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One of the little kids raises his hand. “How many laps, Coach Aidan?”
“Um…I’ll let you know when to stop.”
I expect that answer to go over about as well as canceling practice, but the kids surprise me by not voicing a single complaint.
I’m even more surprised by their skill level. Better than I was at this age.
Hastily, I tug my phone out of my pocket and searchkids hockey drills. I scan through the results, grimacing when the first five all involve using cones.
I don’t have any cones, and leaving the kids unattended to go search the rink for some seems like a bad idea.
I try to think of the drills Coach has run us through during practice recently, but my mind is blank. It’s like driving somewhere yourself versus sitting in the passenger seat. I remember certain details, but not the whole drive.
We practiced zone entry and stick handling yesterday. I don’t think I can replicate that at a less advanced level.
I’m not keeping close track, but they’ve probably skated at least twenty laps by the time I decide they can’t do that all practice.
I stick two fingers in my mouth and whistle, enjoying the awed looks as the kids skate over.
“We’re going to play a game of three-on-three,” I decide.
Playing a game is better than drills, right?
The kids seem undecided.
“Who is playing on first line?” one kid asks.
I have no clue what his name is. They all introducedthemselves at the start of practice, but there was no way I was going to memorize names and faces in one go.
“What’s your name?”
“Cody.”
He says his name like I should know it. His confidence kinda reminds me of Hart.
“Why are you asking me which line you’ll play on, Cody?”
“Uh…” He glances around at his teammates. “’Cause I wanna know?”
“The only thing you need to know is that I’m the coach today. Everyone on the center line.”
They all skate toward the red streak instantly. Even Cody.
I pick up the bucket of pucks and skate after them.
“Change of plans. Make the shot, stay standing. Miss, sit.”
I skate down the line, handing each of them a puck. Stop at the home bench and whistle.
“Go!”
The first player shoots. Misses, grimaces, sits.
The second player shoots. He misses too.
Third does too.
Maybe this was a bad idea. I’m trying to teach them an equalizer—it matters if you make the shot, not what line you’re on when you take it—not decimate their confidence.
