t want my life’s direction hanging on something my older brain knows won’t matter in five years. Getting cut from a hockey team isn’t going to determine the rest of anyone’s life.

That doesn’t mean I won’t hate seeing any of our boys go.

Somewhere in the middle of writing all this, something strange happened. My mood improved.

Maybe it was the seven gallons of blood. Maybe it was laughing at my own chess career. Maybe it was admitting how invested I am in a house full of teenage hockey players. Or maybe it was just getting all of this out of my head and onto a page.

Whatever it was, the funk started losing its grip.

That might be the real lesson here. You can’t be satisfied with every part of your life every day. Some days are just plod days. The book frustrates you, the chess computer questions your intelligence, the cold fogs your brain, and teenagers remind you that life can turn on someone else’s decision.

But there are good things happening around us too. Sometimes it just helps to stop and notice them.

So I’m going to address the envelope, put the funk inside, and send it back to the return address.

Unfortunately, I know who lives there. Eventually it’ll find its way back to me. It usually does.

But for now, the shift has begun, and I’m going to enjoy it. Besides, I’ve got a book to quit reading and an AI chess player to lose to.

The Trade-Off

Last night, our final hockey boy took me, my son, and his fiancée out to dinner. Judy was off on her own adventure, which meant I was the oldest person at the table by a comfortable margin and absolutely fine with that arrangement.

He picked Meddy’s, a Mediterranean place we’d been watching open up for weeks without ever actually going. Hockey schedules. Baby logistics. The couch. You know how it goes. But when the offer came, Meddy’s was the unanimous answer, and within about ten minutes of eating, we were all quietly annoyed at ourselves for waiting. Our first visit the previous week demanded this encore.

I got the lamb. Not something I’ve historically sought out, but this version — seasoned vegetables, crispy potatoes, a cilantro salad that overperformed — made a strong case. The only problem was the banana bread I’d eaten around four o’clock, back when dinner was still scheduled for 6:30. By the time we actually sat down, my stomach had already filed its paperwork. I did what I could and left the rest in a to-go box, fully intending to eat it for lunch the next day.

That was the plan, anyway.

The next morning, my son — one month out from his wedding, freshly relocated from his apartment — was heading to work. The coffee hadn’t quite landed yet. I looked at the fridge and, without a single moment of reflection, said: “You want my leftovers from last night?”

I expected a polite no. What I got was “Well, if you’re sure!” delivered with genuine enthusiasm, and honestly, what was I going to do — take it back? The box was gone. My lunch was gone. I stood there with the refrigerator open, staring at my backup options, which were not the same.

To his credit, he’d already eaten the same lamb dish as me at the restaurant the night before, plus half of whatever the hockey boy ordered — some salmon situation that sounded improbable and apparently tasted great. My son can eat! My leftovers went to an appreciative home, which is about the best consolation available when you’ve done something entirely to yourself.

But that wasn’t the part of the night I kept thinking about.

As we were wrapping up, the hockey boy asked to get out of the booth. He slipped away for a minute, came back, and handed me a gift card. “Since Judy couldn’t be here, I wanted to make sure she doesn’t miss out. Make sure you bring her back once she gets home.”

I’ve said before that teenagers aren’t always known for this kind of thing, and the hockey boys who’ve come through our house have been good kids — but “emotionally intuitive” isn’t usually the headline. This one is different. He’s not perfect, but he notices things, and he acts on what he notices, and that’s rarer than it sounds.

Our other boy aged out this season, so he’s done and onto college near his home in Wisconsin. This one, if he can get through the injury-trade-coach lottery that determines everything in junior hockey, we’re hoping comes back. We’d take him again without a second thought.

So yes — I gave away a perfectly good lunch for no reason. But I also watched a teenager think of my wife before I did.

Some trades are worth it.

The Morning Scrimmage: Why Every Marriage Needs a “Billeted” Punching Bag

My wife and I have been married for nearly 35 years, and I’ve learned one absolute truth: Marriage isn’t just about love; it’s about managing the “chirps.”

I am a natural-born chirper. If I have a witty observation or a mild grievance, it bounces around my skull like a puck rattling around a dryer drum until it finds an exit. My wife, however, is a “slow-thaw” morning person. She is not a fan of dialogue—and certainly not banter—until she’s well into her second cup of coffee.

For the sake of our domestic harmony, I have to get those chirps out of my system without bumping into her morning rhythm. Fortunately, we have “The Boys.”

The Peanut Butter Defense

Currently, our kitchen is populated by billeted hockey players. They are the perfect targets. They provide the friction I need to reach my “optimum flow” without waking the dragon — my wife, who is lovely precisely because she hasn’t spoken yet.

Take, for instance, the “Bagel Bandit.” This kid has a specific talent for “nutty perfection.” He’ll smear peanut butter on a bagel and then, as a final flourish, leave a thick glob on the knife before dropping it in the sink. Within minutes, that peanut butter undergoes a chemical bonding process that makes it “dishwasher-proof.”

On a morning when my wife is still on her first cup, I’ll drop a line on the Bandit:

  • “The dishwasher is a machine, son, not a miracle worker. Clean the blade.”
  • “If you lick that knife clean, the dishwasher will thank you for your service.”

The “Agile” boys—the ones with a high hockey IQ—will fire back. The “Slow-Mo” rookies just nod and say, “Okay, next time,” while they internally calculate how many minutes until practice.

The Buffer Zone

There is a method to my madness. My wife knows I like to banter, and as long as I don’t go too hard on the kids, she lets me run my plays. In fact, she’s grateful. By the time she’s ready for conversation, I’ve already burned off my sass on a 19-year-old defenseman.

The boys are the grease that keeps the marriage rolling through the years. When my wife is an “obstacle” to my flow—meaning she just wants to eat her toast in peace—the hockey boys step in to cover the difference.

The Sentiment in the Sarcasm

I’ll admit, the sentimental side of this gets hidden under the layers of trash talk. But it’s there. My wife gets the lion’s share of my heart, and whatever is left over goes to these boys who have become part of our daily chaos.

We had a visitor the other day who mentioned he does the dishes for his billet mom because she’s been ill. I looked at my most “agile” resident and asked if he’d ever consider such a noble act.

He didn’t miss a beat: “Well, if you were gravely ill, I might consider it. But since you’re healthy, I guess I’ll just keep letting you sharpen your wit on my dish-loading skills.”

After he made his comment, we exchanged a glance. We both knew the chirping wasn’t entirely one-sided.

The Long Game

How long will we keep these “billeted victims (their term, not mine)”  around? Only until the grandchildren are old enough to hold their own in a verbal sparring match. I need a house full of relatives with finely honed wits to keep me humble.

Until then, I’ll keep chirping at the boys. It keeps my mind sharp, the sink (mostly) clear, and my 35-year marriage exactly where it needs to be: in a state of graceful, quiet, peanut-butter-free peace.

The Accidental Friday Tradition

The Hockey Boy Breakfast started innocently.

When we were billets (We billet the hockey boys, and we call them “our billets.” They might call us billet parents. Everyone is flexible with the words.) for the Lone Star Brahmas in North Richland Hills, we had four boys staying with us for the season. Feeding four teenage hockey players breakfast on a Friday morning seemed reasonable. Noble, even.

Somewhere between “Sure, you guys can come over” and “Why are there 11 giants in my kitchen?” the ranks swelled.

By mid-season, 8–12 boys would drift in every Friday after their morning skate before a home game. They didn’t knock so much as appear, all six-foot-three in team-issued hoodies with some smaller guys with equal appetites.

And just like that, it became a tradition.

The Menu (We Don’t Cut Corners)

The core lineup has never changed: bacon, pancakes, eggs, and orange juice.

This is not a minimalist operation.

When egg prices briefly required a small business loan, we did not flinch. We accepted a few donations from parents, yes — but corners were not cut. If anything, we leaned in harder.

Time crunch? French toast casserole goes in the oven.

Waffles? Tried it. The logistical gymnastics required to produce enough waffles for a hockey roster was not worth the microscopic increase in joy. Teenage boys are equal-opportunity syrup consumers. Soft pancake, crispy waffle — their gratitude level remains statistically identical.

Whipped cream in a can? Available. Hot sauce for eggs? Upon request.

We are not amateurs.

Stovetop Combat

In the early days, bacon was war.

Two pans on the stove. Sometimes, three if sausage joined the party. Six pounds of bacon. Occasionally more. Cook time: 1.5+ hours with constant monitoring.

The boys would consume nearly all of it with the detached appreciation of men who have never purchased groceries.

What they did not see was the slow accumulation of bacon grease. When you don’t drain it after every batch — because you’re in a hurry and slightly overconfident — it builds. It speeds cooking. It also splatters like it holds a personal grudge against your forearms.

There were casualties. Mostly mine.

The Upgrade

Now that we’re billeting in OKC, I’ve made two major adjustments.

First: thickness. We have graduated from budget grocery bacon to Sam’s Club extra-thick, this-is-a-commitment bacon. We have standards.

Second: the oven.

Two cookie sheets. Parchment paper. 400 degrees. Allegedly 20 minutes. (This is optimistic with thick bacon. I am just quoting my search results.)

Is the timing perfect? No. Is it more predictable than grease artillery fire? Yes. Do the boys care how I cook the bacon? No. Do the boys care how thick the bacon is? They would eat bacon steaks if I could cook them!

All they care about is the smell and the fatty flavor of the thick bacon.

When they walk in after morning skate and the entire house smells like bacon, their mood shifts instantly. You can see it. Hockey intensity melts into something softer. They sit around the table, start loading up, and become calorie-intake machines.

That smell is the real welcome sign.

Why We Keep Doing It

Does it cost time? Yes. Does it cost money? Also yes.

If efficiency were the goal, this tradition would have died in week three.

We do it because these are our billet boys.

Sure, I like to imagine one of them occasionally thinking, “Wow, we’ve got great billet parents.” That might happen.

But let’s be honest. The more likely recruiting pitch is: “Hey guys, my billet parents make this killer thick bacon on Fridays. You should come over.”

And that’s fine with me.

When you feed 10–12 teenage hockey players carbs and protein in your kitchen, something happens. You learn names, personalities, and which one of them will absolutely forget to load their fork in the dishwasher.

And that night at the rink, it changes how you watch.

“Hey, dear — that guy was at our breakfast this morning.”

Suddenly, it’s not just a roster. It’s our boys.

The Warmups (And the Leftovers)

Sometimes there’s an afternoon encore.

When our granddaughter gets dropped off on Friday, pancakes mysteriously appear on her high chair tray. My son-in-law leaves with a plate of protein and carbs because he knows better than to refuse free bacon.

And if there’s an especially heroic amount left over? It gets chopped up for pizza night. Chicken BBQ and meat lovers, no bacon left behind.

What Sticks

Long after the season ends, I have a feeling the boys won’t remember the exact score of some random Friday night home game.

But they might remember the smell of thick-cut bacon when they walked in the door.

And that’s worth every splatter.