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A parent starts chanting my name. Even Alissa and Miss Leonard join in, but Alissa gets tired very quickly and soon begs for their silence.
“He’s a real-life hockey player for the NHL,” she continues. “Left-winger for the Razorhawks!”
“Right-winger, Ali!” Timothy corrects her.
“Whatever,” she shrugs. “He is here because he is friends with my Uncle Dan, and friends with my mom too. I think he is the coolest person I’ve ever met.”
The adults giggle at her introduction, and Miss Leonard steps closer. “You can go ahead, Mr. Connoly.”
“Alright.” As I take a step closer to the group, Alissa holds onto my leg.
“As Ali said, my name is Andrew Connoly, and I’m here because I’ve been friends with her uncle ever since we were in school. His dad, Alissa’s grandpa, was our hockey coach and when I decided to join the team, we became best friends.”
A kid raises his hand, and Miss Leonard points at him. “Yes, Joshua?”
“Were you good at hockey already?” the boy with very green eyes asks. “When you joined the team in school?”
“Oh, no. I sucked.”
The entire class laughs.
“But everybody sucks at the beginning. For everything in life, you need practice and discipline. If you have that, you can do anything.”
“Even join the NHL?” Timothy asks.
I look around for a moment and sigh. “Don’t let the NHL define your worth as a player, Timothy. My dad played for the Chicago Thunderclaps. Who here knows them?”
Several hands go up.
“They’re not an NHL team, but even so, my dad was one of the best hockey players I’ve ever known. Coach Mitchell, Ali’s grandpa, once told the team to always aim for the sun because if you miss it, you’ll find a star on the way.”
Now the tattoo artist’s son raises his hand. “When did you get your first skates?”
“Good question.” I shake a finger toward him. “I think I was around your age. Our house was near the lake, and it was frozen solid that year. My mom had trouble making me come inside during the entire winter.”
Stephanie blushes violently and raises her hand. “Can I have your autograph?”
“Do you have a pen and paper?”
The girl nods, and I signal her to come closer. I give the autograph, complete with a dedication.
When she’s leaving, I notice that things are getting out of control. Kids swarm us, all of them carrying pen and paper. Many also carry phones, donated by their parents.
Miss Leonard does her best to organize the chaos, but it’s Alissa who ends up yelling, “One at a time!” The teacher gives up and just watches as the line progresses.
I brought a marker as I anticipated something like this happening. I sign colorful notebooks, binders, backpacks, the jersey I promised Timothy, and finally Miss Leonard comes to my aid.
“Alright, Mr. Connoly needs to go back to training with his team,” she exclaims, shooing the kids back to their desks as if they were flies. “Thank you very much for coming.”
She shakes my hand, and I give her a huge hug, if only for the admiration of dealing with thirty little kiddos all day and still having a smile on her face.
Alissa, maybe envious of the teacher, raises her arms. I pick her up immediately and cover her face with kisses, asking, “Is Grandpa going to pick you up?”
“Mommy is picking me up today,” she says.
“How cool.” A kid with thick glasses sitting on the first row says. “I wish my dad was a hockey player too.”
“But he’s not my dad.”
