I nodded as I read.
I had to get to the arena early this morning because I had a meeting with Coach before our practice today, so I finished the article and shut down my computer. Before I left, I headed to the kitchen to take a couple of Advil. Last year I’d injured my hand in a freakish incident. I’d fallen behind the net, and my arm was on the bottom bar of the goal net when someone fell on top of it. I broke my thumb—which sucked but wasn’t that bad, I didn’t even have to miss any games—and it healed up…but my wrist still bothered me from time to time.
I put the empty glass into the dishwasher and picked up the sponge sitting beside the sink to wipe the counter so it was spotless before I left. In my life, I’ve been called a neat freak a time or two hundred. I like things clean and orderly, both when it comes to my hockey gear and in my home. Also, the one time I went to a game without cleaning up my kitchen, we lost, so…
The day was overcast and gray, with the clouds spitting out a few icy snowflakes, so I wrapped a scarf around my neck and grabbed my gloves. I liked Chicago, and I wasn’t a wuss when it came to cold—I grew up in Northern Ontario, Canada, and I knew cold. It was nice when we got those road trips to Florida and California though.
I wasn’t really looking forward to this meeting. I was disappointed in my own play so far this season, and I knew the team was too. I was prepared for Coach to yell at me. Brad Wendell was a pretty even-tempered guy, but he did have his moments of intensity, and I liked that. If your coach wasn’t passionate about the game, how were you gonna be?
“Close the door,” Coach said as I walked in.
I slid the glass door closed, grateful for the white-noise system in the office that made it impossible for anyone outside to hear what was being said inside when the door was shut.
Coach rose from the chair behind his desk and came out to meet me, gesturing at the oval table where various meetings were held. I took a seat and he sat at one end, so I swiveled the chair to face him. Behind him was a big, wall-mounted TV screen, which was currently dark, and sleek maple bookshelves that held books, binders, a couple of pucks, and some framed photos.
Coach didn’t yell, but he was serious—gray eyebrows drawn down, his mouth straight. “Look, I can tell you’re frustrated,” he said in his gravelly voice. “I know you want to play well. And I know you can play well. These things happen. It’s like, the harder you try to score, the harder it is.”
I bobbed my head with heartfelt agreement.
“What do you think is going on?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed the back of my neck. Actually I sort of did know, and it was pissing me off. But I wasn’t going to say anything. I knew better than to make excuses for myself. So I lifted my chin because I knew I needed to be tough, and I knew I needed to do better. “I think I’m working hard.”
“Sometimes the goals just don’t come,” Coach said. “Sometimes you can be playing your best game and the puck’s just not going in the net.”
I heard the giant “but” at the end of that sentence. Because I wasn’t playing my best game.
“What do you think I should work on?” I asked humbly. Because I was willing to work. Story of my life.
“Let’s get you working with Danny. He’s waiting for you to go over some things before practice…ideas for helping players get out of a slump.”
A slump. I was officially in a slump. Great. I nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”
“Anything else going on with you?” Coach leaned back in his chair.
“Nope.” I met his eyes steadily.
“Because if there’s anything you need help with, we’re here for that.”
I knew what he was talking about. We’d had players end up in rehab because they got addicted to prescription meds, players who were alcoholics, one guy whose wife died of cancer. One of our veterans had decided to retire over the summer because his game wasn’t as sharp as it used to be and he wanted to go out on his own terms. Another guy and his wife had had a baby who had a bunch of scary health problems. We all had personal lives and shit that happened. And I’d been a disappointment to a team before, so I knew what he was thinking.
“My wrist has been bothering me,” I finally admitted.
He frowned. “Yeah?”
“I’m not making excuses. But since I broke my thumb last year, sometimes my wrist hurts. Not all the time.”
“Tony know about this?”
Tony was our head trainer. “No.”
“Let him have a look. Set you up to see the doc if need be.”
“Otherwise I’m good,” I assured him. “I just have to work on a few things.”
He inclined his head. “Okay. Thanks, Chase. You’re a talented young man. I’d hate to see you squander that away.”
“I’m not. I learned my lessons.”
Glumly, I headed to the locker room to change. I should have been motivated and invigorated from the pep talk. Coach still believed in me. But I wouldn’t describe my mood as invigorated.
Sitting on a bench, I absently rubbed my wrist, then rotated it around a few times one way, then the other. It felt totally fine right now. Today would be fine.
Working with our assistant coach Danny Curran would be good. I might have been a veteran but I knew there was always more I could improve on, and I seriously wanted to do better, so I was all ears when we were on the ice.
“You wanna know the truth?” Danny skated backward, facing me. “Scoring slumps have nothing to do with your sweet moves, your sick shot, or your stick handling.”
I lifted my eyebrows, playing with a puck on my blade.
“It all has to do with what’s up here.” He pointed to his head.
I eyed him skeptically. Not that I didn’t believe in sports psychology—I totally did, and I’d learned a lot from the sports psychologists I’d worked with. It was true that mental skills were as important as physical skills. But right now…I was pretty sure it wasn’t my brain screwing me up.
“Having said that, what we’re going to do is go back to the little things.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t worry about scoring. Scoring is the outcome. We’re going to focus on the process. The things you can control. But we’ll also work on changing your thinking.”
I shot the puck at the net with an easy snap.
“It’s all about the process. Better process creates better outcomes.”
“Sure.”
“Okay. First thing—no hanging out on the perimeter of the play. You have to get inside the perimeter. Attack the net with the puck and be ready to get hit, slashed, and whacked. Are you doing everything you can to take the puck to the dirty areas in front of the net? Or are you hanging out near the boards?”
I thought about my play. I wasn’t one to stay outside the offensive zone, and I thought I’d proved that over the years with my numbers. But lately…was there some truth to that?
“Next thing is to keep it simple. Let’s put a number on how many shooting chances you have in the next game. What do you think?”
I knew my numbers. “Eighteen.”
Danny chuckled. “That was last year. This year, let’s say…seven.”
“Jesus.”
“That sounds doable, right?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“You know how many shots it takes Crosby or Ovechkin to score a goal?”
“Uh…” I started doing mental math.
“Seven. It takes them about seven shots. And they’re the best. For you, maybe twenty.”
“What?” My jaw slackened.
“Kidding.” Danny laughed. “Come on, loosen up, kid. You can be a sniper yourself. So if you want to score, you have to shoot the puck at least seven times. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Shoot every time you have a chance. Nothing cute. Nothing fancy. And…” He paused and gave me a stern stare. “Stop trying to make passes when you’re in the shooting zone.”
I tried not to wince, because I knew I’d been doing that.
Danny lined up seven pucks for me on the blue line. “Take seven shots. Right now.”